A Promise for Spring

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  FIVE

  THE SUN HOVERED, huge and radiant orange, above the horizon as Geoffrey brought the wagon to a stop in front of the Congregationalist Church of Stetler. Varying shades of blue, lavender, and pink decorated the sky. Kansas sunsets were worth taking the time to watch, but Geoffrey had more pressing business this evening. His thoughts turned to what would take place within the church walls in mere minutes, and his heart rolled over in his chest.

  Geoffrey set the brake, wrapped the reins around the handle, and turned to Emmaline, who sat still and silent on the seat. She leaned forward slightly with her hands clasped in her lap, the wilted cluster of rose verbena drooping over her fists. She must be anxious to see this finished so she can rest.

  “Emmaline, stay here for a moment.” He hopped down from the wagon seat, making the springs ting. The gentle sound must have brought her out of her stupor, because she sat upright and blinked rapidly. He pointed to a white clapboard house near the steepled church. “I’m going to alert Reverend Stanford and his wife that we are here. Then we will go into the church and proceed with the ceremony.”

  Emmaline’s face appeared pale in the dusky light. Was it fear or exhaustion that gave her the haunted look? He waited until she gave a quick nod of agreement and then hurried to the reverend’s house and knocked on the door. Only a few minutes later, Geoffrey and Emmaline stood side by side in front of the unpretentious wooden altar with the Reverend Stanford smiling down at them.

  The soft glow from lanterns located along each wall brought out the red highlights in Emmaline’s hair—the same highlights he had observed in her childish braids the day she had stood on the pier with her family and waved farewell to him five years ago. The remembrance brought a tightness to Geoffrey’s throat. His moment of claiming Emmaline as his wife had finally arrived. Even if they weren’t allowed the luxury of a church full of family and friends, God had answered his prayers.

  He repeated his vows with due solemnity as he gazed into her apprehensive, velvety brown eyes. “I, Geoffrey, take you, Emmaline Rose Bradford, to be my lawfully wedded wife . . .” Look at me fully, my Emmaline, and see that my heart is pure, and my love for you is real. Do not be afraid of me, for I have only your best interests at heart.

  The stutter that had lessened throughout the day reappeared as Emmaline uttered the words the minister instructed her to repeat. “I, E-Emmaline, t-take you, G-Geoffrey Dean Garrett, to be my . . . my . . .” She stopped, her wide-eyed gaze darting to Reverend Stanford.

  The minister tipped his head. “My lawfully wedded husband . . .”

  Emmaline opened and closed her mouth like a fish gulping air.

  “To be my lawfully wedded husband,” Reverend Stanford repeated a little louder, his thick brows low.

  Geoffrey held tight to Emmaline’s gloved hand. She trembled from head to toe.

  Concerned, he asked, “Emmaline?”

  She jerked her hand from his grasp and took a step backward. “Please, I . . . I cannot . . .” Tears flooded her eyes. One loud sob shattered the sacredness of the ceremony. Dropping the wilted bouquet of rose verbena, she lifted her skirt and raced out of the church.

  Geoffrey shot a startled look toward the reverend, who stared at Emmaline with a look of disbelief on his face. The reverend’s wife rose from the front pew and gestured toward the open doorway at the head of the aisle. “Shouldn’t someone . . . ?” She moved toward the door.

  Geoffrey stepped into her path. “I shall go.” He forced a confident smile he didn’t feel. “She is tired from the long journey, and grief at the loss of her great-uncle has overwhelmed her. I shall allow her a few minutes to collect herself. Please wait.” He strode out of the chapel, worry for Emmaline battling with embarrassment for himself. The moment he stepped out of the church, he spotted her leaning against the side of the wagon. She had buried her face in the bend of her elbow, and harsh sobs shook her frame. Worry overrode his embarrassment.

  He cleared his throat, warning her of his approach. Her shoulders stiffened, and the sobs abruptly ceased. Yet she didn’t turn from the wagon, and when he grazed her arm with his fingertips, she jerked away as if she found his touch painful.

  He licked his dry lips. “Emmaline?”

  “P-please. Go away.”

  Stung, he pressed his sweaty palms against his pant legs. His mind skipped backward in time, to when she was fourteen. Her favorite cat had run away, and he had held her in his arms and comforted her. Should he gather her in his arms and soothe away whatever fear held her captive? He frowned at the sky. The sun was disappearing fast. He didn’t have time to coddle her. They needed to complete the ceremony and return to the ranch before darkness fell.

  Squaring his shoulders, he decided on a no-nonsense approach.

  “Come now, Emmaline. Reverend Stanford is waiting. Let’s go inside and—”

  “No!” She spun around, her eyes wild. “I cannot go inside. I cannot do what you expect of me.”

  Confused, Geoffrey shook his head. “What are you saying?”

  She clasped her hands to her lace-covered throat. “I cannot marry you! Please do not force this marriage upon me.”

  Force? He took two stumbling steps backward. He had forced nothing! She had agreed to this union before he left England. She had come to him using the tickets he’d purchased with his hardearned money. Did she not stand before him in a dress obviously sewn for this very occasion?

  “Emmaline, you speak rubbish. I am not forcing you to do anything!”

  She shrank against the wooden slats of the wagon bed. Her reaction reminded him of a skittish lamb. She would bolt if he didn’t curb his temper. He drew a deep breath, blew it out with puffed cheeks, then spoke in a low, even tone. “No one is forcing marriage upon you. You agreed to marriage before I left England, remember? You came to me knowing we would be wed.”

  He glanced at the rapidly darkening sky. “The time has come for us to exchange our vows. So let us return to the ceremony.” He reached for her arm.

  She scuttled sideways. “I cannot!” She sounded nearly hysterical.

  Geoffrey glanced over his shoulder. The reverend and his wife stood in the chapel doorway, witnessing his humiliation. He turned back to Emmaline and spoke quietly but firmly. “Yes, you can. And you must.”

  Tears filled her red-rimmed eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Her chin quivered. Sympathy rose in Geoffrey’s chest. Gentling his voice, he said, “Emmaline, I realize things have moved rather quickly since your arrival, but you must see the necessity of exchanging vows without delay. Already the hour is late—traveling is treacherous in the dark. We must go back inside and complete the ceremony before we go to the ranch.”

  “B-but I do not wish to go to the ranch.”

  He stared at her in bewilderment. “Where else would you go?”

  “Back . . . home.” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “Can’t I please return to England?”

  Her petulant query stirred Geoffrey’s anger again. “Return to . . . ?” He clamped his jaw and turned his back so he wouldn’t see her beseeching gaze. His dreams crumbled before him. All the years of waiting—years of faithfulness and effort—now seemed wasted in light of her childish request.

  Spinning back around, he snapped, “And if I agree to this ludicrous appeal, how do you intend to pay for the return passage?”

  She blanched, her throat convulsing.

  “I haven’t the funds to return you to England, Emmaline.” He spoke honestly—his expendable funds had been used to bring her to him. But, he acknowledged to himself, even if he did have the money, he wouldn’t spend it so recklessly.

  “I have the . . . dowry Father sent,” she whispered.

  A wave of agony surged through him. The dowry was to be his wedding gift. He opened his mouth to remind her of the purpose of the dowry, but a hand closed around his elbow. Shifting his gaze, he found Reverend Stanford at his side.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “No.” Geoffrey pu
shed the word past clenched teeth and chose not to elaborate. How could he explain the problem when he didn’t understand it himself?

  Reverend Stanford held out one hand toward Emmaline. “Miss Bradford, are you ready to recite your vows?”

  Emmaline shrank back. “No, sir, I am not.”

  The reverend’s eyebrows shot high. For a moment he pulled in his lips and looked back and forth from Geoffrey to Emmaline. Then, with a tug on Geoffrey’s arm, he drew him aside. “Geoff, it seems your bride is all atwitter.”

  “Atwitter?” It was a humorous word, but Geoffrey didn’t feel like chuckling.

  “Yes. It isn’t uncommon for someone to suffer an attack of nerves before a wedding. Considering the length of time that has passed since you last saw her, she probably needs a day or two to adjust to the idea.”

  Geoffrey wanted to shout that she’d had five years to adjust to the idea. Instead, he said, “But I cannot wait. I need to return to the ranch. It’s nearly dark already.”

  Reverend Stanford tapped his lips with one broad finger. “I have a suggestion. Let Emmaline spend the night here with us. A good night’s sleep, a chance to look around town tomorrow and see what a nice place it is, and she should be able to set her fears aside.”

  “Do you believe so?” Geoffrey hoped he didn’t sound as unsure as he felt.

  “Nervousness passes,” the reverend replied with a smile. “If we push her now, she might resent you. Would you not rather start your new life as man and wife on a happier chord?”

  Geoffrey considered the minister’s words. The disappointment of Emmaline’s reaction pressed on his heart like a heavy stone. Yes, he wished for a more joyful start to their married life. He gave the reverend a slow nod.

  “Good.” Reverend Stanford clapped Geoffrey’s back, then strode to Emmaline. “Miss Bradford, come with me. My wife will show you to our guest room. You will stay with us.”

  Emmaline’s gaze skittered to Geoffrey and then back to the minister. “With y-you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And . . . and then . . . ?”

  At her hopeful tone, Geoffrey clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth hurt.

  “We’ll talk more in the morning,” Reverend Stanford told her. Looking toward the chapel, he called, “Lorna? Come show Miss Bradford to our guest room, please.”

  Like a docile lamb, Emmaline followed the reverend’s wife into her house. She didn’t even look back when Geoffrey swung into the wagon seat, snatched up the reins, and set the horses to trotting.

  SIX

  SUNLIGHT SPILLED ACROSS Emmaline’s face, teasing her from a restless, dreamless sleep. She scrunched her eyes tight, unwilling to emerge from the cocoon of the musty featherbed. But the bright sun could not be ignored. With a small grunt of displeasure, she tossed aside the light cover and sat on the edge of the bed. After her weeks of travel, of gliding across the open sea or rolling over the landscape, the solid, unmoving floor beneath her feet seemed foreign.

  She blinked, clearing the sleep from her eyes, and focused on her surroundings. Immediately, her heart lifted. Last night, with only lantern glow lighting the tiny room tucked beneath the eaves of the attic, she hadn’t realized the walls and ceiling were papered in a cheery floral pattern of lavender and green. She let her gaze rove slowly, the previous day’s melancholy easing with the sight of delicate morning glories climbing the walls and coiling across the steeply pitched ceiling.

  But then, without warning, memories of sweet purple pansies and bright pink heliotrope from the garden in her backyard at home crowded in. Sadness smacked her so hard her shoulders sagged. Oh, she wanted to go home!

  A light tap on the door gave her a start. Clasping her cotton nightgown at her throat, she called, “Yes? Who is there?”

  The door cracked open, and the minister’s wife peeked in, a smile creasing her round, gently lined face. “Good! You’re awake. I have breakfast waiting—biscuits, bacon, and coffee. Come downstairs, wash your face, and eat.”

  “Oh, thank you very much, ma’am, but I am not at all hungry.”

  “Now, don’t be silly,” the woman scolded, her smile never wavering. “Put on a dress and come down. The house is small— you will have no trouble at all finding the kitchen. The reverend is waiting to speak with you before he leaves for the church.” She closed the door, leaving Emmaline alone.

  Emmaline clenched her fists and glared at the door. Must everyone tell her what to do? Father said, “Go to Geoffrey in America.” Geoffrey said, “Marry me.” Mrs. Stanford said, “Get dressed and come down.” The reverend would no doubt also give commands. When might Emmaline be allowed to decide what she wanted to do?

  Pushing off from the bed, she crossed to the square window that looked out over the town. Geoffrey had said she would feel at home in Stetler, but little about the town resembled an English village. No close-set stone cottages or tall Tudor houses with overflowing window boxes; no narrow cobbled streets. Instead, a wide dirt road separated evenly spaced wood-sided buildings, many of which lacked even a coat of paint.

  Yet the morning sunlight bathed the scene in gold, making it appear a cheery place where horses nodded lazily at hitching rails and people moved up and down the wooden boardwalks. The peaceful bustle of the town reminded her that the Stanfords were downstairs waiting.

  With a sigh, she turned from the window and looked into her trunk. The only dresses she could don without the assistance of a maid were the identical traveling dresses of black muslin. She lifted the one she’d worn the day before. Her nose wrinkled at the dust coating the frock, but all three traveling dresses were equally filthy.

  Her fingers trembled as they fastened the buttons up the front of the dress. The room had no mirror she could use to do her hair properly, so she combed the long locks straight back into a simple tail at the nape of her neck. Then, drawing in a strengthening breath, she made her way down the narrow, enclosed stairway.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she entered a small foyer. A glance to the right showed a meagerly furnished parlor. The doorway on her left revealed the kitchen. Strong scents of fresh coffee, biscuits, and bacon grease made her stomach churn. She pressed her hand to her middle, and her palm brushed the sharp edge of the folded letter still tucked in her dress pocket. Anger swelled, and she spun to race back up the stairs.

  “Miss Bradford?” The reverend’s voice brought her to a halt. “Please come in and sit down.”

  For a moment Emmaline considered ignoring him, but she had been taught to respect her elders, and especially members of the clergy. Lifting her chin, she turned a slow circle and entered the kitchen.

  Mrs. Stanford rose from the table, gesturing toward an open chair. “Sit here, Miss Bradford, and I’ll get you a plate.”

  “Oh no, please, I—”

  “It’s no trouble.” The woman smiled and moved toward the stove. “Just sit.”

  Emmaline slid into the chair opposite the minister, who beamed at her over the rim of his tin coffee cup.

  “Did you rest well?” The man took a deep draw of the coffee.

  “Um, yes. Thank you.” Emmaline chose not to tell the minister how she had lain awake far into the night, worrying about what today might hold.

  “Here you are, dear.” Mrs. Stanford set a plate heaping with fluffy biscuits and thick slices of bacon on the table in front of Emmaline.

  Emmaline swallowed a wave of nausea at the sight of the food. When the woman handed her a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee, Emmaline feared she would be sick. Yet looking into the friendly faces of her benefactors, she knew she must at least make an attempt to eat.

  The biscuits seemed the most innocuous of the offerings, so she broke off a small piece, dabbed it with butter from a misshapen pat in the middle of the table, and carried it to her mouth. Too late she realized she hadn’t blessed her food. And right under the watchful eyes of a man of God! Shame struck hard, and the bit of bread turned to sawdust in her mouth. She yanked up th
e cup of coffee to chase the offending bite down her throat. The hot liquid scorched her tongue.

  Gasping, she smacked the cup onto the table. Coffee sloshed from the cup and spattered the tabletop. Embarrassed beyond endurance, Emmaline shot out of the chair and ran upstairs. She slammed the door and threw herself facedown onto the unmade bed. The springs hadn’t even stopped twanging before a firm knock sounded on the door.

  She raised her face a few inches and called, “I prefer to be alone.” Holding her breath, she waited for a reply. Footsteps retreated down the stairs. With a sigh of relief, she allowed her head to collapse onto the bed. For several minutes she lay with her face pressed to the rumpled sheets. Finally she rolled over and sat up. As she did, the letter in her pocket crinkled.

  Frowning, she yanked it out and held it at arm’s length, as if it were a snake that might strike. Words from the page flitted through her memory, each phrase as piercing as fangs. Dear Mr. Bradford . . . Couldn’t Geoffrey have written to her? Enclosed are tickets for Emmaline’s transport to America. He had promised to come for her himself! Be certain she brings her wedding dress, as we will have our ceremony at the Stetler Congregationalist Church immediately upon her arrival. And what of the promised wedding in England? She will want for nothing here.

  Emmaline snorted aloud. Rising, she dropped the letter, crossed to the window, and looked out on the dusty street, blinking rapidly to hold back tears of despair. Want for nothing? Why, he and his land called Kansas could provide nothing that compared with England!

  Stomping back to the bed, she snatched up the letter, tore it into bits, and scattered the pieces across the floor. Then she planted the toe of her shoe against the largest piece and ground it into the unfinished wooden floor. Although she knew it was a childish action, she couldn’t deny the rush of satisfaction it brought. But when Emmaline shifted her foot aside to reveal the shredded scrap, she realized the tantrum had done nothing to ease her loneliness. Sinking back onto the bed, she stared at the remains of the letter. The scattered pieces painted a picture of her shattered dreams.