They clopped along in silence for a few minutes. Much as she appreciated Val and his staunch loyalty in giving her support, she simply couldn’t confide the truth about her own clandestine betrothal. One hint, and his newspaperman’s nose would be sniffing out every detail.
“All right, all right,” she finally conceded. “I’m jealous. I admit it, I’m jealous of the whole affair. Happy? Now, how about if I buy your dinner as a peace offering?”
Valentine looked indignant. “What, I’m s’posed to let some girl pay my way? No, thanks, Miss Clark. Reckon I’ve got coins enough in my pocket for the Hotel Dupree Dinin’ Room.”
“Good heavens, the Dupree? Oh la la. I’m honored.”
Only a very few people were allowed past the barrier of Vickie’s timid, reticent self. With Valentine and with Aunt Sophie—and, once upon a time, with Sam Marsden, the man she would always adore—she could tease and chatter and confide innermost feelings without fear of reaping scorn or ridicule. From the rest, she sheltered her vulnerable insides as a hermit crab might employ its shell, as protective covering.
For the rest of their time together, through dinner and dessert and a lingering surrey ride through the soft light of a sweet September afternoon, Valentine regaled her with his latest collection of stories. At nearly any gathering he attended, he was greeted as a hail-fellow-well-met. His attitude was always so easy and friendly, his demeanor so comfortable, his wallet so open, that he found himself welcome in every group.
Until and unless he began asking questions that would require an uncomfortable answer, such as local politics, or the reason for some rancher’s favoritism when it came to bending rules, or even the careful interview of Beauregard Draper, returned soldier, who was not slow to express his bitterness over the waste of war. Then, on occasion, Val had been hustled back onto the street before fisticuffs could ensue.
His penchant to probe any current issue was a habit he couldn’t break.
Which made Vickie understandably cautious about revealing her current romantic distress.
Even determined to ferret out the truth of any story, though, Valentine was her best friend on earth. As if to prove it, he insisted upon coming inside once he had stopped the surrey outside the Yellowstar’s spacious front porch.
“That isn’t necessary,” Vickie protested.
“It is absolutely necessary. You have been in my company a good portion of this day—unchaperoned, I might remind you—and your father deserves an explanation. Were I he, I’d be tempted to have a horsewhip handy.”
“Val. I don’t want—”
“Doesn’t matter. In this case, it’s what I want. Come along, if you please.”
Vickie grimaced. How wonderful. Another obdurate male. And, no doubt, an angry one inside the house with whom to contend. Why couldn’t anybody ever listen to her!
She had guessed correctly.
By the tone of her father’s voice summoning her into the study, he might have been moved bodily to the frozen steppes of Siberia, where icicles could hang from his every word.
“Hello, Papa.” Hoping to forestall the anticipated scolding, she tossed her hat aside and swooshed in to kiss him on the cheek. “Where’s Aunt Sophie?”
“I believe she took herself and her headache straight to bed. Where have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve just—”
“Good evenin’, sir.” Unabashed, Valentine stepped boldly into the fray. “I apologize for the lateness of our return. I took Miss Clark to eat at the Dupree, and we sat talkin’ for a lot longer than we’d planned. Hope that didn’t cause you any distress.”
If he had thought that mention of their dining at the most expensive restaurant in town, and their appearance together under public scrutiny for such a lengthy meal, might mollify the outraged father, he was wrong.
Riley’s gaze, traveling up from Val’s well-shod feet over his Sunday best trousers and waistcoat to his honest, somewhat homely face, might have shriveled the young man where he stood as if by the burning brand of a poker. “Well, you hope wrong. Vickie knew she was s’posed to be attendin’ an important family dinner today, and she—”
“So important it sent poor Auntie to her room until she can recover? Huh.” Vickie all but sneered. “Some dinner.”
Muscles tensed as a thundercloud moved in from somewhere to light upon Riley’s countenance. “Young lady, I’ll have you know—”
“Oh, please don’t blame Vickie for our tardiness, sir.” Once again Val trod gallantly forward, and she flung him a grateful look. “It was my fault entirely, I assure you. We certainly hadn’t expected to be gone so long. Your daughter is a fascinatin’ conversationalist, and we just got lost in our discussion.”
Distraction, as intended. The man’s anger was being slowly replaced by astonishment. “Vickie? Conversationalist?”
“Oh, yeah. Current events, local politics…it does me a lotta good to bounce my ideas off her when it comes to writin’ my articles for the Clarion.”
Warranted or not, Vickie preened. Though she did suspect that Val was lying through his teeth.
“Well, then,” he continued, grinning, “I’ll just take my leave of you, sir. Thanks for lettin’ me borrow Miss Clark for a time. Ma’am, will you just walk me to the door?”
Withdrawing, that her father might let his fuming run down in the study, Vickie hurriedly complied. Out on the veranda, breathing in the fresh air with a great sigh of relief, she smiled at her rescuer. “Thank you, Val. You saved me from the worst of it.”
“Ahuh.” He cocked a skeptical eyebrow at her; then, for show, in case anyone was watching, he bent to graze a kiss across her gloved hand. “Figured. I have a way with irate parents.”
“You’ve had to deal with a number of those, over the years?” She wanted to giggle, but decided she didn’t dare. Best if she remained on his good side.
“Now and then. Gotta get this rented rig back to the livery, b’fore they charge me an extra day. I ain’t made of money, y’ know. And, young lady—” he paused, still with that dubious look, “I am well aware that you’ve been a mite less than candid with me. One of these days I’ll get the full story. See you around.”
Chapter 7
Last Sunday’s parlor meeting between the two families had broken up with no real decision being made, and the Marsdens had eventually departed en masse. Nor had Sam lingered, though pressed by his ostensible intended to do so. Little expression had crossed his face, whether of happiness or regret, discomfort or ease. He was simply present, in body if not in spirit, and ready to leave at the appointed time. Ready to be directed, ready to be ordered.
So, with the house emptied of guests and a new week started, the discussion was being continued in the study, where Riley was making his point and laying down parental law.
Over all of Jessie’s heated objections, her father—ably seconded and reinforced by Sophie herself—had decided that no wedding would take place for at least six months, preferably even a bit longer.
“Papa, this is insane,” railed Jessie. “Sam and I are ready to be married now. Deny me, and I shall convince him that we ought to elope.”
From his chair behind the big desk, mostly cleared for once of his paperwork, Riley had shot her a contentious look. “Just what are you sayin’, Jess?” he asked in a low, dangerous tone. “Some reason I dunno about that you need to be married as soon as possible?”
Her face had blazed with color, then gone white as the dining room tablecloth. “Of course not!” she gasped in shock. “Papa, you malign me! It’s just that—that I want this wedding to go forward right away. I’m anxious, that’s all.”
“Huh. Anxious. Well, if you want things done up right, without hearin’ no gossip roundabout, you’ll set a date no sooner’n March. And, let me tell you, young lady: any more talk of elopin’ and I’ll disinherit you from your share of this ranch faster’n you can say Jack Robinson!”
“May would be even nicer,” Sophie, who had been brought into this
consultation, attempted to pour oil upon troubled waters. “Think of the weather about then. Also, dear, you know that it will take some time to get your wedding dress designed and sewed. Why, Masie Enright, at the seamstress shop, might not even have the kind of fabric you want in stock.”
“All right. Though I’m not happy about putting off the date. Not at all happy, I can tell you. And I do believe Sam will feel the same way. Can we now write up an official announcement to have printed in that dreary little rag of Valentine DeMarco’s?”
“Certainly we can,” soothed Sophie.
Jessie, irritated, was swishing back and forth in a path which, were it to continue, would wear tracks into the thick carpet. “And you’ll make Vickie attend everything she’s supposed to, instead of skipping out as she did with my dinner?”
Silence. Brother and sister exchanged a glance. Vickie’s absence was still a sore subject, since it showed a remarkable lack of respect and lack of support for the whole affair. For what reason, no one knew. Although Sophie could guess.
“I’m sure Vickie was be happy to do whatever you need her to do for the ceremony,” said Sophie quietly. An outright lie. Sophie was sure of nothing of the kind, in the least. In fact, she expected there would be a knock-down drag-out fight over every detail. Given the situation, who could blame her?
“It was appalling, positively appalling,” said Jessie, with a swish forward, “that she wasn’t forced to share in my joyful news yesterday.” Another swish. “I wanted her there. I wanted her to see—”
“To see what?” Sophie frowned. It was painfully obvious what was to be seen: the older sister, smug and complacent, lording it over the younger sister after having somehow stolen away a bridegroom.
“Oh, never mind. She’d better plan on being my maid of honor, that’s all. Papa, you will make her do that, won’t you?”
The upshot of all this was the necessary all-important search for the wedding dress of Jessica’s dreams, which dictated a mid-week trip to town. Something that Vickie was unable to dodge, of which she was so informed by her sympathetic but forbearing aunt.
“No. I don’t want to go, and I shan’t. I know, you go in my place.” Cornered near the barn, where she was seeking to find just exactly where it was Daisy had moved her small family, Vickie was adamant. To no avail.
“Of course I’m going. I have to go. And so shall you. Stop behaving like a child, Victoria. There are some things in life we simply must do, and this is one of them.”
Snarling out a crude word any lady would blush to hear, she aimed a frustrated kick at the doorframe. “If this is Papa’s idea—”
“It isn’t. It’s called accepting the inevitable and carrying on in life as would a mature adult. Don’t worry; you may have the entire back seat of the surrey all to yourself, so that you two girls are separated. Now, come along. Wash up and brush the straw from your clothing. Lord only knows how long this will take.”
“She causes me the slightest problem, and I’ll go straight to the livery and rent a horse and come home, Auntie,” warned Vic. “Just see if I don’t.”
Turning, Sophie let out a heavy sigh. “Oh, I have no doubt. But you need not worry. Jessica wants no more to do with you than you do with her.”
“Huh. She just wants to rub my nose in it, that’s all.”
As expected, the half-hour journey into town was ruled by silence.
Oh, Sophie did her best to drop a few conversational tidbits into the pool. But her words fell like stones, without even a ripple spreading out. She commented on the weather (usually a safe subject).
No response. She commented on the possible variety of fabrics available at Maisie’s, and how much time would be needed to put everything together (ignored, due to the interest of one sister but not the other). She commented on the changes going on at home, where their father had finally decided to move from the second floor to the first (not even a speck of interest shown).
Finally, she gave up. Blast and drat all temperamental young women. These two were so much more easily dealt with as children, when fights that involved mainly name-calling and hair-pulling could be resolved by a day or two spent in solitary punishment.
Now there was the whole challenge of adulthood and supposed maturity. There was Jessica’s unspoken demand to be treated as first daughter, with the right to choose her own way of life and her own husband, even to the detriment of her sister.
Then there was Victoria, who rightfully felt deeply wronged and betrayed—not just by Jessie, but by the man she had claimed as her betrothed. So far, she had done nothing to straighten out the tangled matter with Sam Marsden. Shy and retiring as she was, would the girl eventually reach a point at which she would insist upon an explanation?
Currently the sky was a clear soft blue, but storm clouds seemed to be gathering on the horizon. Much like the Yellowstar’s situation, Sophie thought bleakly.
Maisie’s Modiste, as Whistle Creek’s dressmaking shop of choice, proclaimed its availability right squarely on Main Street, standing in bold, proud contrast to the Exchange National Bank on one side and the almost scenic environs of Precious Adornments on the other. A small bell above the door tinkled discreetly as Sophie, having tied her rig at a convenient hitching post, shepherded her two charges inside.
Every woman around seeking a gown and all its trimmings for a special occasion, or that was not homemade, came to Maisie’s. Not only was she the absolute best dressmaker in town, but she was the only dressmaker. Business was brisk and getting better: she’d had to hire an apprentice, Prudence, and a shop clerk to help out.
“Good mornin’, Miss Sophie,” Pru greeted her from a table in the corner, where she was setting lace onto fabric with intricate stitches. She rose, brushing loose threads off her skirt. “And both Misses Clark. Haven’t seen you here for a while.”
“No, you’ve taken care of our wardrobe needs for months to come. However, we are now in the market for—”
“A wedding gown!” Pleasure brightened the girl’s rather unfortunate complexion. “Yes, word spread everywhere after that party. Miss Jessica and Sam Marsden—y’all must be so happy. How can I help you?”
Jessie had wandered away to the north wall, where a whole section of colorful ribbons and pins were on display. Vickie had planted herself firmly at the south wall to inspect shelves holding bolts of taffeta, satin, silk, organza, muslin, and whatnot, all in ravishing shades to attract the feminine eye. Sophie sighed. And then realized she’d been doing a lot of that lately.
“Yes, that is, indeed, why we’re here. I wonder, Pru, if Mrs. Enright might be available. We’re looking for outfits for all three of us, and we should like to discuss designs, textures, colors, and so on. We shall have to call upon the expertise of both of you.”
“Oh, certainly. Please, do look around so you can see what’s available. Maisie is upstairs; I’ll just run up and fetch her.”
After a few minutes’ delay, the owner herself appeared and showed them into a large, sunny and comfortable back room, used for consultations. A long table and several chairs dominated the space, which were in turn dominated by swathes of fabric, trims and buttons, and several recent copies of Godey’s Ladies Books. It seemed a bright, happy place, home to maidens dreaming of their weddings and mamas counting the cost of the same.
Maisie, a slim woman of indeterminate age, invited everyone to take a seat. She was dressed neatly, rather primly, as befit her profession, wearing a pair of wireless spectacles upon her straight nose, a measuring tape draped around her collar, and a pincushion attached to her belt. All the tools of her trade.
With a glad cry, Jessie seized upon the books lying open and waiting.
“Prudence, would you be so kind as to fix us a tea tray?” directed her employer. “Thank you. I’m sure we’ll require some time for discussion.”
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 12