For Her Honor: The Gentrys of Paradise

by Holly Bush

  “Does it? I haven’t noticed.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Breathe. Easy in, easy out.”

  The door opened, and a short, stout middle-aged woman came rushing in, ribbons flying, with a broad smile on her plump face. “Miss Somerset! I hear you have been struck by Cupid’s arrow and are now Mrs. Gentry! How wonderful! I was likewise assailed by love when my Adolphus came courting. He was so romantic, so enamored of me, and me of him! And we are still of one mind, as the poets say.” She leaned down, hugged Emmaline, and then turned her head toward her husband. “Just look at him. No finer specimen of manhood walks this earth.”

  Adolphus Clair stood tall and still, and apparently unperturbed at his wife’s ramblings. His hair was combed over a bald spot on the top of his head and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose. His gray suit was finely made and fit his rail-thin six-foot frame well. “Mrs. Mingo has brought the tray, dear. Will you pour?” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she said and fluttered away as the cart was wheeled into the room. “Oh, yes, my love. I’ve forgotten myself, yet again.”

  Emmaline and Adam accepted the coffee and waited until Mrs. Clair settled into the chair across from them, her husband seating himself in the chair beside her.

  “Now,” Mrs. Clair began, leaning forward in her seat. “Tell us about your writing. Tell us what you write. Tell us what you are working on now.”

  “I have just begun a new novel. I don’t have a title, but it is about a young woman who steals away a horse that is being mistreated by its owner and their adventures hiding and evading a sheriff. I’ve just recently had another story accepted by Beadle’s.”

  “By Beadle’s?” Mr. Clair asked, nodding and smiling. “Well done. I am always glad to see young writers make a living at their craft.”

  Emmaline shrugged. “I hardly make a living, sir. I lived with my family until I was married and of course, now live with my husband. He’s very successful, which makes me very fortunate.”

  Mrs. Clair laughed, and Adam smiled at the woman she saw when she turned to look at him.,

  “Let me explain our regular schedule, Mrs. Gentry,” Mrs. Clair said. “We do classes every morning from eight until luncheon. The afternoon is for completing your assignments and if there is time still available, then you may work at whatever personal project you wish. In the evening, we sometimes gather here or in the garden, if the weather cooperates, to talk about our work or just relax and regain our energy. We do attend some literary gatherings together, and you are welcome to join us. We also are often guests of some good families in the city who admire our work here at Clair House or are supporters of the arts. Sundays are a free day, and there are churches within walking distance.”

  Adam cleared his throat. “I thought I’d open an account for my wife at the bank we passed by on the way here, near some shops.”

  “The Bigelow Bank?” Mr. Clair asked, and Adam nodded. “Good choice. Within walking distance for Mrs. Gentry to withdraw funds if need be, although all her meals and board are provided with the tuition. I have received your check and Mrs. Gentry is paid in full.”

  Adam glanced at her before turning back to Mr. Clair. “Will there be someone to accompany my wife when she goes on errands and such?”

  “Adam. I will be fine. I have managed to take care of myself up until now and I think I will be able to continue,” she said, feeling her face turn hot with a blush.

  “It will be different than Winchester, as we have discussed,” he said quietly and turned back to Mr. Clair. “Will there be someone to accompany her when she goes out? I would like to be certain that she’ll be chaperoned.”

  “The women almost always go together whenever there is an errand to be run or just for exercise, and Mrs. Mingo’s son is the all-about boy here and can escort your wife if need be. He is eighteen years old and is a big, strong young man. Our students’ safety and comfort are very important to us,” he said.

  Mrs. Clair leaned forward and patted Emmaline’s knee. “You will make friends quickly, my dear. I’m sure you will find a young woman who becomes a particular friend and then you can do your errands and such together. Let us go see your rooms now and put your husband’s mind at ease about your stay with us.”

  Emmaline’s heart was pounding and her jaw was so tight she could feel her teeth grinding together. How dare he! She couldn’t recall ever being so furious and so embarrassed. She stepped away from his hand as he reached out to take her arm, so angry she wasn’t even able to concentrate on Mrs. Clair’s instructions about laundry and schedules for the shared bathing room.

  Once in her rooms, however, the fury subsided. Mrs. Clair hurried her into the sleeping room, which held a small bed with a brass headboard covered with a bright quilt opposite a finely carved bureau with a large framed mirror above it. There was a rocker beside a narrow window with chintz curtains pulled back to one side, its sill wide enough to hold a framed picture or a book.

  They walked back into her sitting area where Mr. Clair and Adam stood, a cozy room with a double window looking out onto the gardens at the back of the house and shaded by a large tree. But her eyes couldn’t leave the one item that stood under that window. A desk. A large desk with drawers on either side of the leg hole with a polished top holding a felt pad and books standing against heavy metal bookends shaped like horse heads. It was her desk. It would be where she would learn and stretch her mind, and maybe grow as a writer . . . and as a person.

  She walked slowly to the desk, past Mrs. Clair, no longer aware of others in the room, running her hand over the back of a wooden chair that was fit with wheels on its legs. She moved the chair around, hearing the smooth glide of the rollers against the waxed hardwood floor. She touched the books, a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a book of riddles, the sun glinting in the window, shining on the desktop other than where the felt pad lay. The space, the view, the furniture itself was everything she’d dreamed of. She swallowed loudly and closed her eyes, hating the intensity of the emotions she was feeling, as if she stood on a precipice looking at her dream within her reach. There was only one person she wished to share the wonder of it all with and he stood behind her, she could feel his eyes on her. She turned to face him, trying desperately to refrain from running into his embrace. He was staring back at her, his dark eyes boring into hers, maybe waiting for her to come to him, she didn’t know. She took one deep breath and broke the gaze, turning to Mrs. Clair.

  “This is—” she began, stopping to clear her throat and gather herself, “this is exactly as I’d always pictured a real writer’s retreat whenever I imagined what it would be like to indulge myself and write every day.”

  Mrs. Clair rushed to her and clasped her hands. “Oh, my dear. I am so glad. You may be inspired here. Many are.”

  * * *

  ADAM CLEARED HIS THROAT. “Mr. Clair? Can you recommend a good restaurant nearby? I’m staying one night and catching the morning train, but I thought I’d take my wife out to dinner before I go.”

  “There is no need, Adam,” Emmaline said. “And I would like to begin the routine here as soon as possible. Now, in fact.”

  He would have liked her to tell him what she’d been thinking when she looked at the desk under the window. She’d stood for several minutes staring at it and he’d seen her shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths. She’d looked at him, connected to him somehow, and then quickly begun a conversation with Mrs. Clair. He knew she was angry. He’d embarrassed her, but he wanted to make it perfectly clear that her safety was his concern, and he fully intended to fulfill his duty to her regardless of how she felt about it. He supposed he could have waited and spoken to Mr. Clair privately, but it was too late for that now. He was hoping a dinner out together would make them part on agreeable terms, but she’d punished him instead.

  They walked down the wide staircase together and he turned to her. “Emmaline, I want to take you with me to the bank and see to transferring funds and making you acquainted with the manager
there.”

  “That is wise, Mr. Gentry,” Mr. Clair said.

  He thought for a moment that she would refuse—and he really didn’t know what he would do or say if she did—but she seemed to think better of it.

  “Let me get my bag. I left it in the parlor.”

  Mrs. Clair smiled up at him. “Now don’t you worry about her. Not one minute. We take very good care of our ladies, both their safety and comfort and reputation. Your wife will be perfectly fine here.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “And thank you for your diligence. Mrs. Gentry is precious to me.”

  “Of course, she is,” Mrs. Clair said. “Anyone can see that you two are a love match!”

  He smiled at the woman, not willing to publicly disabuse her of her romantic ideals, especially as the thin thread he and Emmaline had been forming was stretching. He didn’t want to leave her angry. She went directly to the door after she’d retrieved her bag, waiting without a glance at him.

  He escorted her out the door, down the walkway, and turned onto a graveled path under massive oak trees toward the commerce area. He winged his arm for her to take and she looked at him as if he was the lowliest worm she’d ever stepped on. He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling even knowing he was risking his peace if he did. She turned sharply.

  “I don’t find anything humorous about you humiliating me.”

  “I had no plans to humiliate you.” He hurried to keep up with her pace. “Slow down. There’s no need to run.”

  She reduced her speed, her eyes concentrated ahead, her lips pursed. “No, there is not.”

  They arrived at the bank and were introduced to the manager there. Adam had a check with him and made it out to the bank, handing it over to the manager, who stood to process it. “There is five hundred dollars in the account. If you need more, let me know. I’m sure we’ll be corresponding regularly.”

  The look she gave him made him wonder if they would be corresponding at all. He was pleased to see that the manager took Emmaline to introduce her to the two tellers assisting customers. The manager reviewed the bank’s security procedures and asked if Adam would like to view the vault.

  “No, but thank you,” he said and turned to Emmaline. “Do you have any questions for Mr. McCollough?”

  “I don’t. Thank you for your time,” she said.

  They left the bank, and he saw a park ahead across the street. He guided her between carriages and past excited children with their nurses. They took a path bearing toward the general direction of Clair House and he found a bench in a secluded area. She sat, realizing, he hoped, that they needed to speak privately. He sat beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally, eliciting a glance from her. “I should have spoken to Mr. Clair privately. I didn’t mean to humiliate you.”

  “I am not a child and I did feel humiliated. You talked as if I was not sitting next to you.”

  “No, you are not a child but I’m guessing you’ve not been to a large city all that often or if ever, other than when you recently went to Washington with our sisters.” He looked at her. She arched a brow and he was certain he was right. “Living here won’t be like Winchester. Any stranger there is identified immediately as just that. A stranger. Everyone in town would know that your brother or myself would not allow anyone to bother you. Let alone the fact that everyone from Mr. Winston at the Mercantile to Jasper at the stables would never allow a stranger to approach you. It won’t be like that here. There are some who may have evil intentions all over a city.”

  “You act as though there are not plenty of fine respectable people here,” she said.

  “Of course, there are. Mr. and Mrs. Clair seem to be well aware of their responsibilities and they seem to take them seriously. I’m glad of that. But there are seven other women, from what I understand, who will be here at the same time as you and they will have to attend all of you. I cannot help it if I need to be assured of your safety.”

  She stood then and turned to him, red in the face. “I am aware that I must be careful. I’m not frivolous. I’ve been waiting all my life it seems for this opportunity and you made me feel as if I was just a silly girl unable to recognize that there may be dangers that I am unaccustomed to facing. We have spoken of this several times, even this morning on the train ride here, and I have assured you every time that I would be on my guard and cautious,” she said, her voice rising. “You just don’t seem to believe me.”

  He’d stood when she had, and he glared at her now, as she made her accusations. “I believe you! Of course, I believe you. I just don’t think you are as aware as you should be. I’m concerned about you!”

  “Aware? What do you mean aware? What am I not aware of, Adam Gentry!”

  “You are not always aware of people’s intent. They can hurt you and will and I won’t be here to stop them!”

  “You act as though I go through my life not paying the least attention to what is going on around me!” she shouted.

  “You didn’t know what was going on the night you . . . you were led astray.”

  He was devasted then, watching her face crumble, her shoulders drop, her hand slowly come up to cover her mouth. Her eyes went to the ground and she seated herself as if she’d been pushed onto the bench. He could see her lip trembling and watched as a tear dropped onto her folded hands.

  “Emmaline, dear,” he said softly. “I should have never brought that up. That was wrong of me.”

  “You don’t trust me,” she whispered and gulped a swallow.

  “That is not true.”

  “I would never be free with another man. I’m married.”

  “Of course, you wouldn’t. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I think that is exactly what you meant. Take me to Clair House, please.”

  “I don’t want to leave us like this,” he said and reached for her hand. She snatched it away and held the strings of her purse.

  She stood and walked away from him and he followed until they came to a gated path directly across from Clair House. She turned to him then, focusing on his four-in-hand tie and not his eyes.

  “I will be perfectly fine the rest of the way. You may stay and watch me until I am inside,” she said and looked in his eyes. “Thank you for everything. For the tuition. For getting me here. I think it’s best if you went on your way to your hotel now. Have a safe trip tomorrow.”

  She unlatched the gate and went through, watching until there was no carriage coming and walking across the street, up the narrow walk, and in through the front door, never turning once to look at him. He ran a hand through his hair and thought about what an ass he’d been. He supposed he should consider himself lucky that she hadn’t punched him in the nose or walloped him with her purse.

  CHAPTER 13

  Emmaline slept little that night and had nearly convinced herself it was because she was in a new bed, in a strange city, and she was excited and nervous to finally be at Clair House. But the truth of the matter, she finally accepted, was that her argument with Adam played over and again in her mind. She couldn’t stop a flush from going up her face when she recalled Adam asking Mr. Clair a second time whether she would be accompanied when she went out and even went so far as to use the word chaperoned. As if she were a fifteen-year-old girl or the type to be free with another man.

  Once or twice, she’d started to think that what Adam had said didn’t sound as bad to others as it had to her, but she was determined to be angry. This was not a small transgression in her mind. Or she wouldn’t let it be, in any case. She knew she was being petty. She couldn’t help herself. She was hurt, and hurt deeply, and she’d rarely had the experience of being wounded emotionally, as she avoided most people and cared little for others’ opinions. Apparently, she cared very much for her husband’s.

  Emmaline rose as the sun came up and rubbed her eyes, gritty from little sleep. She washed and put on a new tan twill skirt and shirt, lightweight for the warm end-of-summer weather. She
placed her new manuscript on the desk with her fountain pens. She turned to a knock on the door, thinking Mrs. Clair was coming to check on her. She opened the door and found a young woman, probably her age, standing in the hall.

  “Good morning,” the woman said in a high-pitched and thready voice. “My name is Violet Dunderson. I was wondering if you’d like me to show you to the dining room since this is your first morning.”

  “Thank you, Violet. That would be very nice. My name is Emmaline Somerset, or rather, Emmaline Gentry. I’m recently married.”

  Violet tilted her head to the side and held her clasped hands to her chest. “To that imposing handsome fellow that you were with yesterday?”

  “Adam Gentry. Yes. That is my husband. We married in the spring.”

  “How lovely!” Violet reached her hand out to link Emmaline’s arm. “We’re going to have a very, very busy day today, Emmaline, may I call you Emmaline, or would you prefer Mrs. Gentry?”

  “Emmaline is fine.”

  She pulled her door shut and followed a fluttering Violet down the hallway to the top of the stairs. She took a deep breath and thought that her dreams had finally arrived.

  At six o’clock in the evening Emmaline trudged into her rooms and toed off her shoes. She was mentally and physically exhausted but thankfully hadn’t had time to stew about her husband. The morning classes were a challenge to her and she recognized that she would have to study and work harder than the rest of the students, who’d all graduated from college or been enrolled in advanced English classes. None were married, or, as in her case, had been expecting a child out of wedlock. One young lady was only seventeen years old. Emmaline felt ancient and . . . not virtuous, even knowing that that was ridiculous.

  “Emmaline?” she heard Violet say. “May I come in?”

  She didn’t really want to talk to anyone at that moment, but Violet had been a dear to her all day. When she opened the door, Violet handed her an envelope. It said Emmaline Gentry in Adam’s bold script. She looked at it for a few long moments, rubbing her thumb over the dried ink he’d written and thinking about how angry and hurt she’d been at this time yesterday. She laid the envelope on the desk and turned to Violet.