Blessed Assurance

by Lyn Cote

  All Jessie’s uncertainties over the dinner and the subtle competition between Mr. Smith and Dr. Gooden roiled around inside her like the soapy water bubbling in Susan’s laundry tub. She’d kept her peace about the Palmer dinner, but what were the chances the ladies of her house would let this continue?

  With a mug in each hand, Ruby waddled out. “I got coffee.”

  “Thank goodness.” Jessie straightened up, tossed Linc’s shirt into Susan’s pot, then accepted one of the mugs.

  Miss Wright stumped out. With a coffee cup in her hand, she sat in one of the rocking chairs. “It’s time you told us, Jessie, about that dinner party.”

  “Yes, that’s what I came out for.” Also with cup of coffee, Miss Greenleigh in a rose-pink cotton wrapper pulled up a chair beside Miss Wright. “Mrs. Bolt is still sound asleep, so this is the perfect time for you to tell us everything.”

  Lowering herself to the top step, Ruby nodded in agreement. “We waited all day yesterday for that woman to get gone. But she stuck like a burr.”

  Still churning inside, Jessie sank onto a lower porch step and looked up at her audience. The dinner party was still too personal, too troubling, yet these women had earned a stake in it, too.

  Susan joined Ruby on the top step. “Did you have a bad time?”

  “What was it like inside the Palmer mansion?” Miss Greenleigh leaned forward.

  Buying time, Jessie sipped coffee. “Luxurious. Lovely paintings. Flocked wallpaper. Rich Persian carpets.” Jessie tried to put enthusiasm into her voice.

  “What were the ladies wearing?” Miss Greenleigh prompted.

  “Mrs. Palmer wore a gray silk dress with a rope of pearls. The other ladies wore sateen or silk dresses in brilliant colors—royal blue, green, purple, all shimmering in the gaslight.”

  Jessie didn’t mention how overshadowed her simple gown of amber silk had been. Perhaps working might mask her reluctance, agitation. Putting down her empty coffee cup, she went back to the washboard.

  “What they serve?” Ruby asked.

  Jessie picked up another shirt, soaped the inside of its collar, then rubbed it against the washboard. The harsh soap stung her fingers like a just punishment for her foray into pretension. Pretension—that’s what Mr. Smith’s expression had pronounced on her. “We had consommé, turkey and fish, so many side dishes. For dessert we had fresh fruit and Italian ices.”

  “Just right for a summer dinner,” Ruby approved.

  Jessie didn’t mind reciting the simple facts. Just don’t ask me how I felt about it. Please.

  Ruby began, “I ’member—”

  Miss Wright interrupted, “Jessie, did you notice the sideboard in their dining room?”

  Jessie tossed the shirt into the pot. So Miss Wright knew about that. “Yes, Mr. Palmer made the family connection between me and Will’s father. He said a British lord had tried to buy the sideboard from him.”

  “Really?” Miss Wright sounded pleased. “I’m glad to hear they hadn’t bought something newer.”

  “No, Mr. Palmer was quite complimentary about Will’s father’s skill.” Jessie couldn’t voice Mr. Palmer’s kind words about her Will.

  “Margaret was always so proud of her husband’s work.” Miss Wright’s voice shook. “Will had the gift, the love of wood and fine detail, too.”

  Susan walked back to the bubbling pot to begin stirring again. “Jessie, you don’t sound like you had a good time.”

  Jessie couldn’t hold back her misgivings any longer. “It was a difficult evening. I felt…out of place.”

  “I cook my whole life in the big house,” Ruby grumbled. “Don’t you never think fine clothes and gilt on they china mean no sorrow or sin.”

  “Well said,” Miss Wright glanced at Ruby approvingly.

  These words freed Jessie from the last of her constraint. Her revulsion at being less than honest bubbled up from inside her. “I felt like an actress playing a part. I would never have gone if it hadn’t been to help Dr. Gooden.”

  “What about Dr. Gooden, Jessie?” Miss Wright demanded. “Is it your intention to remarry?”

  The unforeseen words knocked the wind out of Jessie. She gasped for breath. “Marry the doctor?”

  “Yes, do you plan to marry the doctor or do you intend to marry Mr. Smith?” The spinster stared at her with narrowed eyes.

  The urge to run away surged through Jessie. “I haven’t encouraged either gentleman to think I favor him.”

  “Is that what you think?” Miss Wright “humphed,” then went on: “That’s not what the neighbors think. What with the both men hanging around this back porch practically every evening.”

  Jessie tasted bile on her tongue. Marry? Me?

  “She right.” Ruby nodded. “They be your gentlemen callers. Everybody see that.”

  “I will never marry again.” Jessie slapped a petticoat onto the board and began rubbing furiously. “Mr. Smith is Linc’s friend not mine. We can’t be together for more than a few minutes without his trying my temper.”

  Miss Greenleigh said slyly, “Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

  Before Jessie could think how to answer this, Miss Wright said in a starched-up tone, “This avoiding the truth will not wash, Jessie. Dr. Gooden and Mr. Smith may not have said anything plainly, but no man comes every evening just to play ball or talk about medicine.”

  “You got that right,” Susan said under her breath, so only Jessie could hear her.

  “Must I be held accountable for how two men choose to spend their evenings?” Jessie scrubbed faster, harder.

  “That’s enough scrubbing on my petticoat,” Susan objected. “I hanker to wear one without holes.”

  Jessie flushed and threw the wet petticoat into the tub.

  Miss Wright continued lecturing her: “If you don’t wish to encourage these gentlemen, you must let them know that their suit would not please you.”

  “But why shouldn’t their suit please you?” Miss Greenleigh countered, wide-eyed. “Both of them are eligible. There’s nothing wrong with a widow remarrying. You’ve been alone for over six years now.”

  Jessie grumbled, “I am still not convinced that either of them is looking for a wife or looking at me as a prospective wife.” Certainly Mr. Smith had never voiced such an intention.

  Miss Wright shook her head. “I see how that doctor looks at you. That man has marriage on his mind.”

  “He a busy man,” Ruby seconded. “If he ain’t interested in you, he don’t spend that much time here.”

  Miss Greenleigh said, “I think Mr. Smith would make an excellent stepfather for Linc.”

  As though pricked with a sharp needle, Jessie snapped, “Never! Linc will never live under a stepfather.” Hands on her hips, she faced the women ranged on the porch. “I made Linc that promise the day we held his father’s memorial service.”

  The women looked back at her, obviously shocked at her outburst.

  “I will never marry again,” Jessie declared, vibrating inside with a mixture of fear and worry. Then why can’t I just send them away?

  Miss Greenleigh crossed her arms over her breast and observed, “Then you’d better tell that to these men. Just dressing in black has not dampened their interest.”

  Susan spoke up, “Why you think it would be so bad for Linc to have a stepfather? Not every man be hard like your stepfather. Maybe Linc want a stepfather—especially if he be someone like Mr. Smith. Did you ask your boy?”

  Jessie tightened her mouth and bent over the washboard. “I know what’s best for my son.”

  July 4, 1871

  In the deep twilight, another wave broke around Linc making him squeal. “Mother!” Linc in a one-piece swimsuit splashed through the shallows at the Oak Street Beach to her at water’s edge. “I found some more shells.” He slid the tiny wet shells into her hand.

  Before she could add them to the sandy collection wrapped in a handkerchief in her pocket, Linc charged out to meet another white-capped wave.

&nb
sp; With his pant legs rolled up, Lee waded over to her. “I have never seen such waves on this lake before.”

  “An east wind brings the waves in high and warm. When I was little, my mother brought me here whenever the wind was right,” Jessie murmured. She fell silent, recalling the severe scolding her stepfather had given her mother for going into the water with her.

  Suddenly a blast of loud brass band music fluttered to them on the wind. “It must be nearly time for the fireworks,” Jessie said.

  “Will we really see them from here?” Lee asked.

  “Yes, they do them at the lakefront.” Jessie sank down onto the rented beach chair and modestly arranged herself. A smile she couldn’t quell shaped her face.

  The cooling lake breeze made her feel wonderfully comfortable and relaxed. Linc splashed out of the waves and collapsed onto the sand beside his mother’s chair.

  “Thanks for persuading us to come, sport,” Mr. Smith said.

  “It’s Independence Day. We had to do something special.” Linc leaned against Jessie. The sky turned from brass to deep violet to slate. For once, Mr. Smith wasn’t ironic or sardonic with her.

  While Mr. Smith still irritated her with his care-for-nothing attitude, how could she feel anything but gratitude to him? His kindness to her fatherless son had put her deeply in his debt. But she refused to believe Mr. Smith was interested in her. Miss Wright was completely “off base” in regards to Mr. Smith. She smiled over her own use of the baseball term. Linc’s passion for the game had infiltrated their life.

  Night came. Without speaking, Jessie and the others turned south toward the carnival and waterfront. The warmth of the day lessened.

  Boom! The first fireworks exploded overhead with golden streamers. The pyrotechnic show proceeded quickly. Jessie lost herself in the dazzling colors, pounding explosions, and the cascade of oohs and ahhs from the shore and water. She glanced at her son and took pleasure from the joy in his expression. Her eyes strayed and caught sight of Mr. Smith, too. Everyone else’s eyes were skyward, but Mr. Smith had buried his face in his hands.

  Why?

  The answer came quickly. The war. She’d heard stories of veterans who jumped at any loud noise. Was Mr. Smith remembering the dreadful thunder of cannons and red flares of the bombs overhead? Her lips pressed together. Mr. Smith shivered suddenly as if it were cold. She thought she heard him moan. The man often irritated her with his care-for-nobody air. But was that to conceal the pain from his past? I never thought of that.

  The fireworks ended with a fantastic series of explosions in gold, brilliant blue, crimson, and startling green. The city’s gaslights twinkled against the charcoal sky. All around her, mothers and fathers gathered sleepy children for the walk or trolley ride home. The voices were soothing, homey. An overtired child began crying and his mother sang him a weary-sounding lullaby. This sound fit her mood. Why hadn’t she ever thought of this man’s suffering?

  Soon few people were left. Jessie became aware that Linc had fallen asleep heavily against her. Still she didn’t speak or move. Mr. Smith appeared to remain wrapped up in his inner turmoil. Jessie did not want to disturb him. What tormented him tonight? Finally he looked up. She expected him to look to Linc’s face first. When he looked to her first, her heart tightened. But his expression remained distant, veiled.

  In the lamplight, the white-capped waves still rushed the sandy beach, racing up the shore. If this man had been to war just like Will, what had he brought with him from that experience? She couldn’t ask. At last, she murmured, “Linc has fallen asleep. We need to get home.”

  Mr. Smith stood, then bent down. “I’ll carry him.” He swung Linc up into his arms. The boy didn’t waken. Jessie and Lee walked silently through the quiet streets and down her alley. As they approached her house, she stumbled and Lee caught her arm. She noticed Mrs. O’Toole’s curtain twitch. Well, the gossips would talk no matter what she did. She tried to take a step and cringed. “My ankle.”

  “Twisted it?” Mr. Smith asked.

  She clung to his arm. “Yes.”

  “Lean on me. It’s only a few steps to your back porch.”

  She had no choice. Yet she’d not been this close or touched a man like this for a long time. Mr. Smith had left his coat at her house, so only his shirt separated her skin from his. In the cocoon of night, she was very aware of his breathing, of his masculine scent, of the sinew of his arm. Women and children were so soft, cushiony, and men so solid to the touch.

  At her back steps, she let herself down onto the second one. “Take Linc to bed,” she murmured. “Send Susan out to help me.”

  He left with only a nod. She rested her head against the railing, letting the images from this happy day play through her mind. Mr. Smith and Linc running down the beach toward the water, racing to see who could shuck his shoes and socks and make it into the water first. The two of them devouring her fried chicken and competing over who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest. The day’s joy zipped through her.

  “Jess?” Mr. Smith’s voice came to her and then he was raising her and helping her up the steps. “Susan isn’t back yet.”

  Jessie nodded against him. They were all alone, a rare occurrence, and she wanted to say something to this man who loved her son. This man who’d likely suffered loss, pain, and deprivation in the cruel war. But what could one say? “Lee?” she said his name for the first time.

  He stopped. “Jess?”

  A shaft of moonlight illuminated his eyes. She reached up and stroked his hair. It was springy and thick. Her hands liked the feel of it. “You’ve given us so much.” She didn’t know where the words came from.

  “Nothing. Not nearly enough.” His voice came out raspy.

  Her fingers went through his hair again. “You hurt tonight. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry.” He pulled her closer. “Don’t pity me.”

  “I don’t. I’m grateful.” She looked up, her emotions and thoughts hopelessly tangled with her sudden attraction to this bedeviling man. “I…I…”

  And he kissed her.

  Sensation crashed through her. His lips moved over hers igniting sparks throughout her veins. She leaned into him and then breathed in his breath.

  Suddenly he pulled away. “What am I thinking?” He swung her up into his arms, carried her through to the parlor and left her on her bed, stunned and horrified at what had happened. I let Mr. Smith kiss me.

  Chapter 11

  August 30, 1871

  Jessie stood in Miss Greenleigh’s room, normally so neat. Today it was a riot of clothing and new tissue paper. Like the face of a daisy attracted to the sun, Jessie had been drawn here. Kneeling in front of her trunk, the bride-to-be was carefully folding the multitude of her underthings: corset-covers in white and pale pink, fine-woven chemises frilled with ruffles and flowered embroidery at their yokes. Jessie suppressed a tiny nip of envy.

  “Yes,” Miss Greenleigh replied to Mrs. Bolt, sitting in the only chair, “my fiancé is fifteen years older, but we’re in love—”

  “You ought to be marrying a man nearer your own age,” Mrs. Bolt interrupted. “You’ll end up a young widow.”

  “I could die before Matthew.” The young woman continued her careful folding.

  Mrs. Bolt shrilled, “Just because you’re afraid of being left an old maid—”

  Miss Greenleigh didn’t look up. “This year I received two proposals.”

  The redheaded widow’s mouth crimped into a sour pucker. “Well, I see that my words of wisdom are wasted here.” Mrs. Bolt rose, brushed past Jessie, and clattered away.

  Ill at ease, Jessie turned to leave.

  “Please come in and close the door.” Miss Greenleigh beckoned Jessie who complied and sat down, wondering what the pretty blonde had to say.

  “Since I will no longer be living here, could we use our given names?”

  Jessie smiled. Their relationship as landlady and boarder had made them keep their distance. “
I’d like that, Eileene.”

  “I wasn’t completely truthful with Mrs. Bolt, Jessie.”

  Jessie raised her eyebrows.

  “This is my third proposal in the past twelve months.” A puckish grin enhanced Eileene’s radiant face.

  “But—”

  “I met many gentlemen when I spent weekends with my sister—my matchmaking sister.”

  “Perhaps we could hire her for Mrs. Bolt.” Shocked at herself, Jessie clapped her hands over her mouth.

  Miss Greenleigh whooped with laughter. “No.” She sat back on her heels. “I wish I could give Mrs. Bolt some ‘wise words ’about her coy and graceless behavior around Mr. Smith. If she continues the way she is going, she will never marry again.”

  Jessie lowered her voice. “I wonder if she was happy in her first marriage. If she had been, perhaps she wouldn’t be so overly eager.” Jessie confided, “I can’t imagine being married to anyone, but my Will. I hope you and Matthew will be as happy as we were.” The memory of kissing Mr. Smith caused Jessie a twinge.

  “I think we will be.” Eileene paused.

  With the toe of her shoe, Jessie pensively traced the rose pattern on the small bedside rug. All this talk about marrying highlighted her strained relationship with Mr. Smith. She still couldn’t believe she’d let him kiss her on the Fourth of July. “You were right—all of you,” Jessie muttered without planning to.

  “About Mr. Smith and the doctor?”

  Jessie hung her head.

  “May I be honest?”

  Jessie tilted her head to the side, assenting.

  “It isn’t good to raise a lone boy in a household full of females.”

  Eileene’s softly spoken, but undeniable words dropped like boulders onto Jessie’s heart. Gathering her composure, Jessie rose. “I should be in the kitchen, helping Susan. And Eileene, my best to you and Matthew.”

  “I’ll send you a wedding invitation.”

  “Please do.” Jessie clasped hands with Eileene. Deep in thought, Jessie walked down to the kitchen.

  “She done packing?” Susan had her hands deep into a batch of bread dough.