by Gina Welborn
Mama didn’t enter.
Neither did Rena.
Félicie turned to the vanity. She picked up the lime ribbon and coughed out a laugh. At least now she had one less lie on her conscience. She didn’t have to pretend she was angry with him, because she actually was. As long as she avoided Carpenter for two days—quite an easy task considering her had no desire to ever see him again—and arrived late to the engagement ball, people would believe they’d had a falling out. The gossips would end the engagement for them.
His plan had merit, she couldn’t argue there. Or could she?
Everyone likes Carp.
Everyone did. Unknown girl arrives from the shadows to ensnare their beloved fireman into marriage. She would be blamed. No matter how it ended, she would bear the blame.
Not him.
Her.
What type of lady proposes to a man? Not a reputable one, for sure.
Félicie sank onto the vanity chair. She looped the ribbon around her head then tied it in a bow. Elbows on the table, she leaned forward and rested her head in her palms. Follow his plan? Every bad idea thus far had been his or Rena’s or Mama’s. Look where that left her—still stuck in the same mire.
What if she’d been going about this all wrong?
She gave this some thought. She’d been trying to set fires. Carpenter Yeary would never run from a fire. It was time she followed her own bad idea—well, not bad per se.
Good…she would follow her own good idea.
Chapter 9
A fire, once ignited, was tended with care, and a tribe, when travelling through a country, carried with them a piece of burning or smoldering bark, which they blew into a flame to kindle a fire at their various halting places…
~The Chemistry of Fire and Fire Prevention
Friday evening – May 29th
Carey Hotel ballroom
HE SHOULD HAVE NEVER SAID YES.
Carp checked the time on his wristwatch. “She’s late.”
Joe patted Carp’s shoulder as the orchestra began a new piece. “Relax. She’ll be here before the clock strikes midnight.” He tucked his dark, shoulder-length hair behind his ears, then tugged on the sleeves of his tuxedo. “Now stop scowling. You’re scaring the ladies away.”
Carp grit his teeth. From where he and Joe stood at the perimeter of the ballroom, fifty feet from the entrance, he could see the cheerful faces, all thrilled to be celebrating his and Félicie’s engagement. Everyone in Wichita knew how he and Félicie adhered to punctuality. By her lateness, they’d aptly conclude something was amiss. He should be happy she was late.
He was happy. Everything was proceeding as planned.
“Don’t forget,” Carp said, forcing on a smile, “we’re fishing tomorrow at nine.”
Joe grimaced. “Sure you want to skip Mrs. Kleg’s kaffeeklatsch?”
“Absolutely.”
Once he missed attending the kaffeeklatsch with Félicie, then when he failed to escort her to church, the gossips would spread word of a falling-out. By Monday, he would be a free man. He ought to be thankful Félicie had finally revealed her true, judgmental colors, for it made their falling out easier. He could have told Félicie that he felt no shame for posing in the nude. Mrs. Melton and her art students had been so thankful to finally have a live model. Instead of ogling as he’d expected, each lady had studied him as though considering a lake or a hawk or a field of sunflowers. During most the time he posed, he’d worn a discrete covering.
He could have explained that to Félicie. He didn’t care if he disappointed or offended anyone. It didn’t matter what she thought. It shouldn’t matter.
Except it did.
In the time they’d spent together, her feelings and opinions had come to matter.
He didn’t need a woman living in his conscience. This was why their engagement needed to end.
“Gotta adhere to the plan,” he muttered.
Joe shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re giving up the best bienenstich in Wichita for smelly fish.”
“And your company.”
“This is what I get for saving your life—perpetual friendship.” Joe released a dramatic sigh. “I was an eleven-year-old chump. A handsome one, mind you, but still a chump.”
Carp laughed. “You also get fish.”
“I’d rather have bienenstich served to me by Mrs. Kleg’s pretty, little maid.”
“Without Mrs. Kleg around.”
“Exactly.”
At that, they turned their attention back to the entrance where the Laurents now stood without Félicie. Both looked jubilant. The green-beaded frock emphasized Rena’s hourglass curves, more than it had Félicie’s. Carp turned his head a fraction to get a better look at his first and closest friend. He’d wager the man’s intense (almost angry) gaze was fixated on one thing and one alone—Rena Laurent. More aptly, Rena Laurent’s abundant chest. Since the Christmas masquerade, except after Joe saved her from the fire, Carp hadn’t seen them exchange a word.
The moment Rena started to look their way, Joe turned to Carp. “I need a drink. You want one?”
“I’m”—Joe walked off before Carp finished saying—“good.”
Several attendees looked Carp’s way.
He nodded to acknowledge them then checked his wristwatch. Where was she? All she had to do was go from one floor of the hotel to the other. He should have clarified that “late” meant five to ten minutes. Twenty minutes was inexcusable.
He tugged his sleeve over his watch and let out an irritated exhale.
She was planning something.
He knew it because he knew her.
From the moment he’d left Mama Helaine’s shop, he knew Félicie wasn’t going to surrender without a fight. As sure as he was breathing, he knew she was plotting this very moment on how to maneuver him into breaking their engagement. It would involve kittens. Miss Sadie and Miss Cora had mentioned their nephew’s neighbor had a litter needing to be adopted. Sure enough when he got home, there on his sofa would be newly-weened, mewing felines.
All females too.
Carp groaned. Félicie was making him paranoid.
How could he not be?
In the last three months, every time he returned home from the engine house, her carnation-and-vanilla-scented perfume testified she’d visited his home and enlisted his housekeepers into conspiring against him. What had she moved? She always moved something, even when—no, especially when—he specified he liked where it was. There was a reason why a library should be on the main floor. There was a reason books should be arranged by the author’s last name. Not according to genre and then sub-divided by century written and then sub-divide again by author’s last name. He’d wasted hours staring at paintings because he couldn’t remember if that’s where they had originally hung or if she had moved them. Weeks after starting Edgar Allan Poe’s Fall of the House of Usher, he was still on chapter two because each time he tried to read, he’d hear her voice telling him how she’d discussed his choice of reading material with Dr. Trumble who agreed due to the “stress on his heart” from managing fires, he should be reading less tense and more tranquil fiction. Thus the stack of books on his bedside table that kept returning no matter how many times he moved them.
He would read Pride and Prejudice as soon as Jane Austen added dead bodies.
Carp tapped his thigh. Félicie had changed his plan—there could be no other explanation for her excessive tardiness. His lips pressed into a firm line. This was not what they’d planned. When you made a plan, you stuck with it, and you certainly didn’t change it without informing your partner. Whether she liked it or not, he was her partner. They were a team. Until they were no longer a team, they were still a team.
Mama Helaine and Rena stopped in front of him.
“Carp dear. I am so pleased you are joining our family.” Mama Helaine stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You look handsome as always.”
“Oh, Mother,” Rena said, with a roll of
her eyes that was so like Félicie. “He has enough people singing his praises.” Smiling, he gave his arm a sisterly pat. “You don’t have to fret. Félicie is on her way.”
Carp tensed. “I’m not fretting.”
“You’re not?” Rena fluttered a hand at nothing in particular. “Clearly I imagined your scowling, watch-checking fretfulness. My mistake.”
Mama Helaine wrapped Rena’s arm around hers. “If you will excuse us, I see Mrs. Grbic.”
“Enjoy your non-fretting,” Rena called out before walking off with her mother.
Joe, who’d been heading in Carp’s direction, turned abruptly in a direction that took him opposite where the Laurents were going.
Carp turned his attention to the Chamber Orchestra of Topeka, hired because Mrs. Lester and Mrs. Topping raved about its “energetic, expressive” sound. Having its own personal sound was exactly what a great orchestra shouldn’t have. It should adapt to the style of Haydn or Beethoven or Debussy and thus reflect the sound of the composer. This orchestra had taken Brahms’s gently curved phrases and turned them into the Rocky Mountains, each one higher than the last.
A clarinet squeaked. Faulty instrument? Old reed? Inexperienced musician?
The night had only begun and his ears wanted to leave. He’d need a good two hours playing his French horn to purge the sound of this orchestra from his mind.
A quick glance to the entrance.
No Félicie.
He winced at the sudden vibrato in the piece’s closing stanza. One string player was wiggling the fingers of his left hand on the strings. Why? Now another. A third. Someone needed to explain to the conductor the difference between exaggerated sentimentality and real feelings, especially in eighteenth-century music.
The Klegs stepped to the middle of the ball room. Other couples followed, including Joe and Mrs. Topping’s youngest daughter. Rena was with a man Carp didn’t know. The music for the opening waltz began, and dancing commenced.
The songs changed and partners switched.
Carp played his part to perfection, looking the aloof fiancé determined not to dance with anyone save his lady love. She had to show. She had to. Doing so was only good form. She simply could not miss their engagement ball and offend Mrs. Grbic and her friends.
He strolled to the other side of the ballroom. He shook hands and muttered his gratitude, and explained how Félicie had to attend to her—at this point he motioned in a circle around his head. Smiles, handshakes, and “congratulations!” continued as he circled the room, ending up where he’d started. For someone who didn’t like lying, she had no problem with putting him in a situation where he had to lie for her. He motioned to a server who immediately walked over. He grabbed a glass of punch from the tray.
He was on his second glass when—
Mrs. Grbic looked his way, giving him a sad smile as if she knew something but was going to do her best to keep up appearances.
Carp placed his cup on the tray of a server passing by. He fiddled with his cufflinks. He then tugged on his tuxedo lapels. He checked his watch again. Fifty-eight minutes.
“Miss me?”
He should have run.
The moment he turned, he knew he should have run.
He should have announced “the engagement is over,” turned on his heels, and fled the ballroom. He should have. He couldn’t move. There she was, looking beautiful and, as always, smelling of carnations and vanilla. One curl of her silky dark hair rested along the side of her neck, grazing her collar bone. The yellow dress with its shocking pink drape, wispy sleeves, and metal lace bodice drew a man’s attention to the one place only her husband should be looking. And he was looking. He couldn’t stop looking and thinking and imagining how warm and soft and touchable she was.
He wanted her.
No sense lying to himself. His attraction to Félicie had been ever-present since they first met. In the last two days of not seeing her, the intense bodily longing—
He cleared his throat. “You’re late,” he bit off.
She stepped closer. Her white-gloved hand rested on his chest, where she had to feel the pounding. “Oh, Carpenter.” With that came a tiny smile. “I can see you are still angry. Mama says for a relationship to succeed, each party must be able to see the other’s perspective.” She clasped her hands together. “You were right, and I was wrong.”
He opened his mouth to respond but no words came. What had he been right about? Everything, of course, but what specific thing had he been right about? Her rosy lips parted. She was saying something about dresses and dinner, and about regarding his actions as being pestilence—no, pestilent. Either word he didn’t care. He couldn’t look away from the sweet curve of her bottom lip. What was making it so shiny? So pink. So kissable.
He brushed his thumb along her lip, without thinking, before considering the appropriateness of the action.
She flinched. “What was that for?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she touched her lips then licked them. His mind went blank. Other parts of him—
“Carpenter Yeary, are you listening to me?”
“Of course,” he groused then adjusted the pink mosquito netting so it hid the flesh her bodice failed to cover. This was something his wife wore in the privacy of their bedroom, not at a public ball. Not where other men could see and notice and desire. And if he was seeing, noticing, and desiring, then he knew other men in the room were, too. “Where did this come from?”
“Mama.” She ran her fingers along the glittering lace under the bodice. “It is what you asked for.”
Carp felt his own mouth go slack with shock.
She glanced down at the hem. “Embroidered flowers on the skirt to look like a garden growing.” She touched the filmy fabric. “Three-day-old yellow mosquito netting with a pink accents. By the way, it’s chiffon and tulle. How is this not what you described?”
He growled under his breath. “You don’t need to be half-dressed for men to recognize how ravishing you are.”
She gave him an odd look.
“Evening, Carp.”
Carp turned with Félicie to look at Seth Beaufoy.
“Miss Richmond,” he said, stretching out his hand, “might I have this dance?”
“Her first dance is promised,” Carp answered. Until Félicie wasn’t his fiancée anymore, she was his fiancée. His fiancée did not dance with Seth Beaufoy. Ever.
“Perhaps the next,” Félicie offered with a smile.
Seth’s mouth curved yet his grin remained stiff. “The next it is.”
“I shall look forward to it,” she answered.
He nodded and walked off.
“You won’t dance with Seth,” Carp grumbled. “Ever.”
She swiveled to face him. “You are quite snippy tonight. We need to talk.” Something in his expression must have caused her to feel the need to clarify, “In private please.”
Carp grabbed one of her gloved hands and made a bee-line to the ballroom’s west corner. There was nothing risqué about hiding with her behind a trio of potted citrus trees. The dimness of the lighting and the distance from the orchestra and from those milling about the perimeter of the ballroom provided the means for an intimate chat.
He released her hand.
She didn’t speak.
He raised his brows and waited.
She said nothing to end the awkward silence.
“Well?” he prompted.
Her gaze shifted to the trees, or through them to the dancers swirling about the floor. She seemed troubled over how to convey her thoughts. Or maybe she knew what she wanted to say and what troubled her more was if she should say them and if he would be receptive.
“I have given us much thought,” she was saying before she turned and met his gaze. “We are at a crossroads. As an employee of the Hotel Carey, I am held to a high moral standard. I cannot agree to your plan, for even if the engagement ended amicably, my reputation will be sullied and I will thusly lose my employment
here. Mr. Eaton knew the true reason for my Leap Year Day proposal and was not pleased. I apologize for not conveying this information sooner. If I had, I am sure circumstances would be not as they are.” Her lips pursed—puckered really. But not in the manner of an innocent in preparation for her first kiss. More like in resignation.
Carp frowned. Had she ever been kissed? Why was he even wondering? He knew for certain she hadn’t. How he knew didn’t matter. He knew. Miss Félicie Richmond was many things. Indiscreet she was not.
She let out a defeated sigh. “I have reached the conclusion that the only viable option for me is to go through with the marriage.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Carp dragged a hand through his hair. “You don’t want to marry me.”
“No more than you wish to marry me,” she acknowledged with a slight lift to her shoulder, the closest movement to a shrug he’d ever seen her do. “I considered pretending to be madly in love and desperate to marry in hopes you would balk and finally jilt me. Until I stepped into the ballroom, I fully intended to do just that.” She glanced about the room. “However, in light of what the wedding committee has invested into our engagement ball and would eventually spend on a wedding—it would be wrong, selfish, and mean. Additionally, I cannot keep pretending our relationship is real.”
He released a pent-up breath. “I know.”
“Have you heard? The circle of friends have decided on the third Friday in June.” She looked at him expectantly and repeated, “This June, Carpenter. As in next month.”
Carp stood there feeling like an idiot. What was he supposed to say? That he had no idea the wedding had been scheduled at all? That he hadn’t been consulted? That he was allowing a group of eight women to ride roughshod over him—over them both—with their ambitious and determined wedding plans? That he felt like a coward? The very idea that Félicie—that anyone—thinking he couldn’t handle the situation was humiliating. He could handle this. He had to.