Allie sat up, wishing for a cool glass of water. The bathroom had a tap, but it seemed too far to walk at the moment. Thank goodness the pounding in her head had faded to a dull throb.
“You’ve slept the afternoon away. Dinner will be ready in an hour and Mr. Bradford is coming!” She said this last bit as if he were Santa Claus coming on Christmas Eve. “Grandma Leeds says I may stay for a bit, as long as I do not talk overmuch.”
Allie suppressed a groan and rubbed her eyes. A dinner to sit through. With Thomas.
There was a light tap at the door and Maggie poked her head in to say, “Mrs. Leeds asked me to assist you with dressing for dinner.” Maggie moved swiftly to the cedar armoire. “She says to wear the green gown. It is not so formal, but is fresher than the one you have on.” Maggie glanced at Allie’s rumpled state. “Mrs. Gibson hung your dresses in here a few days ago and they have been pressed.”
Janey skipped to the armoire and peered inside. “Ooh, Auntie! The green gown is lovely, with beads and little ribbon rosettes along the waist.” She clapped her hands eagerly and beamed at Allie.
Allie perched on the edge of the bed and wished she had slept through the night. She knew that gown very well. It was the one she was wearing when Thomas asked her to stay, to marry him He had so many plans, they both did. But it was impossible to follow them together. He couldn’t see that, no matter how she tried to explain.
“I should have undressed before taking my rest. Is there a way to press this? I might have... outgrown that gown,” she said.
“There’s no time, I am sorry.” Maggie frowned at the sparsely hung contents. “There is a plain calico, but I am very sure Mrs. Leeds requested that you wear the green.”
“I will wear the calico. It is cooler and not so formal.” And the neck is higher. It will almost cover the puckered red scars. Although Maggie tried to insist, Allie was determined. In the end, she descended the staircase in the plain brown calico gown, mutinous curls tidied and pinned back. Her eyes were plainly tired, but her mouth was set in a pleasant smile.
She could hear voices in the dining room as they drew closer. A rich baritone and her mother’s clear, high voice intermingled with laughter. Allie paused, little Janey at her elbow.
“Aren’t we going in to dinner?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, I just need a moment,” Allie whispered and leaned her head against the doorjamb. They seemed so happy, so friendly. There was none of the animosity of eight years ago when her mother thought Allie might choose the carriage man’s son to be her husband. A wry smile touched her lips as she remembered the shock on her mother’s face when she realized Allie’s plan was much, much worse.
Taking a bracing lungful of air, she entered the dining room. The candles were already lit along the table and the gas lamps glowed softly against the deep burgundy walls. The table was set with fine china, its gleaming gold rims contrasted with hand painted cabbage roses. This had always been Allie’s favorite room because of the festive memories. Her eyes sought out the mark on the silk wall covering when she had lost control of a particularly saucy piece of lamb at Janey’s age. She started when Thomas spoke. He had risen from his seat on a far chair and approached them with a smile. His suit was a light gray flannel, so elegantly cut that Allie couldn’t help staring. It fit him perfectly from shoulder to ankle, encasing his strong arms with ease. It was no wonder that Louise Mayfield was desperate to get his attention.
“Mr. Morton was very pleased to see you today. He has always followed your success.” His dark eyes radiated warmth.
Allie frowned, her gaze skittering to her mother’s face. Why did he have to bring that up again? Couldn’t he tell how much her mother hated to hear about her painting?
“Yes, he’s quite an interesting little man. I hear he also collects children’s wind-up tin toys,” Mrs. Leeds said, her voice dripping with disdain. She smoothed her crisp, lace covered gown with gloved hands and smiled tightly.
“And why have you worn that old calico? I specifically instructed Maggie to make sure you dressed in the-“
Allie interrupted, desperate to avoid this conversation. “I am fully capable of dressing myself, mother. I chose the calico.”
“But it so faded and old. You look frightful. Go upstairs at once and change-“
”The other is just a little too tight,” Allie interjected, breathlessly. Thomas was glancing back and forth, an amused look on his face.
“No, it cannot possibly be tight. You are much thinner than you were when you left. The green gown is the gown you must wear tonight.” Her tone held a warning, there was no more argument.
Thomas had already heard. She raised her eyes, and his expression told her he knew why she chose the calico. He remembered that night, too. The pain in his eyes was so naked, so achingly familiar. Then, like a veil dropped over his feelings, he blinked and turned to Janey.
“Would you like to sit near the window or at the other end with me?”
“No, no, Janey will sit next to me for soup, then she will go on to the kitchen with Mrs. Gibson. You will sit here, across from Alberta. And our other guest, Mr. Bascomb, will sit next to her.” Mrs. Leeds motioned to each place.
“Mr. Bascomb?” Allie didn’t recall hearing the name.
“I have invited a very prominent lawyer to dine with us.” She must have sensed something in Allie’s expression because she continued, in a louder tone, “You must think of the social season ahead. He was most kind to postpone his own dinner plans tonight.”
Allie wondered why he couldn’t come some evening when he didn’t have plans, but bit her tongue and nodded. The dull throb near her temples made her yearn for her darkened bedroom.
“I will go change,” she said, accepting defeat.
Her mother waved her away with one hand. “Quickly, quickly! He is already ten minutes late and should arrive any moment.”
Allie trudged up the stairs, dreading the green gown like a criminal dreaded the gallows. An evening wearing a visible reminder of the fact Thomas had once loved her sounded like torture.
She returned to the dining room, slender arms covered with white gloves to the elbow and a diaphanous lace scarf tucked around the low neckline. Thomas stood with his back to the room, seemingly examining a small statue near the fireplace.
She watched Thomas’ shoulders straighten, as if he were steeling himself against seeing her. Then he turned, his gaze sweeping over her, and the expression in his eyes made her heart stutter to a stop. Her breath caught in her throat as she stood before him, exactly as she stood eight years ago when she announced she was leaving. When he proposed under the oak, the night close around them, she had been so tempted to say yes. But she knew that he didn’t love her like he did before he’d gone off to Iowa. Married to a man who was only playing peace maker, while putting aside her own hopes? She couldn’t. Her dream would fester like a sore if she wasn’t true to herself.
Of course, he accused her of rejecting him because he was poor. He had no fortune, no land, only dreams and love. She would never forget the shock and anger in his eyes, as if his whole world had ended in a flash.
But that was not what she saw now. His eyes were alight with happiness and his features shone with pure joy. It was as if she had said yes, instead of no. Allie’s pulse pounded in her ears and she sucked in a breath. Her mind spun with confusion, scrambling to make sense of what she was seeing.
“Oh, Auntie! You look lovely, like a princess,” Janey exclaimed clapping her small hands.
“Thank you, Janey,” she whispered, bending down to kiss her little cheek, struggling to compose her features.
“Mmm, and you smell delicious,” Janey said, eyes bright.
Allie laughed, her heart lighter in her chest. “Silly. Are you going to eat me for dinner?”
Maggie entered, leading a tall, thin gentleman. “Mrs. Leeds, Mr. Jeremiah Bascomb has arrived.”
Their dinner guest could not have been more physically different from Thomas if he had come from t
he moon. Sallow cheeks framed an overly large mouth and dark blond hair was combed back from a high forehead with large amounts of pomade. Mr. Bascomb seemed to have borrowed his sense of fashion from a scarecrow. His suit hung from his gangly limbs with material to spare. It seemed a whole other man could have fit in his white vest with him. He approached Allie’s mother and doffed his hat. He bent over her, kissing her hand and murmuring a greeting too low for the others to hear.
Mrs. Leeds dropped her gaze and inclined her head. Allie was struck by the realization that her mother was flattered by this strange young man. Her stomach knotted and she struggled to regain her pleasant expression.
“Miss Hathaway, so very wonderful to make your acquaintance,” he said, grasping Allie’s hand and leaning over her glove. The heady smell of the pomade made her head swim.
“Mr. Bascomb,” she said simply, attempting to hold her breath until he moved farther away.
“And Mr. Bradford. How pleasant to see my horse’s doctor at dinner.” His voice was pitched a bit too loudly for the close room and Allie felt certain that he meant that to be the opposite of a compliment. The tightness around Thomas’ eyes told her she was right. But wasn’t that what he was? A horse doctor?
“It seems we have friends in common,” he said, his voice light.
“Surprising, isn’t it?” Bascomb said, as he moved toward the table.
Maggie returned with a tureen of tomato bisque, setting it in the middle of the table. The water glasses had already been filled and as they took their places, Allie noticed each place was set with a tiny vase of miniature roses. It was a bright touch that could only come from this shy servant girl. Mrs. Gibson could cook for a king, but she hated flowers at the table. She was always afraid a spider would crawl out during the meal.
Janey did as she was told and was exceptionally quiet after Maggie had served the soup. Allie glanced at her and winked broadly, for which she was rewarded with a gap-toothed grin. How many meals had they enjoyed in Chinatown, eating food that would be unrecognizable to their dinner companions? But this richly decorated room, the young men in fine suits, lace gloves and heady perfume all created an experience that was more exotic than for Janey.
“Now Mr. Bascomb, how are your parents?” Mrs. Leeds tipped her spoon toward her lips and took a delicate sip.
“Very well, Mrs. Leeds. They are in Paris for a few more months. My father enjoys the opera but tells me the artist colonies have completely ruined some of the finer quarters of the city.”
Allie choked on a sip of water and Thomas raised his eyebrows across the table at her. Perhaps it was better to say nothing, but the conversation in the shop was still ringing in her ears.
“Excuse me, did he say how they ruined the city?” she asked.
Mr. Bascomb pursed his fleshy lips and tilted his head. “I am sure you are aware of what goes on in those sorts of places. Things we shall not mention in front of our little guest.” He blinked his watery eyes at Janey, who stared back, expressionless. “Then again, she have already witnessed the behaviors of which I speak. Drunkenness, fighting, loose morals-“
”Mr. Bascomb, I understand there are neighborhoods that are unsafe for any young child to live. A close friend of mine has dedicated her life to serving the poor wretches who live there. Treasure seekers streamed into the city after the gold rushes ended, leaving them as poor as when they set out. In despair they often turn to drink, and all that comes from it. But they are not artists.” Allie’s fists were clenched, her jaw set tight.
Mrs. Leeds paused, fork in midair as Allie spoke. Her eyes were flashing warning signs. She felt she had no choice but to set this irritating man straight.
“In San Francisco that may be true. But in the City of Light, artists have ruined the Latin Quarter with their late-night ways. My mother says that at all hours of the night, music and laughter rings out, making it impossible to sleep.” He dabbed his napkin primly against his mouth.
Allie suppressed a snort. Of course, the real test of civilization is the ability to keep quiet and adhere to a proper bedtime.
“Perhaps that is a quality of the French, and not the artists?” she asked.
“Am I wrong? I had the understanding that most people in the arts- dancers, entertainers, writers, and painters―” here he paused meaningfully, “don’t follow the schedule of the rest of the world. When we are readying ourselves for the day, they are just falling into bed.”
Allie frowned. It was true that there were nights she worked until daylight, unwilling to leave her inspiration for another day.
“Sometimes, perhaps. But there are other professions that keep odd hours, as well. You would not object to a neighborhood of doctors even though they are called in the night to assist the sick.” She glanced at Thomas, who seemed to be finding his soup very interesting. “For example, Mr. Bradford must respond when there is a need for a veterinarian, no matter the hour.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bascomb, his voice a drawl, “and a neighborhood of men who take care of other people’s carriage horses would be an equally unpleasant place to live, if only for the smell.”
Allie sucked in a breath and her eyes flew to Thomas’ face. His handsome countenance was unperturbed, although a small spot of pink bloomed over each high cheekbone, and he reached calmly for his glass of water. For just a moment, Allie wondered if he would toss it in Bascomb’s smug face. But Thomas was a gentleman to the core.
“We cannot always choose our neighbors, but luckily we can always choose our friends,” Thomas said.
Allie wanted to laugh out loud at Bascomb’s confusion. Of course he would see himself as a very much sought-after friend... and suitor. He could not grasp what Thomas was reminding him: that being socially esteemed was no guarantee that Allie would let him call on her. Thomas caught her eye, then looked away.
Mrs. Leeds rang the bell for Maggie. “This soup was far too salty. I must have Mrs. Gibson watch her as she seasons it.”
“I thought it was very good,” murmured Allie, hoping Maggie wouldn’t bear the brunt of the evening’s failure. She supposed she should make more of an effort to converse with Mr. Bascomb, rather than argue.
Maggie appeared, removing the dishes and Mrs. Gibson entered the warm room. Allie could see her cheeks were flushed and there was a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Mrs. Gibson must be working hard to make this dinner a success. Allie felt remorse come to perch on her shoulder like a fat crow.
“Come, Janey, let the adults have their time,” Mrs. Gibson said, smiling.
Janey reluctantly slid from her chair and stood. “Thank you for the lovely evening, Grandmother Leeds” she said, dipping her blond head. She sent an imploring look at Allie, but her aunt gave her a small smile, shaking her head ever so slightly. Time to go. Be a good girl.
With a barely suppressed sigh, the little girl left and Maggie returned just as swiftly to present a platter of roasted chicken and poached quail eggs. She deftly slid them between the large floral centerpieces.
“Has Janey recovered from the trip?” Thomas asked, as Maggie served them, beginning with Allie’s mother.
“Oh, she seems like we have only crossed the city, rather than the country,” laughed Allie. “I think I shall need another week to recover but Janey has already made plans for all the many adventures we are to have this winter.”
Thomas smiled, the deep dimples near his mouth in sharp relief. “What kinds of adventures?”
“I think she plans to explore all of the woods east of the house, take up residence in the attic to watch for ghosts, and become a world-class detective, all before Christmas.” At the last plan, Allie dropped her eyes to her plate, intently cutting her chicken into small pieces.
How many afternoons had they lay reading those terrible detective magazines in the grass? For a penny, you could read pages of gruesome murders and shocking thefts, solved by the brilliant men at Scotland Yard. A silly childhood hobby cemented their bond. As they grew, the magazin
es were less and less important, until most afternoons they sat under the tree, just talking. She confided all her hopes and dreams to him.
“There is nothing more beautiful than the innocence of childhood,” he said, his tone mild, the expression on his face was inscrutable.
Mr. Bascomb cleared his throat and said, “Well, at least Mrs. Gibson is here to give her proper direction. It is not good for a child to wander unattended in nature. Nothing good can come of that sort of liberal upbringing.”
Allie raised her head, shocked. Children should be given freedom, she wanted to protest. But a look at her mother’s face and she clenched her teeth. There was guilt and anger in every line. The best argument against that sort of childhood seemed to be Allie herself.
Chapter Seven
Thomas sipped the tepid water in the crystal cut glass and wished with all his heart that he was not at this table. How many minutes more? ?ow many hours in this stifling room? Bascomb was unbearable. For all his mother’s warnings he was sure he could not cultivate any kind of friendship with the man. He didn’t care how many city council meetings they would endure together. Bascomb was arrogant and ignorant, a lethal combination in his book.
He struggled to follow the conversation but his mind wandered. If he was truly honest, it wasn’t the stifling heat of the room that was so uncomfortable. It was Allie, in that dress. He knew what she was remembering. It was a terrible moment for them all and it had haunted his dreams for years. The utter desperation he had felt when she declared her plans to leave was more than he could bear to remember.
But there she was again, as if the years between had been erased. He hadn’t been able to hide the surge of joy he’d felt when he’d seen her there. She was so achingly beautiful. He had clamped down on the surge of feeling as quickly as possible but the joy still fizzed through his blood. He would do anything to turn this dinner party into a quiet meal under the oak tree, seated on the soft red wool blanket, with only the moon for company.
Thomas thought of the way Allie tenderly touched Janey’s hand, the way her face softened when she gazed upon the little girl. Allie was a mother, no matter what relation Janey was by blood. He felt a sudden yearning to be the father figure Janey didn’t have, to be the husband Allie needed. And in the next moment he hated himself for his foolish sentimentality. Sticking his hand back in the fire, as it were, wouldn’t help anybody. Especially not Allie. She would find her own way. She always did.
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