“Hey, everybody!”
The shout, emphasized by cupped hands, came from the center of the room. It was Buckley Marsden as host, calling for attention from his multitude of guests. A buzz of conversation here and there quieted down, until the spacious room had gone silent, other than a shuffle of hard-toed boots, and the swish of taffeta skirts.
“First, I wanna thank you all for comin’ here today, to rejoice with the Marsden clan upon the safe return of our youngest boy. My woman and me—” he extended a hand to his wife, who stood stonily against the wall, ignoring his gesture, not moving, “—why, we surely appreciate the welcome.”
He gave a brief speech about feelings and gratitude, probably none of which he actually meant.
“Got somethin’ else to tell everybody, and our whole family wants you to be as happy as we are. Hey, son! Sam, where are you? C’mon out here, willya?”
Amazing. Whatever pleasant expression the withdrawn man had worn before had been wiped away, disappearing behind a mask that held absolutely no expression at all. In fact, the son’s blank face looked very much like the mother’s.
“Sam. C’mon!”
A few amiable cheers set up across the room, encouraging his presence. Buckley Marsden wasn’t particularly well-liked in town, but his youngest son had always been greeted with approval wherever he went. Especially volunteering to go off to war, as he had.
Vickie could see Sam’s hands tightening into fists, and a muscle clenching and unclenching along the line of his jaw. With a sudden sense of forthcoming doom, she rose to her feet, belled skirt swaying. “Sam—”
He flung her an unreadable glance, one that seemed directed at a stranger. Then, dressed in the handsome black frock coat and trousers that hung somewhat baggily on his lessened frame, he responded to his father’s call.
With both men side by side, Buckley enticed the crowd into a few hoorays and Godblesshims. Then, grinning from ear to ear, he continued, “Well, now, this here is a great announcement. Gonna join a couple a houses together soon. Just wanna tell everybody that my son, Sam, is betrothed to be married to the beautiful Miss Jessica Clark!”
The room erupted. Men lifted their glasses or cups in a toast, women smiled and called out their congratulations.
Only Vickie stood silent, stunned, shocked to the core, white to the lips, with a buzzing in her head and a stabbing pain in her heart that nearly felled her, as the shot from a loaded gun would drop a doe flat.
Only Valentine was aware. Instantly he was beside her, forcing the girl back into her seat and then taking the chair beside her, as bulwark and barrier. Without a clue as to what was going on, he merely took hold of her ice-cold hand to sandwich between both of his and murmured little nonsensical words and phrases meant to comfort.
“Hey, Jessie!” shouted the elder Marsden now, searching around for his next intended target. “Hey, girl, where are you? C’mere, I wanna see you two together!”
As it happened, Jessie had been standing beside Mrs. Marsden before this whole thing had started. It was an accidental encounter, but a friendly one. Each had nodded to the other, and shared some desultory comments about the festivities and the food. Each had complimented the other upon her dress.
So Jessie was as taken aback as everyone else. Her startled gaze flew to meet the furious gaze of her companion, and she whispered, “What on earth?”
“Oh, that blundering old fool,” Mariah gritted out, critical but not explanatory. “He’d no business doing that. He’d no business doing any of that.”
“But I’m not—we’re not—”
The fire in Mariah’s eyes shifted sideways from her husband. “What are you trying to say, Miss Clark?”
“Obviously there’s been some huge mistake. You must see that, mustn’t you? Oh, and now all this is made public! The announcement must be retracted immediately, Mrs. Marsden.” Jessie was plucking anxiously at the woman’s sleeve. “There’s hardly anything—”
“Jessie, dear, we know your secret,” a sympathetic, understanding Mariah whispered. “We know about the letters, and your agreement to a secret betrothal before Sam left for battle. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, believe me.”
Color rushed into the girl’s face. “I’m not ashamed, truly. But, please, understand that—”
“It’s all right,” Came the warm reassurance. “Sam’s father and I have absolutely no objection. In fact, we feel it’s wonderful, and we hope your father and your aunt will feel the same way. We will be delighted to have you as part of our family.”
A mulish look mixed with the color, as if she wanted to do no more than stamp her foot with frustration. “Mrs. Marsden—”
“Hush, child. Everything will work out for the best. Now, they’re calling for you. I don’t approve of what my husband just did, but it’s too late now to make changes. Go on, Sam is waiting.”
All around them, the crowd was laughing and beckoning. Someone whistled. Aunt Sophie, who had just returned from a visit to the necessary, stood rooted to the ground just inside the door with shock as she overheard—and attempted to avoid, yet make sense of—the clamor.
“C’mon, boys, tune up them fiddles!” yelled a Buckley mightily pleased with himself and his determined disclosure to the room at large. “These young’uns oughta celebrate this day with a nice waltz to plight their troth. Folks, move back, give ’em space!”
Events were sweeping up the couple and carrying them along, much as if they had been standing in the path of a tornado, sucked up, and their very wills torn away.
Tall, sober Sam Marsden, looking so handsome in his more formal duds, courteously extended one thin hand as pretty Jessie approached. Blushing like a late summer rose, buoyed by giant hoops, she seemed to be floating toward him as a sweet lavender puffball.
He bent forward to place a kiss on the back of her gloved hand, then one, lightly and gently, upon her cheek.
The crowd went wild. Huzzahs and hoorahs abounded, until it seemed the many windows might implode. More whistles, and good-natured whoops and bellows, and knowing elbow jabs.
Over the noise came a countdown: “One! Two! Three!” And the music, led by the accomplished fiddler, began with a tune that some few aficionados would recognize as Mephisto Waltz No. 1, by Franz Liszt. Guests backed away, toward the wall, leaving a substantial space free in the center. Any dancing required room to move, and a waltz, with the lady’s probable giant hoop gown at its center, required even more.
At her table way in the far corner sat Vickie Clark, frozen in place like a marble statue taken straight from some cemetery. She had neither moved nor spoken since that initial announcement. Her pupils had dilated into so much blackness that only a bare rim of blue-gray showed, as would happen with some lamb led to slaughter, waiting for the axe to fall. Her face was as white as fresh-fallen snow—if anyone had ever seen such a phenomenon in these parts—but a spot of feverish red blazed out on each cheekbone, as brilliant as if someone had hand-painted the color there.
Worried, Valentine, who had not left her side since Sam had reluctantly joined his father, reached over to clasp her hands. Impossible. Both were curled together in her lap like lobster claws, tight and hard.
“Vickie, dear,” he said in a low voice.
Her gaze had not shifted from the dancers. Sam, her beloved Sam, who belonged to her and her alone, was playing his role, with a stiff little smile and rather stiff movements, as he swung his purported betrothed around the floor.
Evidently Jessie had decided to give in to the moment. Her expression was one of pure joy, rivaling the sunshine outside for brilliance. Clearly she was enjoying herself, the moment, and the attention of every pair of eyes in the room.
Had she so quickly forgotten the utterance Vickie had so shyly, so reluctantly, confessed? Had she decided to completely ignore Vickie’s feelings, pretend that the secret affiance had not taken place, and supplant her sister in Sam’s affections without a qualm?
“Yes, Val.”
“Honey child, you got me feelin’ a little bit spooked. You okay?”
He didn’t know. No one else knew, other than her traitorous sibling. Her pride would be spared that much, at least. A side door from the town hall beckoned, so she managed to rise from her chair with an eye on escape.
“I’m fine, Val. Dear, dear Val. Thank you. Now I must leave.”
“Wait a minute.” Miffed, he rose to follow her. “Not alone. I won’t letcha leave here alone.”
“Come, then. But come now. And speak to no one.”
Just that quickly, she was gone.
Chapter 5
Aunt Sophie made a deliberate effort to speak with her next morning, in a mixture of gentle chiding and real concern. “It wasn’t like you to dash away from the celebration, honey. Is anything wrong?”
Out of sorts and out of temperament, Vickie’s mood was ungracious. One might even say surly. “I’d had enough, that’s all. And I sent Valentine back to tell you he would be taking me home.”
“Yes, of course. And I appreciate your consideration as far as that goes. It’s just that—well, is there something you’d like to talk about?”
The girl’s smile was more a baring of teeth than any flexing of friendly muscles. “Not a thing, Auntie.”
At ten o’clock, Sophie was midway between her usual housekeeping chores, kept at a minimum since this was the Sabbath, after all, and planning a light, cool dinner. Although all four of the Clark family members had decided to stay home today, several of the cowboys had saddled ponies for a ride to town and church.
Not that they were so ultra-religious; attendance at Heavenly Light of God was not, for a large minority, so much a spiritual experience as one of community. What right-minded male could resist the chance to admire a phalanx of pretty ladies (and even those not so pretty) dressed in their Sunday best, like garden flowers? Then there was always the potluck dinner after services had concluded, and the chance to socialize with some of those pretty ladies and partake of a delicious free meal as well.
Tomorrow would be time enough for Sophie and Lydia, the foreman’s wife, to tackle accumulated laundry and delegate whatever possible. Blake Furman, a man born with one leg slightly shorter than the other and thus unable to ride on the fence line, handled his second-in-command of ranch-staff position with gratitude and capability. He had taken it upon himself to milk the cow and gather eggs every day, thus freeing others from these rather mundane but necessary chores. He also helped with the pruning of trees, cutting of brush, yard work, and so on.
Riley Clark had always treated his employees with respect and consideration—those who had earned it, anyway. Thus they returned the same to him, along with deference. Over the years, he had given jobs to men who, due to some sort of physical condition or frailty, would have had difficulty finding one elsewhere.
Certainly his character was above reproach, and his moral standards were of the highest caliber. But he was probably influenced most by his own limitations of movement, and the pain incurred on a regular basis. Living through some particular ordeal opens one’s sympathies to others in similar circumstances.
His kindness had been more than repaid. The men adored him.
Even if his daughters sometimes grew impatient with his understandable occasional testiness.
At any rate, with breakfast finished and cleared away, and that cold dinner eventually in the making, Sophie had decided it would be necessary to confront her niece about yesterday’s disappearance during the heat of festivities.
Riley had taken his meal on a tray in the parlor, where he could rest upon softer textures than a solid wooden upright chair. After that, aided by a tumbler full of good Irish whiskey, he had dozed off to sleep and would, hopefully, awaken feeling less discomfort.
As for Jessica, it was anyone’s guess where she might be. She had consumed bits of this and that from her plate, then dreamily drifted away under the canopy of trees, like thistledown floating in an errant breeze.
Jessica’s exploits did not interest her aunt right at this moment. She was more concerned with Vickie’s appearance.
“Are you sure?” she asked now.
They were at the edge of the flower garden, where Sophie had been cutting brilliant crimson roses and those with yellow petals to lay in her basket for arrangements. Once she caught a glimpse of Vickie feeding the thin black mother cat near the back door, however, she called out. A bench had been located nicely in the shade of a giant oak, and Sophie was basking there, as a lady of leisure might choose.
After taking care of all her animal chores, which usually took precedence to her own needs, Vickie had wandered behind the house in response to her aunt’s summons. She was sitting cross-legged now on the rich cool grass, defiant of propriety and heedless of stains. Hoops were for parties, and she had been relieved to discard both; simple skirts, like these, were for everyday wear.
“Aunt Sophie—”
The older woman leaned forward to lay a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I know something is bothering you, my dear. Can’t you tell me?”
Vickie wasn’t exactly ignoring the plea. She was petting the cat, Daisy, who had followed in hopes of just such attention. Finally, she said in a low voice, “I know you’re looking out for me. But whatever is—whatever is going on- I can handle myself.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
More silence, with a downcast face.
Sophie’s hand moved from shoulder to hair, smoothing the tumbled flyaway curls that refused any arrangement. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to stay for the rest of the party,” she said quietly. “Since your father was unable to attend, I would have appreciated having you beside me as support.”
Her murmur was noncommittal. And barely audible.
Rousing, with remembered indignation, Sophie went on, “Because the announcement of this secret betrothal shocked me to the core, I must admit. Who does that? Who is so ill-mannered as to make such presumptions?”
“Buckley Marsden, evidently,” muttered Vickie. “Along with his—son…”
Sophie swept her niece with a considering look. “Surely even Buckley Marsden ought to have had the consideration to speak with all of us here, privately, before blurting out this—this incredible— news.”
“Were you jolted, Auntie?” Vickie glanced up with narrowed eyes.
“By his action? Yes. By the fact that it was Jessica being caught up in this outlandish story? Absolutely. I can’t imagine her ever even considering such an idea. And yet—” A pause, to ponder.
“And yet she didn’t deny it.”
“No. And I find that most surprising of all. But she seemed very approving of the whole thing last night. She seemed to be enjoying everything about this—this fandango. But—Sam Marsden? With his family?” Straightening, Sophie bit her lip. “Were you aware she had been corresponding with him?”
“With Sam? No.”
“Nor was I.” Sophie sounded troubled. “It seems a very odd match, does it not? She’s been hiding out today, so I haven’t been able to talk with her to gain any details. Almost as if she’s avoiding me.”
The cat’s purring was about as loud as a cougar’s as she twined herself lovingly around and between Vickie’s bent knees. “Has Papa heard the news?”
“Oh, goodness no. I haven’t dared say anything to him until I have more facts of this encounter. Just because they claim a secret arrangement doesn’t mean any wedding will be taking place soon, you know,” said Sophie briskly and without a whole lot of sympathy. “After all, she still must ask for her father’s permission. And he might not be inclined to give it.”
“Why not?” asked Vickie with a shrug that showed she cared not a whit. “Jess can be very persuasive when she wants. And, for a long time, she’s been talking about marriage to nearly any suitable male. One with both eyes in place, all his limbs intact, and a sizable bank account, of course.”
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 7