“Oh, I’m coming back for dinner,” Ben assured her. “But I asked Miss Fontaine to join us, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t speak out of turn.”
“Valerie? Coming here?” Catherine said as if not comprehending. “Here?”
“I hope it’s all right.” He frowned. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to extend the invitation without checking first.
“And she accepted?” Catherine couldn’t seem to get over it. “Our modest home can hardly compare with the regal estates she frequents.”
“She said she’d be honored.”
“Oh, Catherine—” Cousin Amanda laughed off her daughter’s reaction and peered at Ben through eyes as pale blue as her daughter’s. “We’re the ones honored to have Valerie as another dinner guest. We’ll set two extra places at the table instead of one.”
“Thank you.” He inclined his head politely, although Catherine’s reaction puzzled him greatly. “Pardon my curiosity, but has Miss Fontaine turned down your invitations in the past?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Cousin Amanda folded her hands primly.
Ben felt confused.
Finally Catherine explained. “The Fontaines move in different social circles than we do.” She seemed troubled. “I just wondered if Valerie would feel uncomfortable here. That’s all. She doesn’t know us well . . . ”
“I understand.” Ben thought he did anyway. “She seemed at ease when I mentioned the possibility to her this morning.”
“Again, we’d be honored to have her,” Cousin Amanda put in with a smile.
Ben tipped his head. “Meanwhile, I need to take my leave. I have to speak with my partner, Clint, before I head back to the Fontaines’.”
“Please extend the dinner invitation to your friend.” Amanda stepped forward. “You said his name is Clint?”
“Clint Culver.” Ben grinned. “I’ll inform him of your offer, Cousin Amanda, but I expect he and his wife, Emily, have other plans.”
“Well, I do hope that you and I will have time to catch up, Ben.” Catherine took his arm. “It’s been a long time since our last correspondence. I’m waiting patiently for a teaching position to open up in Jericho Junction’s school.”
A frown creased his brow. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Didn’t you get my letters? I asked your mother to forward them to Boston.”
Ben hid a wince. He’d received them, all right. But with school and his preoccupation with Gwyneth Merriweather, he hadn’t kept up on correspondence. “I’m not much of a letter writer, Catherine.” It’s all he could think of to say.
“I wondered why you never replied.”
Ben felt doubly guilty.
“When I heard you were engaged to be married,” she went on, “I stopped writing. But then, last year, Cousin Rebecca wrote to say the weddings plans were called off.”
Ben grimaced. He had no defense. Gwyneth had broken their engagement a year ago last November, just as the wedding date neared. Finally Ben realized she was merely stringing him along—like she did to a whole lot of other men.
“Any chance you and Miss Merriweather will reconcile?” Cousin Amanda asked.
“None. I’ve learned once and for all that Gwyneth’s not the woman for me.”
“At last.” Catherine smiled into his face and hugged his arm. Ben found it both odd and amusing that she seemed so pleased. “I knew it all along.”
“Oh?” Stepping closer to the doorway, Ben politely pulled free of her hold on his arm. “Then I admire your perception. Wish I’d had it.” But, he reminded himself, he hadn’t consulted the Lord about his relationship with Gwyneth. Since his mentor, Ivan Axelrod, had been for it, Ben figured God was too. However, he’d been very, very wrong.
“You’re still planning to settle in Jericho Junction, aren’t you?” Catherine asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’d love to move out there and teach. I believe it’s a calling.” Her cheeks pinked at the admission.
“There’s surely a need for teachers out West.”
“I know. I’ve been studying up on it and receiving letters from other women who have made the trek into Missouri.”
Seeing her dreamy expression, Ben affixed his wide brim hat onto his head. “We can talk more later. For now I’ll say good-bye.” He peered around Catherine, which didn’t take much doing considering her slight frame. “Good-bye to you too, Cousin Amanda.”
He left the house. Walking to his roan, he mounted up into the saddle. The leather creaked beneath his weight. As he urged the animal into the mud-caked street, he thought over the conversation he’d just had with Catherine. He had a strange feeling he missed some valuable information somewhere along the line.
Maybe he should have taken the few extra minutes to read those letters from Catherine that his mother had sent.
***
“Unless y’ be needing anything else, dearie, I’ve dinner plans of my own. My friend Lavina invited me and some others to her home to celebrate New Year’s Day and all. Cleared it with y’ father months ago.”
“Of course.” Valerie set aside the journal in which she’d been penning. “How selfish of me to forget.”
“Bah!” Adalia lifted her shoulders, and a faint blush crept onto her doughy face. “I don’t mind assisting you even on my afternoon off. I’ve helped raise you since y’ were a tot.”
Unable to help herself, Valerie stood, crossed the music room, and pulled Adalia into a firm embrace. “I don’t know what I would have done without you this last week.”
“Now, now, I’ll have none of this blubbering.” She gently pushed Valerie back, then looked hard into her eyes. “I don’t mind telling you that the world is changing, dearie. Y’ mama is gone now, and I think y’ father wants you to marry Mr. Ladden and be happy.”
“He said that?” A chill ran through her. “He wants me to marry James?”
“Well, he didn’t say those words exactly.”
“But I don’t want to marry him!”
“Could be worse fates for a woman than gettin’ wed to the likes of him, y’ know?”
“Like what? Being burned at the stake?” Valerie arched a brow.
“Now, now, just because he stole a kiss doesn’t mean he won’t make a good husband. Why, you and Mr. Ladden used to climb trees and chase each other around the gardens until y’ mama warned you to stop for fear you’d behead all her precious blooms.”
“We were children then, Adalia.”
“Yes, but I think Mr. Ladden has loved you since then. It explains all his pranks and naughtiness—he wanted you to notice him.”
“How could I not notice when he sat up in Mama’s pear tree and threw fruit at me?”
“You threw a few pears back as I recall.”
Valerie lifted a shoulder. “Self-defense.” She strolled to the pianoforte and, thinking it all over, glided her forefinger down its ivory keys. “The point is, I don’t love James.”
“Ah, romantic love.” Adalia shook her head, and several grayish-blonde strands slipped from beneath her white crocheted hair covering. “It’s nothing like true love.”
Valerie regarded her askance. “And what do you know about ‘true love’? You’ve never been married.”
“That’s where you err, blessed one. I’ve been in love, and I’ve been married too.” She dropped her arms to her side.
“You have?” Valerie’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Why didn’t I know this?”
She shrugged. “I was from a good family in London. My parents arranged a marriage for me—to a decent fellow. But I was in love with Dalbert Dempsey, a handsome rake who traveled with a theater group in London.” Adalia smiled wistfully. “He could charm a rose into blossoming in the dead o’ winter, that one.”
Valerie sat back down to listen to the tale.
“Anyway, my folks allowed me to follow m’ heart. I went away with Dalbert. Then one day I woke up to the fact that m’ true love was nothing more than a selfish b
lack-heart who’d left me miserable and penniless.”
Valerie gasped, stunned by the revelation. “What did you do?”
“Since my folks had both passed, God rest them, I ran to m’ brother, and he put me in touch with your father, bless him. I left England and came to America, where I’ve been content ever since. So y’ see? Romantic love doesn’t have anything to do with true happiness.”
“But—”
“It’s mere fairy tales.”
“But James is—”
“—that proverbial boy next door you might read about in a penny novel.”
“Hmm . . . ” Valerie folded her hands, resting them on top of the polished table. “Romantic fiction aside, I think James has more in common with your Dalbert.”
Adalia clucked her tongue. “James Ladden comes from money—same money you do—and he obviously has feelings for you. Why not marry him?”
Valerie tensed. “Well, he hasn’t officially asked for my hand in marriage.”
“Ah, but the proposal is coming. And stop frowning so hard. You’re liable to give yourself a permanent wrinkle!”
On a tiny gasp, Valerie ran her fingertips along her forehead, hoping to thwart off the prediction, when she spied Benjamin standing outside the doorway. Their gazes met, and he quietly entered the room, causing Valerie to wonder if he’d overheard any of her conversation with Adalia.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not a’tall, sir. I was just leaving.” Adalia lifted the tea service off the table and cast a quick glance at Valerie. “Willie said he’ll bring the buggy around and drive you to the Elliots’ when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” Valerie peered at Benjamin. She couldn’t help noticing the way his broad shoulders filled the expanse of his black frock. “I had thought, if there’s time, that you might enjoy a tour of our fine city before we go to the Elliots’.”
He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the hour. “I think we’ll have plenty of time. I’m ready whenever you are.” Meanwhile, his gaze swept the circumference of the music room.
Valerie followed his line of vision as it roamed over the peach-colored wallpaper. In the center of the room stood the round cherry tea table and its two matching chairs. A settee, upholstered in multicolored silk, had been placed between the two floor-to-ceiling windows that were graced with delicate white sheers. Mama’s rocker and spinning wheel were at one end of the room and the pianoforte at the other.
“Beautiful room,” he said.
“This has always been my favorite part of the house—our music room. I enjoy taking my afternoon teas in here.”
“Very nice indeed.” He walked to where Valerie’s violin was stowed in the nook above the piano. “Do you play?” He lifted it for closer inspection.
“Yes, but not since Mama died.”
He gave an understanding nod before gently setting the instrument aside. Then he turned toward Valerie.
She flushed beneath his gaze. “I thought, perhaps, you might like to see Jackson Square,” she said, mostly to get her mind on something besides him, “and the shops in the Vieux Carre, the theater, and Antoine’s—one of New Orleans’s finest restaurants.”
“That’d be fine.”
She extracted her gaze from his, hoping she’d think more clearly if she didn’t see him looking back so intensely. “I might show you my father’s business near the docks.” Valerie paused. “But perhaps we should stay away from the docks. No telling what sort of riffraff may be lurking about once it’s dark.”
“Sounds awfully wise.”
She glanced back in time to see his crooked smile.
“Did I say something amusing?”
“No, I—” He chuckled. “Miss Fontaine, I must confess. You’ve enchanted me.”
“I have? Oh, well . . . ” She knew her tone sounded tentative, but she’d never had anyone say such a thing to her before. Enchanted?
Benjamin laughed. “I meant it as a compliment.”
She felt her blush grow to her hairline. “Why, then, I do thank you.” With a smile, she added, “Shall we go?”
Six
As the horses clip-clopped their way around the city’s unevenly paved streets, Valerie pointed out the various sites of interest. Jackson Square. The four-story brick building that housed William Washburn’s studio on Canal Street. Prince’s Photographic Studio on the opposite corner.
“I’d surely like to speak with those men. I wonder if they’ve photographed troops in the area.”
Valerie noted his hopefulness. Perhaps he thought he might learn something about his brother’s disappearance. “I’m positive an interview can be arranged.”
The buggy rolled on and the tour continued.
“Where I come from,” Benjamin said, “there aren’t any theaters, no fancy shops. Just Taylor’s General Store.”
“Yes, I’ve read several articles about those frontier towns.” She shifted in her seat. “Are there really savages running loose, kidnapping women and scalping men?”
“You mean Indians?” Ben nodded. “Yes, we see our share. But ours is a fairly peaceful town, and the Indians we’ve dealt with have been reasonable souls. We trade with them, often our more modern conveniences for their animal hides and furs. And Jericho Junction is hardly the frontier. The train that stops in town runs from St. Louis and goes clear through to Jefferson City. There’s a small hotel and eatery, a bank, livery, and blacksmiths and the like. But to say Jericho Junction is anywhere near being a full-fledged city like New York, Atlanta, New Orleans, or Chicago is just plain wrong. Still, it’s not like the territories either.”
Valerie imagined what the town looked like. “Jericho Junction sounds charming.”
The carriage leaned sharply as they rounded a corner. Valerie found herself pressed up against Benjamin and made a mental note to remind Willie to slow down before he took one of those turns again. Righting herself, she touched a hand to her hair to make sure her pins were still in place. Glancing at Benjamin she wondered why he looked so amused. “As you were saying?”
“Oh, right. Well, it’s taken me a long time to realize Jericho Junction is home and that’s where I want to settle down when the time comes.”
Valerie mulled over his statement. “I don’t know where I’ll settle down.”
“You don’t think you’ll stay in New Orleans? I thought you said this was home.”
“Exactly. It was.”
“You know, there’s an old saying about time healing all wounds.”
She turned to gaze out the carriage window.
“God knows how much you miss your mother. Jesus Himself wept when Lazarus died.”
It meant a lot to her that Benjamin tried to console her when she knew his own heart was breaking over the disappearance of his brother. Looking back at him, she pushed out a smile. “Thank you.”
“Feeling better, Miss Fontaine?”
“Please, call me Valerie.”
“Valerie.”
She liked the way he pronounced her name in his smooth, country drawl. But it reminded her of something that nagged her ever since she’d met this handsome photographer. She decided to bring it up. “While you claim to be a country boy, I detect more education and social refinement—and practiced charm—than your description of Jericho Junction would afford.”
“You’re very astute.”
The compliment made her smile.
“I was actually educated in Boston from the time I was seventeen. Before that, I was the preacher’s son and the town rabble-rouser.”
“No!” She had to laugh when the boyish image of Benjamin with a blackened eye flitted through her mind. “I would have guessed you to have been something of a bookworm. A lover of poetry.”
“Not hardly.” He chuckled. “I just barely made it through school. Of course, I did have something of a distraction. But getting back to when I was a kid. Yep, I used to fight all the time. Seemed I was in one scrape or another, trying to prove I wasn
’t some sissy just because I was a preacher’s son. My father was at his wits’ end with me.”
Valerie picked up on the “distraction,” but since he didn’t explain, she let it go.
“Finally a wealthy philanthropist named Ivan Axelrod came to town. He was a staunch supporter of my father’s ministry, built us a church. But he didn’t stop there. He built a fine home for my family with enough room to host visiting missionaries—or big-hearted philanthropists.” A wide smile stretched across his clean-shaven face and admiration darkened his amber eyes. “Well, ol’ Ivan took me under his wing and set out to cure me of my fistfighting.”
“How did he manage that?”
“By taking me to Boston and showing me that there was a whole world of reasons not to spend my time brawling. He stressed to me the needs of others, and I got the message. I lent my time to different charities in the community. When I finished college, I eventually decided to pursue my lifelong interest in photography.”
“Where is Mr. Axelrod now?”
“Back in Boston, living with his granddaughter, Gwyneth. I write every so often and let him know what I’m up to.”
“Gwyneth?” The way he said her name gave Valerie the impression that there might be more to this story, yet she dared not pry.
But then he explained. “Yes, Gwyneth Merriweather.” A faraway look entered his eyes.
“And do you write to her too?”
His chuckle beheld a note of disbelief. He shook his head. “Gwyneth would rather hear news of my drowning in the Mississippi River than get a letter from me.”
Valerie leaned back, squelching a gasp. What could Benjamin have possibly done?
And then it occurred to her: He broke her heart. Of course. What else?
“My apologies, Valerie.” He took her hand. “I’ve marred our conversation.”
“Think nothing of it. May I be so bold as to ask what happened between you and Miss Merriweather?”
“You may.” He sat back and met her gaze. “Gwyneth and I were engaged to be married—a number of times. She’d get mad at me, call off the wedding, then she’d change her mind and I’d forgive and take her back. It’d go on and on like that. It wasn’t healthy for either one of us. I know that now. But the last time we argued was over a year ago. I told her I wanted to settle down in Jericho Junction, and at first she agreed. But after stepping one foot off the train, she decided the place was a boring little nothing town. She thought I misled her. Made the town sound like more than it was. Within two days she insisted I take her back to Boston. On the way there, she blamed me for everything from her mud-splattered gowns to her ruined dainty kid slippers. When I wouldn’t change my mind and stay in Boston with her, she said she hated me. I knew that was the end.” Benjamin’s voice had gotten quieter and more somber.
Unwilling Warrior Page 6