Forgetting Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  Or so she would have thought, until suddenly he had her arms in his grip, instead of her waist, and was stepping determinedly back from her.

  Trust Stuart to act in her best interests, even now.

  Relief warred with a real ache of disappointment that he would not forget himself, even with her.

  Mariah turned to face him, the man she would marry, to memorize him again. How solid he was, strong and proud. She did love him, even the sense of propriety that left her cold and somehow unfulfilled. Al they need do was show her father Stuart's finer points, persuade him to accept their engagement, and in less than a year she could kiss this man, hold him, know him in mysterious, connubial ways without any sin at all .

  “I'll ease Papa into the idea,” she promised breathlessly while Stuart backed away from her, seemingly unable to trust himself to get near again. “I'll find a way to make him see. I will .”

  He nodded curtly, then retrieved his hat from the ground, where it had somehow fallen from his fingers. He hesitated, looked down, then met her with that steady, solemn gaze of his. "Who was that man, Mariah? At the depot?"

  A lock of wheat-brown hair had fallen over his face and oh, but he was handsome. “Alden Wright?”

  she countered, staring especial y at Stuart's small , firm mouth. "Alice's brother, back from college.

  He escorted us from St. Louis."

  Who would think that imagining someone's mouth on her skin could make her feel so warm and wicked, so ...

  She blushed again.

  Stuart raised his chin. “You will marry me, then?”

  “I said I would,” she reminded him, secretly glad it mattered that much to him.

  He nodded. “Aye. That you did.” And, even as a quiet smile crinkled his heavy-lidded eyes, brightened his intent gaze, he backed another step away from her for safety's sake.

  Then she remembered. “Stuart!”

  His eyes flared, as if she presented a danger by stepping closer to him, drawing her treasure from her cloak pocket.

  “This is for you! I brought it all the way from Scotland. ...” And she handed him the woolen muffler.

  He looked down at it, drew his hand across the dark blue and gray plaid.

  “It's the MacCallum tartan,” Mariah admitted, suddenly shy. “I asked ...”

  Stuart continued to stare at the muffler in his hands, then raised his gaze to hers. The admiration that heated his brown eyes thrilled her as surely as any of his kisses ever had.

  “Thank you, Mariah,” he said, his words thick with emotion.

  “You are welcome, Stuart.” The automatic answer felt strange in her own mouth, as well , especial y when she longed to say so much more. She wanted to tel him about Scotland and Europe, about how seriously the Wrights took their social standing, about how glad she was to be home ... to him. She felt cold, standing separate from him.

  He was right. They had to admit their interest—their engagement—soon, or they would explode from their need of each other. If he felt anything close to what she did when near him ...

  She wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to lean into his strength, drink in his love for her. He was correct; they had no right to any of that until they fol owed the proper steps. They needed the chaperones that a proper engagement would provide. But she did want it.

  With one last, longing glance in Stuart's direction, Mariah spun and scrambled up the bank of the creek to level ground, before he could even assist her.

  After all , they meant to do this properly!

  Chapter Three

  Evangeline Taylor's feet were cold. That alone would not concern her so much—fourteen-year-old Evangeline's life held worse hardships than going without shoes. But as she trailed the Garrison sisters home from school, she feared her bare feet would embarrass them. Victoria, Audra, and Kitty wore fine leather shoes with gleaming buttons up the side, and clean cotton stockings. Laurel, at sixteen, had taken advantage of her mature, longer skirts to wear cowboy boots again. But that was Laurel.

  Evangeline tried to hang back, so that the others could pretend she was not with them. But Victoria, ever observant, turned and extended a welcoming hand. "Hurry! Mariah said we could help her unpack!"

  So Evangeline ran to catch up, cold feet forgotten. Victoria squeezed her hand and smiled at her.

  Evangeline would have smiled back, except that she was afraid of breaking the spell . And it did, indeed, feel like magic.

  Her life transformed every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.

  A month ago, Mrs. Garrison of the Circle-T Ranch had asked Evangeline—as the best speller in Victoria's level—to tutor her daughter; in her joy at writing wonderful, exciting essays, Victoria rarely considered details like spelling. When Evangeline protested actual cash wages, Mrs. Garrison offered payment in piano lessons. Evangeline had never imagined herself doing anything so cultured as playing a piano! But the chance to visit the mansion on Elizabeth Street twice a week—on Tuesdays to help Victoria, and on Thursdays for music lessons like real ladies took—proved too tempting. Until now, she had only seen the mansion once a year for Victoria's birthday parties, and felt grateful for even that peek into another world. Most of her classmates did not extend even annual invitations. But now Evangeline fol owed the Misses Garrison home not once but twice a week!

  She had offered to skip today. After all , Victoria's oldest sister had returned from Europe! But Victoria would not hear of it. Even Audra, who normal y shied away from the slightest of misdoing, agreed. “Mama told us to remember you,” she said.

  So here Evangeline was, walking up the brick walk to the wide verandah, as far from her mother's little house in the unseemly section of town as she could get. Heaven.

  She wiped her bare feet very carefully before crossing the threshold, uncomfortable even after three and a half weeks to be using the gleaming, glass-paned front door. But she was fol owing the others, and they used the front door. Once inside, she gave herself up to the sense of magic that overcame her every time she visited. The floors were never dirty here. It always smelled good—today, like cookies. They had gas power, and never hesitated to light lamps if the afternoon was gloomy or heat their home against the cold, so it was always bright and comfortable here. Family cal ed to one another from room to room—like Mrs. Garrison even now: "Come back here for some buttermilk, girls!"—and today Evangeline heard faint hammering from behind the house, likely a workman making sure nothing fell out of repair. The house was very modern; along with the lighting, they had a kitchen pump, an icebox, even an indoor privy! Evangeline had never dared venture into that—she was always careful not to drink much, on days she would be visiting the mansion—but she marveled at the very idea.

  Here was a world where everyone loved each other, where nobody screamed or hit, where girls who got good lunches still had cookies and milk upon arriving home instead of going all day with their stomachs pinched— and where, incredibly, nobody seemed to recognize just how far beneath them Evangeline Taylor really was.

  She sat careful y at the kitchen table with the other girls, including little Elise, not because she assumed any right to their afternoon treat but because she had already learned the futility of protest. Though a small woman, Mrs. Garrison was determined. And to please her, Evangeline would willingly swallow bugs, much less milk— buttermilk!—and cookies.

  She noticed that she was given one more cookie than the other girls took on her pretty china plate

  —Mrs. Garrison always deliberately served her, or Evangeline would not have eaten—and she hesitated. She hated to interrupt the others' conversation, much less to accuse anyone of a mistake, but it wasn't fair for her to get more. When she ventured to look toward where the girls' mother was wiping dishes and humming, hoping Mrs. Garrison might recognize her mistake without Evangeline having to say anything, Mrs. Garrison simply winked at her.

  Winked! As if they had a secret between them! Evangeline took an obedient bite of the best cookie she had ever tasted and
thought maybe Mrs. Garrison did not realize what her own mother did for a living. Maybe she had not yet heard that Evangeline had never had a father of her own, to build a house or buy proper clothes—to keep her respectable. Maybe Mrs. Garrison did not understand the social risk of welcoming someone like Evangeline Taylor into her home.

  But no, that would mean questioning Mrs. Garrison's intelligence. Mrs. Garrison was surely the prettiest, smartest, kindest, bravest, best-smelling woman in town.

  Then Evangeline heard light footsteps on the back stairs, the ones that opened directly into the kitchen, and looked up to see a challenger for mat position—-at least, in the “prettiest” category.

  She recognized Miss Mariah from the days when the oldest Garrison daughter still attended school, before she had grown up. But the grownup Mariah was twice as lovely as anything she remembered. She wore a work dress of blue calico, nicer than anything Evangeline owned, even from out of the charity barrel. Over that Mariah wore a starched apron. Her golden hair, pulled back from her face, glowed. Her posture was perfect, her movements graceful. And when her large, gray eyes fell on Evangeline, she only blinked once before smiling polite welcome and even remembering her name, as if they could ever have been friends.

  “Evangeline Taylor! How pleasant to see you again. Have you been well ?”

  Evangeline swallowed, hard, and managed the word “Yes.” Not that she had done so well in the last year, but she would not repay this family's kindness by mentioning her own or her mother's troubles. Nobody in this household would ever behave so badly as Evangeline's mother did. That, she felt sure, was why their home life was so perfect and hers ... not.

  That, and their respectable father.

  As usual, all the girls except Kitty talked at once. Victoria explained her mother's tutoring arrangement. Audra announced her examination grades. Elise decided that her paper doll s needed winter clothes from Paris. And Laurel, gulping her milk too quickly, asked to go to the stables before doing her schoolwork. Miss Mariah sat down beside Evangeline, with one cookie and a tumbler of buttermilk. She even smelled beautiful, like flowers. Like a princess.

  Not for the first time, Evangeline wondered why Mariah Garrison had no beaus. There was a time, several years ago, when she suspected feelings between the oldest Garrison girl and Stuart MacCallum—but of course Evangeline had been mistaken. The MacCallums were a good family, their name in many ways as respectable as hers was not, but they raised sheep. A MacCallum had as little chance of being welcomed into this family as ... as a Taylor!

  Her feet tingled as they warmed up, and the rich buttermilk filled the hollow hunger she had felt since midday. The otherworldliness of this place made Evangeline sleepy and content, fascinated by everything about these people.

  Even now, conversation had turned to Miss Mariah's friends from her European tour, the Wrights, who were staying at the Sheridan Inn. Perhaps, thought Evangeline, Mr. Alden Wright was now Mariah's beau. That would make sense. Mrs. Garrison suggested telephoning them about

  Saturday's party, which led to showing Mariah their newest gadget—she had been gone for the arrival of Sheridan's independent telephone company. Few people used it yet—the Inn and a few of the Main Street businesses, a handful of the better homes. But to even have telephones spoke well of their town.

  Then Mrs. Garrison added, “You'll be at the party on Saturday, won't you Evangeline?” And Evangeline nearly choked on her cookie.

  Miss Mariah patted her gently on the back.

  “Of course she'll come,” said Victoria, as if she could not imagine why the Taylor girl would not be welcome amidst the cream of Sheridan society. "It's for my birthday as much as Mariah's homecoming. Evangeline always comes to my birthdays."

  Miss Mariah said, “In fact, the whole town is invited— isn't that right, Mother?” But she said it in an odd way, slowly, as if tasting more undercurrents to the words than others knew of.

  'The whole town," agreed Mrs. Garrison firmly.

  When Evangeline dared peek at the young woman beside her, Miss Mariah was biting her lower lip, her eyes bright as she nodded. Years of being on the edge of conversations, al but invisible, had developed in Evangeline an instinct for noticing things other people might not. She had no idea what Miss Mariah meant when she agreed with her mother, but felt sure it meant something weightier than anyone else realized.

  But why? The Wrights were already invited!

  Before she could puzzle the subject out further, the back door opened; the outside hammering had stopped. But when she looked up expecting a workman, Evangeline froze.

  It was Mr. Jacob Garrison. The girls' father.

  She wanted to sink into her chair, perhaps as far as under the table, so that the old-time cattle baron would not see her. But it was too late; even if she could have commanded her frozen body to move, Evangeline had waited too long. In glancing approvingly across his daughters, Mr.

  Garrison's gaze fell upon her—and stayed there.

  For a moment he seemed confused, as if trying to place her from amidst the other girls he had seen in town. Then his steely eyes narrowed.

  He, she felt certain, knew exactly what her mother did for a living

  Mariah clearly saw that Papa had not known about Evangeline Taylor's lessons. Her delicious, newly formed daydream of dancing in Stuart's arms faltered.

  “Have some buttermilk, Jacob,” invited Mother, purposeful y ignoring how stiffly Papa stood. “You know Evangeline Taylor, don't you? She's the tutor I told you about.”

  Papa turned his stern gaze from poor Evangeline, who had gone white at his appearance, to Mother. “A minute of your time,” he drawled, iron command beneath the invitation.

  “I always have time for you, dear,” assured Mother, just as much grit beneath her loving reply, and took the forgotten hammer out of his dusty hand to put on the counter. "As soon as you finish your cookies, girls, start on your homework,“ she instructed. ”And Evangeline, I expect to hear you playing your scales before I return."

  Poor Evangeline said nothing at al as Papa led Mother upstairs toward the privacy of their own room.

  Mariah stood to assume her mother's duties. Her sisters, falling back into innocent conversation, finished their snack, but Evangeline simply sat there, shoulders hunched and head down, until the others had moved to the dining room to start on their schoolwork. Then, alone with Mariah, Evangeline whispered, “I should go.”

  Mariah looked more closely at the town outcast. Evangeline had grown almost a foot taller since Mariah had last seen her, revealing too much bare leg under her old dress to be at all proper.

  Although she seemed clean enough, the girl's thin, pale hair would not stay in its single braid, giving her a messy look. And her posture! It all but invited people to abuse her.

  Not only that but Evangeline Taylor was a bastard. And her mother—well , her mother did unspeakable things that Mariah was not supposed to have heard about, on the upper floors of Sheridan's less reputable saloons.

  Of course Mother would defy social censure to welcome such a child into their home, as easily as Mariah would to fall in love with Stuart MacCallum. But Papa...

  Would Papa have taken equal affront at finding one of Stuart's sisters sitting here?

  Despite her sudden disappointment, Marian said, "You will do no such thing. My mother owes you a piano lesson; you don't want to insult her by not accepting it, do you?"

  Evangeline raised wide eyes and shook her head, face pinched. Mother could have resisted her no more than Mariah and her sisters had resisted that lost lamb, years ago.

  “Why don't you start practicing,” she suggested, putting a reassuring hand on the girl's bony shoulder. “I'll clean up in here.”

  Evangeline nodded, but hesitated. When Mariah waited long enough, the girl dared a horrified whisper. “He won't beat her, will he?”

  It took a long moment for Mariah to even realize what she meant. Papa? Hit any woman, much less Mother? The idea was ridiculous
.... So why had Evangeline thought to ask it?

  “No,” Mariah answered simply, watching relief ease some of the tension from the girl's face. When Evangeline slipped noiselessly out toward the parlor, the first thing Mariah did was wrap her remaining cookies—plus several more for good measure—in an old napkin for the girl to take home. As she poured hot water from the stove's reservoir into the sink, cleaning plates and tumblers, scales began to sound through the house with the precision of someone who took her practice seriously. But neither Papa nor Mother reappeared.

  By the time Mariah put the dishes away, she'd begun to daydream about dancing with Stuart again. She had to hope.... If only she knew what was being said upstairs!

  She went to the parlor, set Evangeline's cookies beside the girl, then paced restlessly back through the dining room where Audra and Kitty bent over their own books. Elise played happily with her paper dolls beside them. Laurel would be in the stable....

  And Victoria was nowhere to be seen.

  Oh!

  Mariah climbed the stairs quietly enough that Victoria, crouched beside their parents' closed door, did not even hear her until discovery. When the younger girl looked up, face flushed at being caught, Mariah simply leaned closer.

  “Who's winning?” If anyone would know, it would be the nose of the family.

  Victoria blinked surprise at Mariah's acceptance, but did not question it. “I'm not sure,” she whispered back. "It all depends on whether Evangeline's visits are part of our social lives or our moral upbringing."

  Their social lives were Mother's responsibility, along with clothing and education. But Papa took his own duties—their safety and moral raising—very seriously. Mariah wondered which category Stuart fell under. Mother would accept him far more easily than her father would.

  Victoria, with a confused shrug, went back to listening at the door for her friend's fate. Mariah stood near her— though closer to the safety of the back stairwell —and held her stomach, only in part to keep her hands from shaking. Behind the door, she could hear their mother's voice. Her father's only sounded once or twice, but that was normal. What were they saying?!