Courting Trouble (30 page)

‘‘First,’’ he said, ‘‘any . . . um, extravagant feelings we have must be carefully repressed.’’

The image of him as a youngster jumping from a tree in an effort to fly flashed into her mind, along with the shockingly coarse words he’d exclaimed after his subsequent fall. She pushed the memory aside.

‘‘If we wish to express affectionate fondness in our visits,’’ he continued, ‘‘then we must keep it a sentiment, not debase it with animal passions.’’

Animal passions? She might have regretted her tryst with Adam. She might have felt profound remorse for squandering the most precious gift she had to offer. But never once had she considered her actions with him
‘‘animal passions.’’

‘‘Also, a woman’s dress,’’ he said, ‘‘is an expression of her inner soul and should serve to heighten her charm, not draw attention to her . . . to her garments.’’

What on earth? Ewing was suddenly so stiff and upright, spouting rules as if he’d memorized them along with his Bible verses. She sighed. Had his Bible college impressed these ideals upon him? Was he trying to act the way he thought a preacher should?

She became conscious of her plain wool gown and gloveless hands. Not exactly an outfit she would have chosen to receive callers in. But she didn’t know she was going to have any callers.

‘‘Do you have some objection to the way I dress, Ewing?’’

‘‘Your hats are very extravagant,’’ he answered with a gentle tone. ‘‘I think it might be best to tone them down a bit. Quite a bit.’’

She slowly straightened her spine. Tone down her hats? But they were her pride and joy. ‘‘You think they are excessive somehow?’’

‘‘I don’t mind them, Essie. I’m just not sure they are fitting for a preacher’s wife to wear.’’

‘‘Well, I don’t happen to be a preacher’s wife,’’ she snapped.

‘‘Yet,’’ he said softly.

Her breath caught. Well. If she’d had any question about his intentions, they were certainly clear now. But for heaven’s sake, what could possibly be wrong with wearing a pretty hat?

‘‘And though we have known each other for our whole lives,’’ he continued, ‘‘I think it best to start using a more formal form of address. From now on, I will call you Miss Spreckelmeyer and you must call me Mr. Wortham.’’

She stopped just short of snorting. Hadn’t he been the one to insist upon first names when he’d returned home? Still, she knew he was right, but it seemed so absurd. When he was a toddler, she’d slapped him on his backside for sticking his tongue out at her. She’d kissed his knee when he fell and scraped it raw. She’d quizzed him on his multiplication tables. She’d helped him place his first worm on a hook.

And now she must call him Mr. Wortham?

‘‘Anything else?’’ she asked, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

‘‘Just one more thing.’’

She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

‘‘You must give up bicycle riding.’’

She sucked in her breath.

‘‘I know this is difficult for you,’’ he said. ‘‘But there are doctors, well-respected doctors, who claim that the bicycle will ruin the feminine organs of matrimonial necessity.’’ Color rushed to his face. ‘‘And it is believed to greatly increase the labor pains of childbirth. And it will develop muscular legs, which would be an unsightly contrast to underdeveloped feminine arms. Forgive me for mentioning such delicate subjects, but I wanted you to understand how serious this is and why I am so opposed to women riding.’’

His color remained high, attesting to his embarrassment.

Her high color had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with total and complete outrage. ‘‘You cannot possibly believe that bunch of poppycock.
Cosmopolitan
trumpeted the benefits of riding for women just last month.’’

‘‘
Cosmopolitan
is a magazine, Essie. Hardly the same as a doctor.’’

‘‘You are to call me ‘Miss Spreckelmeyer,’ if I am not mistaken.’’ She sat stiff, her fingernails making indentations in her hands as she clasped them tightly.

He sighed. ‘‘You are angry. I knew this last one would be a touchy one.’’

‘‘Touchy? It is outrageous. And you are living in the Dark Ages.’’

‘‘Lower your voice,’’ he whispered. ‘‘You know good and well that the leaders of God’s church have a completely different set of expectations to adhere to.’’

‘‘Are you now going to try and tell me the Bible says I cannot ride a bike?’’

He searched her eyes. ‘‘You yourself have admitted to stumbling, Essie—Miss Spreckelmeyer. I am merely trying to keep us both on the straight and narrow.’’

Sputtering, she strove to collect her thoughts but could think of no polite way to express them.

He sighed. ‘‘The honest truth is that the elders were very reluctant to appoint someone my age to such an important position in the community. But it was either that or hire someone who was less qualified or who’d not been born and raised in Corsicana.’’

She held herself still, neither encouraging nor discouraging him.

‘‘I can’t afford to do anything the least bit controversial,’’ he said, combing his fingers through his hair. ‘‘I have to show them my age is nothing to be concerned about. And while I am courting you, everything you do reflects back on me.’’

She pictured Preacher Bogart and the church elders. They were indeed an intimidating force and should not be taken lightly.

Her heart pounded as her mother’s words came whistling back through her mind.
‘‘Is that bicycle so important you’d rather have it than a man? Than babies of your own?’’

She wouldn’t, of course. It wasn’t really the bike, though, so much as what it represented. Freedom. Independence. Progress.

On the other hand, if she did sacrifice those things, she would reap a harvest of untold value. She’d have a husband, a home, a place in the community, children.

Wilting a little, she lowered her chin. ‘‘All right, Mr. Wortham. I will put away my wheels for now—but not necessarily forever.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ He stood and offered her a gloved hand. ‘‘I’d like to take you for a carriage ride, Miss Spreckelmeyer. Will you do me the honor?’’

After a charged moment, she allowed him to assist her to her feet. ‘‘If you would excuse me for a moment, I must go and change first.’’

She made her way to her room, telling herself this was exactly what she’d been wishing for. But instead of a weight being lifted, she felt heavy and burdened.

—————

The sun provided Essie with warmth, while Ewing provided her with conversation. He kept the carriage close to the sidewalk, restraining the horses from using undue speed.

Making their way down Eleventh Street, the false fronts of town began to be replaced with quiet homes and picket fences. A scattering of crimson clover lined the road.

Ewing pointed to a flock of birds flying in V formation. The lead bird dropped off to the back of the line, allowing another to take its place.

‘‘I wonder how they know when their turn at the front of the line is up,’’ he said. ‘‘I wonder if some birds are lazier than others and don’t fight the wind as long as they should. What would the other birds do, do you think?’’

Essie followed their progress across the blanket of blue overhead. ‘‘I have no idea. I never thought about it before.’’

‘‘Look,’’ Ewing said, spotting some black huckleberries in a vacant lot and pulling over. ‘‘Want some?’’

It took them ten minutes to pick a handful and less than a minute to eat them.

‘‘I wish they weren’t so tedious to harvest,’’ he said. ‘‘I haven’t had any of those since before I left.’’

‘‘They don’t have any huckleberries in Tennessee?’’

‘‘In the mountains they do.’’

‘‘You’ve been on a mountain?’’

Shaking out his handkerchief, he laid it across his hands and presented it to her. She placed her hand inside and allowed him to wipe her fingers clean of huckleberry juice.

‘‘I didn’t like being on it,’’ he said. ‘‘Those misty mountains are beautiful from a distance, but when I got up on them, I felt surrounded and hemmed in.’’ He began to wipe her other hand. ‘‘No, I prefer wide-open spaces.’’

He’d cleaned four of her fingers and reached for her thumb. She immediately moved it and tried to pin his down. Within seconds the handkerchief had floated to the ground and a thumb war began in earnest.

He pinned her thumbs in record time.

‘‘Oh no!’’ she squealed. ‘‘I always used to win.’’

‘‘I’ve grown up some since the last time we played.’’

‘‘Don’t get mouthy with me, youngster. I bet I can still beat you at the hand-slap game.’’

Grinning, he held out his hands. She lightly touched her palms to his and held fast his gaze. Quick as lightning, she struck and just barely caught the tips of his fingers.

They reversed positions. It took him four tries before he could catch her. But instead of slapping her hands, he grabbed them and did not let go. They stood in the middle of the lot, the breeze cold against their faces, the laughter of a moment before melting away.

‘‘Your cheeks are all red,’’ he said, studying her.

‘‘My nose, too, I’d wager.’’

‘‘Yes. But it’s becoming. You have a lovely nose.’’

She gave a short huff.

He moved his gaze to her lips and she felt a moment of panic.

Gently tugging her hands free, she glanced at the carriage. ‘‘We should probably be getting back.’’

He walked her to the rig. And though he took her elbow, he did not immediately help her up. ‘‘Can I see you tomorrow?’’

‘‘The Ladies’ Garden Club is cleaning the Methodist church sanctuary tomorrow.’’

‘‘What about during the evening?’’

‘‘I’m substituting for Mrs. Quigley who can’t make it to Mrs. Lockhart’s whist game.’’

‘‘Wednesday?’’

‘‘I’m helping Mother with the washing and ironing.’’

‘‘Perhaps the following day, then?’’

‘‘Yes. Thursday should be fine.’’

‘‘Good.’’

No words were spoken on the rest of the ride home. He pulled to a stop in front of her gate, then alighted. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she allowed him to assist her to the ground, his hands under her elbows.

‘‘I’ll see you Thursday.’’ Touching his hat, he returned to the carriage seat.

She watched as he turned the rig and disappeared around the bend. It had been a lovely afternoon and an invigorating ride. She headed toward her front door, wondering what she would do if Ewing tried to kiss her.

She enjoyed his company, but she had no desire whatsoever to introduce anything physical into the relationship. It wasn’t because she didn’t enjoy those intimacies. She did. Very much.

She just couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for sharing them with Ewing. He was a pleasant-looking man. Amiable. Easy to get along with. She just wasn’t attracted to him in that way.

Maybe that would come. Maybe the feelings she had for Adam weren’t a one-time thing. Or maybe Ewing would be too fearful of arousing her ‘‘weakness’’ to risk kissing her.

Sighing, she entered the house. She needed to finish those trousers of Harley’s.

chapter TWENTY-FIVE

EIGHT LADIES FROM the Garden Club had gathered early in the morning to clean the First Methodist Church. The noon hour found the sanctuary’s leaded windows sparkling, the floor pristine, and the choir and amen corners shining. Only the pews were left.

Three more and they’d be done. Essie rubbed her polishing cloth against the varnished oak, praying the task would soon come to completion.

The church held the distinct honor of having housed the first democratic convention in Texas after the Civil War. At the time, a host of hogs had made their home beneath the building, and the convention had to be stopped several times due to the ruckus the hogs had made.

Essie fervently wished those hogs were still present today. Anything to stop the direction of today’s conversation.

‘‘I always knew the Lord had someone for you,’’ Mrs. Owen sighed. ‘‘And didn’t that Ewing turn out to be the most handsome thing you ever did see? Even if he’s not very tall.’’

‘‘The thing to remember, Essie,’’ Shirley Bunting’s mother interjected, ‘‘is a happy courtship promotes conjugal felicity more than anything else. So don’t spoil it.’’

‘‘She’s right, dear,’’ said Mrs. Shaw. President of the Garden Club, she never took a wrong step or had a hair out of place. Even now, after a morning of scrubbing, her apron was still stiff and her coif tidy. ‘‘So of course you want to look your best when he’s courting you, but keep in mind that ornamentation that has no use is never, in any high sense, beautiful.’’

Essie frowned in confusion. Then why did Mrs. Shaw put so much effort into her ornamental flower garden, which, after all, had no purpose but beauty?

‘‘What she means is,’’ said the undertaker’s wife, ‘‘buttons that fasten nothing should never be scattered over a garment. And bows, which are simply strings tied together, should only be placed where there is some possible use for, well, strings tied together.’’

Known as a woman of few words, the blacksmith’s wife added, ‘‘In short, Esther, anything that looks useful, but is useless, is in bad taste.’’

Essie resumed her polishing, wondering if these women had bothered to look at
Godey’s Lady’s Book
sometime in the last few decades.

‘‘More important than your attire, though, is your general treatment of each other.’’ This from Mrs. Richie, who harangued her poor husband so much that he spent most of his waking hours at the Slap Out whittling and playing checkers. ‘‘You must tell Ewing that you should like to be treated thus, but not so, and that he must let you do this, but not that. It is much better to arrange these things now than for them to be left for future contention.’’

‘‘Love will not bear neglect, however,’’ said Mrs. Lockhart, settling herself on the first pew while the rest of the ladies finished up. ‘‘It should not be second in anything. You must spend a great deal of time together. Once love’s fires have been lit, they must be perpetually resupplied with their natural fuel, or else they die down, go out or . . . go elsewhere.’’ She looked over the rim of her glasses meaningfully.

The other matrons nodded in agreement. The only person who had yet to offer any advice was Mrs. Bogart. A worried frown puckered the woman’s brows as she collected the dirty rags and dropped them into a bucket. The members of the Garden Club were set to clean her church at the beginning of the year. By then, though, Ewing would be their preacher.