George lifted me to the seat and then handed me the ropes. He stared at me in a curious way. Just as with the axe and wood episode, he watched and waited. I tried to ignore him, clicking my tongue and pulling on the ropes.
But Hester did not budge. I tried again and again without success.
“Seems you are a bit rusty,” George said, climbing up beside me. “How long has it been since you drove a wagon?”
“Three years.”
He took the reins, chuckling. “You best not wear lace gloves when you drive. The ropes will tear them up something ugly.” He scooted closer, and the wind carried the scent of hay and chicken feed from him to me. “I’ll take you, just until it comes back to you.”
I worried George would hear my heart beating. It was cataclysmically loud and threatened to exhaust itself. Nervousness and excited terror sunk to my chest and beside my racing heart. All this from him beside me?
George flicked the ropes. The horse responded in an instant.
I flew backward, saved only by George’s arm at my waist.
He laughed. “You really have forgotten. That or you’re just wanting me to hold you.”
I slapped his hand away. “How can you talk that way?”
He shrugged, but the corner of his lips rose. A line near his lips deepened, a line I had forgotten about. I traced it with my eyes.
We were on the dirt road now, and I turned to the oak trees lining our house. The trees were the only things that appeared untouched since my departure. The house was more run-down, Daddy helpless, Mama debilitated, and George—he had certainly changed too.
“So, Elizabeth,” George said, his eyes on the road ahead of him. “You haven’t driven a wagon or thrown an axe since you left. What have you been up to these last three years?”
I adjusted my gloves, pulling out a sliver of twine. “Nothing that you would find exciting. My uncle and aunt were good to me, but it was always school and lessons. Despite what you may think, I had a large workload.”
He glanced at my lace gloves. “Quite. And Mr. Caldwell?”
My gaze darted to his. It was the second time that morning he had brought up William. “His father is involved with investments, and William will take his place after his father retires.”
“You mean he is rich then?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling strangely self-conscious. I did not wish George to think I was pursuing William or his money. “His father is on the board with my uncle. When my uncle could not accompany me home, he begged William to assist me.”
“Assist you? Across the country? Mr. Caldwell must be a good friend indeed.”
I laughed. “Yes—a good friend.”
George’s gaze returned to the road, and I saw the hint of a frown stretch across his lips. “I thought as much.” He shifted his weight.
We pulled to a stop at the mercantile, and I gathered the edges of my skirt.
“Hold still,” George said, hovering above me. “You have an unruly hair.” He tucked the stubborn strand behind my ear, sending a wave of heat to my cheeks. “There.”
I turned from him and hopped down the side of the wagon before he could assist me. I did not want any more unladylike thoughts clouding my judgment.
“Would you like me to come with you?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He leaned forward and waved an arm in the air. He mimicked William’s exaggerated manners. “I’ll await your return, milady.”
I rolled my eyes and searched my skirt pocket for Mama’s list.
Mr. Kearns stood at the door to welcome me. He wore the familiar white apron, his hair fashioned in the same deep part. “Elizabeth Pratt—why, I’ll be darned. My eyes seem to be playing tricks on me,” he said.
I smiled and took his outstretched hand. He still smelled of lye and paper. “Mr. Kearns, how do you do?”
He scratched his chin, his brows coming together in concentration. “Has it been three years? Yes, I suppose it has. Oh, I get along, but you, Elizabeth … How is your father?”
I swallowed. “I hardly know. I only got back two days ago. Mama promises he has made improvement.”
Mr. Kearns touched my shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it.” He paused, and his eyes fell to the list in my hand. “What can I help you with today?”
I handed him the paper. “Just a few odds and ends for Mama.”
I welcomed his absence as he hurried behind the counter. I meandered about the small store, looking at the newest perfumes and hair combs. Clara’s signature scent was there, though it was marked up considerably due to freight expense. I took a whiff of it, reminded even more of Clara. It smelled sweet, so incredibly lovely, like Clara.
“A perfect choice for a genteel lady,” came a low voice from behind me.
I almost jumped, turning to face my new conversant—Toby Lowry.
Three years can do a lot to a person, especially in the years of physical maturation. This fact was evident in the reactions of Mama and George upon my return and by the look in Mr. Kearns’s eye just now, and it was only reaffirmed at the sight of Toby Lowry.
His cheeks were full and red, just as before. His eyes were still piercing blue, but his shoulders and girth had thickened, and his nose had grown more pointed. What once I swooned over had become a classic case of baby face.
Toby’s eyes widened, and his cheeks darkened to a crimson. “Elizabeth?” He struggled to maintain his composure. “Y-y—you’re home.” And then, in true Toby Lowry fashion, he swept one hand through his hair and flashed me a smile. “I hope you’ve come home to stay.”
My lips parted, and a small gasp escaped. He was flirting with me. Toby Lowry. And yet, I felt nothing—not a spark, not a single shiver or quickening of the pulse. Of course he was interested now, when I had outgrown my childish infatuation and he had grown into his newfound nose. The humor of it struck me. I pursed my lips to keep from giggling and nodded. “It is nice to see you too, Toby.”
A sack of flour thudded against the counter. Mr. Kearns waved my list in the air, sweat glistening along his upper lip. “That’s everything, Elizabeth. Shall I put it on your account?”
“Yes, on the account, Mr. Kearns,” I said, glancing one last time at Toby.
Toby froze in place, and I recognized the familiar guise of helplessness. I inwardly cringed. It was how I had looked at him years before. It was the expression plastered upon almost every boy who had glanced upon Clara.
“Send my regards to your parents,” Mr. Kearns said as I filled my basket and lifted the bag of flour. He opened the door for me, the bell chiming once more in farewell.
I smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Kearns,” I said. “Good day.”
I reached the wagon, but my arms threatened to give out. A sack of flour was all it took. I cringed again, this time outwardly.
George was propped inside the wagon. His hat hung over his eyes.
I stooped, setting the basket on the wooden walk to hold the bag of flour with both hands.
“Oh, let me help,” a girl’s voice called.
I peeked around the bag in my arms, trying to see who it was. “Thank you. I am much obliged.”
Beth Foster held my basket.
Her mousy brown hair had grown to a chestnut brown, her beauty only more accentuated by the years. She followed me to the wagon, her conversation continuing. “It’s always so difficult when Father sends me to the store. I haven’t enough arms, and I, like you, detest making more than one trip. I hope it won’t be long before they find someone.” She paused and flicked her head toward the store. “Mr. Kearns is searching for an errand boy, for the purpose of hauling goods for customers.”
I kept my head down. “Is that right? How considerate of him.”
She smiled, her rosy cheeks rising. “I do hope you’ll be back, Miss—?”
It was no use prolonging the mystery. She was bound to discover my identity sooner or later. I was back to stay. I placed the flour in the wagon and dusted myself off to face her. I kne
w what would follow my disclosure; she had never liked me.
“It is me—Elizabeth,” I said, offering a weak grin. “I have returned from school.”
Her eyes widened, and her thick lashes framed a surprised gleam. “Elizabeth?” She dropped the basket beside the flour and encircled me with an embrace. She nearly choked me. “Elizabeth Pratt! Well, I’ll be! I hadn’t heard you were returning. What a pleasant surprise!”
I pulled back, running my hand through my now-disheveled hair. I tried to conceal my shock. “Yes, Beth. It is lovely to see you too.”
She smiled, grasping my hand. “Oh, what fun we’ll have. It’s been ages.”
I saw nothing but kindness in her round eyes and straight smile, and I wanted to curse her for it. Beth Foster had grown kind, as if she had not harbored a single ill memory of me. I could think of a few she could have, like that time I slugged her in the face. I, however, had expected nothing less than a curt word and icy glare, like the horrid girl etched in the back of my mind would have done.
“Mama is expecting me,” I said, attempting to add sincerity to my smile. It was difficult to know if my effort was a success. “But it was wonderful to see you again.”
Beth touched my arm once more. “Do take care. The ruts on the edge of town are still soaked with runoff. I got a wagon stuck just last week.”
I motioned toward the wagon. “I will inform George. Thank you for the consideration.”
Beth took a step to the side. “Is that George Hughes?” she asked, loud enough for him to overhear. She laughed. It was a musical and beautiful sound. “I heard he was working for your mama.”
“Yes,” I said, noting her admiring gaze. I could see I was not the only one to turn my attentions from Toby Lowry.
George, upon hearing his name, shuffled out of his seat and stepped down from the wagon. “Beth,” he said in greeting. He picked up the flour and basket and rearranged them in the back of the wagon.
“You’re lucky to have George at a time like this,” Beth said. “I am so sorry to hear about your father. I hope he is improving?”
How many times would I be asked such a thing? It was concern and kindness that prompted people to ask, but it did not make answering any easier. “I believe so,” I said, not wishing to explain further.
“We will keep your family in our prayers,” she said, seeming to see beneath my hollow expression.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
George lifted me into the wagon, and we said goodbye to Beth. I sat in silence as we rode home. My mind spun every which way. I had always imagined returning to the valley transformed into a lady, and from all outside appearances, I had. But I was beginning to realize that my transformation was far from the only one, or even the most significant.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE MURKY DISHWATER RAN UP MY forearm. I watched as it colored my sleeve a shade of gray. I pushed my sleeves up past my elbows and continued scrubbing. I smiled. Julia would have been shocked to see my disarray the last two weeks.
Mama took the plate from me, drying it with a rag. “I’ve missed this.”
William sat in the parlor, a mere ten feet away, and so I only nodded. He and my aunt would leave in three days. William’s departure left me with conflicting emotions. I could not decide what I would miss more—him or the world he represented. And yet, thinking of his absence brought unspeakable relief. I was already caught between two worlds; William only made it more obvious. I found myself attempting to prove my manners to him, all the while trying to prove my grit to George. I failed at both.
“Here,” Mama said, following my line of sight. “You must see to our guest. You must be dreading your goodbye.”
I shot her a look of warning. “Mama,” I said between clenched teeth.
“I’ll finish.” She flicked her head in William’s direction.
Over the past weeks, I had learned that it was near impossible to disguise discomfort. It settled in the air, stiffened smiles, lessened conversation. William was not happy here. It came as little surprise; he was raised for the comforts of the city and the idleness of the wealthy. His reluctance to do anything other than read and go on an occasional stroll had driven a wedge between us. He seemed to disapprove of everything. He never said as much, but his one-word answers and wide eyes at my activities left little doubt.
He stood when I entered the parlor. “Elizabeth,” he said, dipping his head.
“William.” I wanted to roll my eyes. Two weeks under the same roof, and still he stood at each of my entrances, addressed me by name. I noted the book in his hand. “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm?”
“Yes.” He swallowed, and the ball of his throat bobbed up and down. “I thought it might help me understand you better.”
I exhaled. There are better ways, I wanted to say. Perhaps you could converse with me as you used to, as a friend. I thought the better of it and gave a tight-lipped smile. “How thoughtful.”
Daddy sat in the corner, watching the exchange. A stream of drool slipped down his chin. I took to his side, thankful for a distraction, and wiped a handkerchief along his jawline. The cloth was soaked through.
“Excuse me,” I said to William before leaving to fetch a clean handkerchief.
Daddy kept his handkerchiefs in his top drawer, but since the stroke, Mama had put them on the desk instead. I fumbled into the dark bedroom and pulled back the drapes. A stack of handkerchiefs lay piled upon the desktop beside a bin of letters and papers. We used to iron the squares, but there was no sense in that now; Daddy went through at least five handkerchiefs a day.
I reached for the top one but stopped. Amidst the papers, I saw the corner of an envelope. The slant of the writing was undeniable. I glanced over my shoulder and then took the paper in my hands.
James,
As always, I assure you of my deepest care and efforts in the raising of Elizabeth. You need not worry of her comfort. Nora and I are most attentive. She is as close to a daughter as we have, and we love her. She continues to outdo herself. Already she is reaching the top of her class in her studies and in her classmates’ opinions. You should take pride. Elizabeth is all that you could ever hope for in a young lady. Perhaps you should write to her yourself. She would answer your questions far better than I can.
William Caldwell has asked for my consideration in courting her, but I have told him only you can answer that. Expect his letter. William is the son of a dear friend. I vouch for his character as well as his purse, though I expect Elizabeth will not be so easily swayed. As high of an opinion as I have of William, he (or any man, for that matter) cannot hold a candle to her. I have not urged her to consider him, but I am afraid Nora wishes for nothing else.
Clara continues to get on with Mr. Allred. They live in a fashionable area of town and enjoy the comforts you wish for her. She continues to improve in spirits, and I believe she could not be faring better, considering the struggles she has faced. Elizabeth is of great comfort to her.
Nora sends her love to you and Louisa. We pray for your continual happiness.
Warm Regards,
John
I flipped through the other papers, searching for more. Letter after letter, all addressed in that same slanted penmanship to Daddy, lay in the stack, each answering questions and concerns about my and Clara’s schooling and well-being. The dates ranged from monthly to quarterly, but the letters were consistent. Why had not Uncle Johnny and Nora informed me?
Emotion stirred in my chest and climbed my throat. Evidence of Daddy’s concern. I brushed the tears from my lower lashes. Daddy had not written a single letter to me after I’d left the valley. I thought it proof of his relief, proof he was glad to be rid of me.
“Elizabeth?” Mama called from the kitchen.
I pushed the papers into a neat stack and grabbed the handkerchief. “Coming,” I called. I took a few shallow breaths. All the tears and time spent worrying—it had all been in vain; Daddy cared.
“Insufferable,” I said
. I bent, pulling the pebble from the top of my boot. It had wedged between my laces and shin.
Nora held me by the elbow to steady me. “I should think you would be glad to leave this part of country life behind. All the rocks and dirt roads. Your beautiful dresses will be rags in no time.” Her bloodshot eyes and the dark circles below betrayed her emotion; she had spent the previous night in tears.
I sighed and squeezed her hand. The wooden walk was only a few feet ahead. My boots were muddied and beat from the stroll into town. Nora had insisted we spend one more morning together. “Please promise me you will not let another eleven years pass before seeing Mama or me again.”
“I hope to be invited to your wedding,” she said with a sideways glance, “whenever that may be, and to whomever that might be.”
“It is not liable to happen any time soon.” I was less convinced of William’s affection with each moment that passed. My own heart was undecided.
“Ah, here we are,” Nora said, reaching for the shop door. She had insisted on taking me shopping one last time; my current dresses were not made for labor. I hated to see her spend another penny on me when it could have gone to the farm instead, but I indulged her, knowing it was her way of showing affection.
“I spoke to William on the train, Elizabeth. I would not give up on him yet.”
“I do not love him,” I said, avoiding her gaze.
Nora’s hand hovered over a dark fabric. Her brows raised in skepticism. “At least not yet. You hardly considered him, or anyone, while you were busy with your studies. Give it some time. As your father and your family’s situation improves, you may find you miss William more than you expect.”
Ever since Julia’s sixteenth birthday social, I had sworn off boys. That feeling of helplessness and misery was not something I had wished to confront. But even so, it was not there with William. There were blushes and compliments, especially in the week before our departure, but nothing that led me to believe I was in love with him. “Perhaps,” I said to appease her.
Nora remained unconvinced. “Hmm, well, I do not expect you to understand. You are still young.” She skimmed through a table of colors, pausing at a dark purple. “This will do nicely,” she said, holding it up to the window. “You know, with all the dirt around here, you can never be too careful. Best to pick a dark color. It will hide the stains. A white apron is enough of a hassle. Why complicate the matters with a light dress?”
Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Page 14