by Gina Welborn
She would wager the merchants in town were the ones propagating the festival. They had to love the “rule” that when the man declined to marry, there must be a consolation prize of a silk dress and a kiss on the cheek. After all, successful and unsuccessful proposals were in their financial best interests.
Even Mama Helaine made extra gowns specifically for—
Félicie’s mouth fell open, and it took several moments before she managed to say, “I will not ask a man to marry me just so he will refuse. I am not that desperate for a dress.”
“Here, here.” Rena punctuated her words with a thump of her fist on the table.
Mama Helaine laid her napkin down, tears brimming in her eyes. She gathered her gloves and pocketbook. “My hope was that this would encourage you to step out of your shell. Maybe then you would find someone to love.” She draped her coat over her arm. “I am going to watch the parade. Neither of you may join me.”
And then she left.
Rena shot Félicie a wry look. “You don’t believe her, do you?”
“I—” Félicie shook her head. “I am not sure what to believe.” She held the note up, giving it a shake. “She gave me a list of men to propose to. Why? What would persuade her to do such a thing?”
“She’s lonely.”
Félicie blinked. And the connection was...?
Rena clearly read her mind. “I know it doesn’t make sense. Mama Helaine is lonely; thus, we must be lonely too. Since she has yet to find another husband—and, really, what are the odds of finding another man as wonderful as Papa Mark?—she has decided to find ones for us.”
“I have no desire to marry.”
“Me neither.”
“There is no other man in Wichita like Papa Mark.”
“I’ve courted enough of them to know that’s certainly true.”
Félicie sighed.
Rena did, too.
Miss Trudy-Bleu laid her head down on the table and released a puff of breath.
Rena stretched her arm across the table. “Let me see the list.”
Félicie was more than happy to give it to her. “Feel free to keep it,” she said, handing it over. “I have no desire to know what it says.”
Rena unfolded the paper. “These—oh.”
Félicie waited. Rena’s lips were moving but nothing came forth. “What does it—?” She stopped herself before she blurted “say.” She drank her milk and looked around the dining room to give the impression that she had no interest in what was on the list.
“Why did she include Andrew Clark?” murmured Rena. “Carp I understand, but Andrew? He’s courting Laura Silver. She’s a teacher at the high school. Laura has a dry wit. You’d like her.” Brow furrowed, Rena tapped the back of the paper with her fingers. “Ridgley Parker is too in love with Eva Gregg to notice any other woman. I don’t know why Eva ignores him. Fun guy. He recently inherited railroad stock from his uncle. Beaufoy? Heavens no. He’s too in love with himself. Wellington James Ransome, III...now that is an interesting suggestion. Most women think he’s snobbish. He’s just shy.”
“Rena,” Félicie pressed, “how do you know all these men?”
She looked up. Blinked. “Oh. I’ve courted them—well, all but one.”
“Except Beaufoy, you have never mentioned their names to me.”
“I see you twice a week. For ten years, Fay, twice a week.” Rena picked up her glass of lemonade. “Last thing I want to talk about is meaningless courtships.”
Félicie glanced around. Most of the patrons had left the dining room. She lowered her voice even though they were alone in their corner. “How many other men have you courted?
Rena put her glass down and shrugged.
This time Félicie knew exactly what it meant—not enough to find the right one.
“What is so special about those on this list?” Félicie asked.
For a moment, Rena looked uncomfortable. “They’re either firemen or policemen who were at the fire last night.”
Félicie’s heartbeat increased.
Mama Helaine had specifically said all would feel obligated to do the right thing in light of recent events.
“Oh.”
Rena nodded. “Oh, indeed.” She tapped the paper. Then she sighed loudly. “All things considered, there are some possibilities here.”
“Possibilities?” echoed Félicie.
“All of these men could easily afford to buy you a dress.”
“No.”
Rena’s mouth fell open. “Really, Félicie? If you aren’t going to accept a gift from me or Mama Helaine, then how else are you going to replace what was ruined in the fire?”
Félicie shifted in her chair. “I have given this much thought. I will ask Mr. Eaton for an advance on my paycheck.”
“If he doesn’t agree?”
“I shall take out a loan.”
“I never thought about that. I like how confident you sound.” Rena scratched behind Miss Trudy-Bleu’s ears. “I want to be just like Félicie when I grow up. She’s so pretty and persistent and pragmatic.”
Félicie rolled her eyes while reluctantly smiling. With thought, careful planning, and dedication to a goal, one could overcome any obstacle. That was something Rena, someday, would need to learn.
Chapter 5
Absolute fireproofing is impossible.
~The Chemistry of Fire and Fire Prevention
Later that afternoon
Riverside Park
CARPENTER YEARY LOVED WICHITA. He loved the hard-working people, from Old Man Ralley to the esteemed Mayor Graham. He loved how Main Street and Douglas divided the city into four quadrants. He loved how the “Wickedest City in the West” grew up to become the “Empire of the Southwest.” Any need—spiritual, social, business—could be met here. He loved the parades, concerts in the park, cotillions, church socials, festivals for any and every occasion, especially Old Settlers Day, and even the county fair (not that he knew of anyone who didn’t like a fair). He loved buying confections from Candy Pete, bread from the Santa Fe Bakery, and ice cream from Steffen’s. He loved snow-covered winter days as much as he loved ones like now—blue sky, bright sun, temperature in the high sixties, perfect for loosening his tie and strolling contently through the park on his day off. He loved being able to close his eyes, breathe the wheat-laden air, and know he was home.
He did not love the Leap Year Day festival.
He abhorred pats on the back and “You’re lookin’ good for only being eight.”
That was why he quietly slipped off the temporary stage in the center of the park and backed through the crowd to leave twelve-year-old Miss Augusta Egan and her family to enjoy the honor of celebrating her “third” birthday.
Carp followed the dirt-hardened path, careful not to let his gaze linger too long on any person least they presume he was looking for interaction. Any other time, he would have welcomed it.
Not today.
“Happy Birthday, Carp!”
He tensed. Smiling, he tipped his hat at Mr. and Mrs. Frankenfield. “Good to see you.”
They smiled and nodded and walked on to join their parents, children, and new grandson on blankets near the river.
He walked on as well.
To his left, boats with couples courting floated along the Little Arkansas. To his right, trees, blankets, and Wichitans having fun. Children laughing. Old-timers telling stories of the past. The youngest Sexton walked around collecting empty pie tins. As Carp strolled through the park, he acknowledged the people wishing him a happy birthday. In years past, he found ways to enjoy the day. Be thankful. List his blessings. Find people to help. Be amused instead of offended at the number of women proposing marriage to him or to bachelors he knew. Laugh it off. Have fun.
This morning—
This morning all he wanted to do was crawl into his hammock in the back yard, read a book, and not be reminded he was a year older and needed a wife.
He’d still be in his hammock if Miss Cora an
d Miss Sadie hadn’t threatened to toss him out of it. His duty was to be at the parade. His duty was to attend the festival in the park. His duty was to go to the ball at the Goldbergs’ estate. His problem was that he was lonely, Miss Cora had insisted. Which was why he was sulking, Miss Sadie had been sure to add. If he was lonely—and he wasn’t—wouldn’t he want to go where people were?
There was nothing wrong with taking a day to be by himself. He hadn’t had a day off all month.
“Carp! Carpenter Yeary! Yoo-hoo, Carp! Over here!”
He looked around until he saw who had called.
Mrs. Laura Buckwalter waved him over to her linen-draped table. The sign on front read—
SUPPORT PARK VILLA
BUY A PIE!
DONATIONS OF ANY AMOUNT WELCOME.
“You look like you want pie,” she called out as he approached.
God bless that woman, her friends, and their “city beautiful” movement.
Carp smiled and stopped at the table. He gave a cursory glance at the slim pickings. “Not much here left to choose from.”
“More are on their way,” she replied in that life-is-wonderful voice of hers. “My niece will be at the ball tonight. She’s the one whose picture I showed you last Sunday in church. Sweet girl. She dreams of nothing but being the ideal wife and mother.”
He was sure her niece was sweet and dreamy and would make the ideal wife. Not his ideal wife.
His life was perfect as is.
“I’ll take this one.” Carp slid the blueberry pie he wanted in front of her. “The city refuse your request to build a shelter?”
A broad smile spread across her face. “This way the shelter will be of the people, for the people, and by the people. You know, Carp dear, I saved that blueberry just for you. Of course, pie is best shared. My niece bakes the best strawberry-rhubarb pie in all of Kansas. Did I tell you she attended a Fannie Farmer cooking school?”
“No, you hadn’t.” Which was strange. This month, every time she saw him, she’d talk about her niece. Next month, it would be her neighbor’s daughter or second cousin once removed. For the last couple years, every month she had a new “ideal wife” for him to meet. If she wasn’t trying to match make, then one of the other church ladies were.
Carp reached inside his suitcoat for his wallet. He pulled it out and grabbed a dollar. On a whim, he withdrew all the bills he’d anticipated needing to pay for a half a dozen silk dresses. Luck favored him this year. He hadn’t received any proposals so far. Between here and the two blocks it’d take him to walk home, the odds were small that he’d receive a marriage proposal. He offered the money to Mrs. Buckwalter, but her attention wasn’t on him, his monetary donation, or the pies.
He followed her gaze to where the horse-drawn trolley was unloading.
Three prominent, missions-minded ladies from their church disembarked with pie baskets. They started across the lawn, heading toward the pie table. Ridgley Parker then climbed out. Next came a pug on a leash held not by Eva Gregg, not the woman Parker confessed to adore. Instead, Miss Rena Laurent stepped down in a purple silk dress unsuited for a day in the park. She patted Parker’s arm in a friendly manner. She curtsied. Parker laughed like a man not in love with another woman. He then turned from the dressmaker’s daughter to the streetcar and reached out to assist—
Her.
White shirt, gray skirt, dark hair drawn back in that same precise bun.
She released his hand the moment her feet touched the ground.
“Why am I not surprised?” Mrs. Buckwalter murmured.
“Oh?” Carp didn’t take his eyes off the brunette. Whatever she said captivated Parker’s attention. Parker didn’t need his attention captivated, not by her, not by any other female. Parker had Eva Gregg to be captivated by.
After a hmmph, Mrs. Buckwalter whispered, “Those three left here no more than an hour ago.”
He started to tell her she didn’t need to whisper because no one else was within hearing distance, but she kept on talking.
“The two girls arrived together earlier,” she was saying, “oh, around one-thirty or so. The redhead is Madame Laurent’s daughter, Rena. She always has that dog with her. Madame Laurent is the most exclusive dressmaker in town. She has a waiting list for new clients. Of course, I’ve never seen the brunette before. She’s awfully thin. The two girls weren’t here long when they got back on the trolley with Andrew Clark. If his parents—tsk, tsk, tsk. Anyway, the next thing I know, they’re back. Andrew walked them right over to Ridgley Parker. They didn’t talk long before those three left together on the trolley.” Her voice grew serious. “Carp, as Andrew and Ridgely’s supervising officer, you ought to investigate. They’re young. They still have wild oats to sow. Any girl who looks like Miss Laurent does—”
“I’m sure they’re not doing anything nefarious,” he reasoned.
“Hmmph.”
Carp laid the money on the table. Nefarious, no. Oat-sowing, he doubted. Suspicious, yes. He slid his wallet back into his pocket.
“Oh, dear. Just look at how Miss Laurent is holding onto—oh! They’re coming this way.” Mrs. Buckwalter turned her attention to the arriving church ladies. Mrs. O’Brian, Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Topping set their baskets on the table then took turns giving Carp a hug and wishing him a happy birthday.
“Laura,” Mrs. O’Brian said to Mrs. Buckwalter, “I apologize for being late. My meringue would not set up. I’m so embarrassed by how it looks.”
“Now, Doris,” scoffed Mrs. Topping.
“Your pies on a bad day,” Mrs. Jones said, rather confidently, “look better than mine on any given day. Even Carp would agree.”
Four sets of eyes turned upon him.
“None of your pies have ever disappointed me,” he answered, and they all smiled.
Mrs. Buckwalter motioned to the baskets. “Let’s see what you brought.”
“Carp!” yelled Parker as the church ladies talked and unloaded the pies.
The brunette’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, no, no. This is not a good—”
“Stop your fussing,” said Miss Laurent said to her friend who looked ready to flee back to the trolley. “Listen to Ridgley. He knows what’s best.”
They stopped at the table.
“Ladies,” Parker said, tipping his hat to the church ladies who greeted him in return. Then he looked to Carp. “Have a minute? These two have a question for you.”
“Sure.” He looked to the church ladies who were all staring at him with curious expressions. “I’ll be back for the pie.” He motioned to a cottonwood about twenty feet away and said, “Let’s go over there.” Something told him at least one person wanted privacy.
Parker started toward the towering tree.
Miss Laurent grabbed the brunette’s arm. “Stop being this way.”
The pug barked twice.
After three tugs, the brunette gave in, but not before Carp heard her unladylike growl.
At that, he happily followed them to the tree.
Chapter 6
A woman must always remember that a proposal of marriage is the highest honor that a man can pay her, and, if she must refuse it, to do so in such fashion as to spare his feelings as much as possible.
~ Social Life; or The Manners and Customs of Polite Society
“WHAT IS IT?” CARP ASKED, stopping where Parker and Miss Laurent were on his left and the brunette on his right. One of the ladies, if not both, smelled of carnations, vanilla, and something woodsy.
Parker and Miss Laurent looked to the brunette.
Her bright eyes, which he didn’t think could get any bigger, widened as she glared at the two people standing across from her. “Two is enough,” she said firmly. “More than enough.”
“You are smart and beautiful and brave,” said Miss Laurent. “This isn’t the time to allow fear to gain victory over your dreams.”
“A girl should never settle,” Parker put in. His mouth curved into a smile that looked far more nef
arious than suspicious.
Carp knew that look. He distrusted that look.
The brunette coughed a breath. “There is a degree of kindness one expects from friends.” She looked pointedly at Miss Laurent. “Kindness—as in helping another from an unpleasant circumstance, not as in adding to another’s woes.”
The pug barked.
She motioned to it and gave a little lift to her shoulder as if to say even the dog agrees with me.
Miss Laurent’s eyes narrowed.
The brunette mimicked her.
Miss Laurent nodded toward Carp, her curls bouncing.
The brunette shook her head.
Miss Laurent gave her a why not look.
The brunette gave her a you know why look back.
“You’re embarrassing me,” snapped Miss Laurent.
“Ha!” was all the brunette said.
Carp couldn’t stop the grin. This was the most amusement he’d had all day.
Parker rubbed his forehead, his hat sliding back. “This is awkward.”
The ladies continued to glare at each other.
Carp continued to be amused, and if he was entertained by their banter— He glanced to the table where the four church ladies stood, examining the pies yet clearly trying to listen. He didn’t fault them. In light of what Mrs. Buckwalter had shared, this was one conversation he’d want to overhear if he weren’t already a part.
Miss Laurent abruptly turned to Carp and smiled. “Captain Yeary, it’s so good to see you again. I hope you are enjoying the day. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she asked and gave him no time to respond. “My...uhh, my friend here would like a word with you. Since Miss Trudy-Bleu could use a walk”—she wrapped her arm round Parker’s—“Ridgley, dear, would you be so gracious?”
Parker nodded. “Of course. Anything for you.” He winked at the brunette. “Knock ’em dead.”
That earned a roll of her blue-gray eyes.
Which only made Parker smile more. “It might be worth staying to hear—”