Liz Ireland (8 page)

In a last-ditch effort to save herself, Cecilia took a step backward and felt her shoulders bump against the corner beam of the blacksmith shop. Surely he wouldn’t do anything, not right here, not on the street!

“No,” she whispered, and shook her head, although that was a lie. She could guess what he meant, but for the life of her she couldn’t have found the spit to voice it. Her mouth was bone-dry.

His eyes darkened further, which Cecilia hadn’t thought possible, and suddenly, one of his hands clamped down on her arm. “I’ll show you,” he said.

With two firm tugs and a dizzying twirl, Cecilia found herself in a shaded area around the corner, out of sight of any of the other buildings, and held firmly in those arms whose strength she’d so underestimated.

“How did you do that?” she said breathlessly.

“You know what they say, teacher.” Dark eyes glistened. “Where there’s a will...”

The raspy words were cut off as his mouth descended on hers. Cecilia let out a surprised gasp, although she had been anticipating just this for a full minute that now seemed like a lifetime. He pressed his lips to hers gently, and she snaked her arms up his chest and around his neck.

Cecilia lifted onto her toes at the same time that Pendergast drew her body nearer to his. As a result, she found herself more intimately entwined with a man than she had ever been in her life. When his tongue parted her lips and delved inside her mouth, she nearly fainted with a mixture of dismay and pleasure. Surely, what he was doing wasn’t right—no lady would stand for it, especially in broad daylight. Cecilia would have slapped him...if only she wasn’t holding on to his strong shoulders for dear life.

Her breath came out in a little moan, and Pendergast smiled. Slowly, he pulled back, and Cecilia unwound herself from him in a daze. She was sure her face was beet red, but she couldn’t look away. Those eyes still mesmerized her.

Pendergast lifted one dark eyebrow. “That’s why,” he said, dusting his hands together. With a wink, but without another word, he turned and ambled around the corner, out of Cecilia’s sight.

Why what?
In a daze she stared at the point where he had disappeared. Somehow during the past few minutes she’d completely forgotten the question—perhaps because the answer itself had been so fascinating....

B
ea Beasley’s eyeglasses were nearly popping out of their frames. The girl clasped Cecilia’s hand—a steadying gesture, Cecilia was embarrassed to admit, she desperately needed.

“He kissed you!” the child cried dreamily. “Oh, Miss Summertree, how romantic!”

Still woozy-headed, Cecilia lifted a hand to her lips. So that’s what kissing was supposed to be like, she realized with awe. After the fumbling attempts made by other men, she’d always wondered why everyone always made such a big deal of such a messy exchange.

“Miss Summertree? Miss Summertree?”

Bea gave her a shake, then exclaimed, “It’s just like in the books! You’re pale and your pulse is fluttering wildly, madly. Oh, it’s all so thrilling I could just die!”

Cecilia focused on Bea’s rapturous face and frowned. Wildly, madly? She shook her free wrist, trying to tamp down her own absurd rapture. The last thing she needed at this desperate juncture in time was to fall wildly, madly over anybody—especially Eugene Pendergast, her archenemy.

In good time, her senses returned to normal and a healthy rage started coursing through her veins. That low-down viper had kissed her on purpose! And not because he couldn’t help himself, the usual male excuse, but because he wanted to exercise his smug superiority. What galled her most was that she had just stood there and allowed him to bend her around like clay. For heaven’s sakes, she’d practically wilted in his arms. She must have lost her mind.

Clara would doubtless have a mouthful of platitudes for this situation.

Still in a state of exaltation, Bea stared at the point in space where Pendergast had disappeared. The precocious girl sincerely believed there was a special place reserved for educators on Mount Olympus, and it was obvious that she thought she had witnessed something tantamount to the coupling of the gods. Now Cecilia had to figure out a way to keep her quiet. All she needed would be for news of the kiss to spread around town, on top of all her other troubles!

“Now the two of you can get married,” Bea said enthusiastically, “and we’ll have
two
teachers.”

Over my dead body, Cecilia thought heatedly.

“Mr. Pendergast is so handsome. Just like Two-step Pete. Don’t you think so, Miss Summertree?”

Since she didn’t know who Two-step Pete was, Cecilia could only nod. Refuting would only put Bea on the defensive, and she knew from exasperating experience that once that kid got in an argumentative mood, there was no winning.

“But I don’t think you look a bit like Willa, Miss Summertree,” the child prattled on, “your hair’s not red enough.”

Her hair wasn’t red at all, but that, apparently, was beside the point. “Who is Willa?” Cecilia asked distractedly, her mind whirring at a frightening speed to think of some way to keep Bea from blabbing about this incident to her father.

“Willa’s a dance hall girl. She wears fancier clothes than you do, too, I’m afraid. Her dresses are always of the finest satins, and very alluring to the male eye. But I’m sure Mr. Pendergast doesn’t mind your clothes too much, since you are supposed to be a lady, although it’s only fair to tell you that men always seem to prefer women who reveal a graceful show of ankle every now and again, no matter how respectable they are.”

Bea and her books! “Beatrice, where are you picking up these ideas? I can’t believe your father lets you read trash. What’s the name of this story?” Maybe she could use a little blackmail for leverage....

The girl poked out her chin proudly. “The name of the book is
Dancehall Gunfight,
and it is
not
trash, either. It’s literature, because Mr. Pendergast is reading it to us.”

Now this was interesting. Cecilia felt a little surge of hope. “Mr. Pendergast is reading a book called
Dancehall Gunfight
to you in school?”

Bea nodded. “He’s not finished with it yet, even though he read it all afternoon. He said he’d bring in more of his own books, too.”

Cecilia pursed her lips thoughtfully, gleefully visualizing the brand spanking-new-readers tucked neatly beneath the schoolhouse steps. “What ever happened to the Gibson readers?”

Bea shrugged. “I think Mr. Pendergast is a more progressive sort of educator.”

Cecilia swallowed a sigh of frustration. He had this kid hoodwinked, all right. Since when did upstanding Eastern-educated teachers choose material as attention-grabbing as saloon girls in low-cut satin dresses? Something about this Pendergast character wasn’t right.

And yet, reading one measly book wasn’t likely to get Pendergast fired. Even the missing readers might not do the trick. She needed more....

Bea’s earnest little face looked curiously into hers. “Is there anything wrong, Miss Summertree? They say sometimes that love makes women scatterbrained.”

Cecilia smirked. As if she was actually in love with Pendergast!

Then, out of the blue, a possible solution to her problem occurred to her. If she could stomach it. “Quite the opposite, Bea. Love makes women
curious.
”

“What are you curious about?”

“Mr. Pendergast,” Cecilia said, going in for the pitch. “You see, Bea, I’ve known Mr. Pendergast such a short time. Why, you’ve been around him more than I have!”

“I have?” This fact seemed to amaze Bea—and make her realize her own importance, which is exactly what Cecilia wanted.

“Of course, because you spend so much time with him at school. Well, I just bet you could tell me loads of things about Mr. Pendergast that I’d never be able to find out on my own.”

Bea’s brow wrinkled. “Like what?”

“Well...like what he says in school. And what he reads to you children. A person’s literary tastes are very important, you know.”

“Oh, yes!”

“In fact, Beatrice Beasley, you could be a big help to me, if every few days you would tell me about Mr. Pendergast.”

“You mean, spy on Mr. Pendergast?” The child reacted to the suggestion as if it was the vilest form of treachery.

“Well...” Cecilia decided to appeal to the child’s romantic sensibilities. “Yes, but in a good way. You wouldn’t want Mr. Pendergast to grow old and lonely and bitter, completely unloved, would you?”

“But aren’t
you
in love with Mr. Pendergast?”

Hmph. Cecilia swallowed her disgust and smiled. “Almost, but a woman shouldn’t cast her lot with a man she knows nothing about. That’s where you come in, Bea.”

“I see,” Bea said. “It wouldn’t really be spying, it would be more like ensuring Mr. Pendergast won’t turn into a heartless old geezer, like Ebenezer Scrooge, or someone like that.”

“What a horrible thought!”

“I would be
helping
Mr. Pendergast,” Bea said, gaining enthusiasm for the plan. No doubt she would find the role of go-between in this little drama romantic in itself.

“That’s right, and you would be doing me a great service, as well,” Cecilia said with a wink. “We women of the world have to stick together.”

Bea beamed.

“And Bea, the most important thing of all is never to tell anyone what we’re doing. The first rule of spying—I mean
helping
—is secrecy.”

“I swear I won’t tell a soul!” Bea said in a rush, then amended, “except maybe Mr. Wiggles.”

Cecilia looked at the yellow hound, who at the sound of his name was wagging his tail eagerly. “I guess we can trust Mr. Wiggles,” she lied. That dog had always made her nervous.

She and Bea sealed their bargain with a sober handshake, agreed to a clandestine meeting later in the week and emerged from the shadows of the old building into the afternoon sunlight. Bea clearly relished her new cloak-and-dagger persona, and moved furtively from tree to tree as she made her way home. Cecilia only hoped she relished her role enough to keep quiet, and decided a few candy bribes might be in order to reinforce the importance of this point.

Cecilia sighed as she headed for home. Dolly would no doubt want to know where she had disappeared to; maybe love actually did make women curious. Given that her meeting with Buck had been cut short, she would just have to fabricate some encouraging news for her friend. Even so, Dolly would not be satisfied until Cecilia produced Buck in the flesh as a willing suitor. And in anticipation of her failure to do so, she had probably designed some terrible task for Cecilia to do, like churning butter. Her back ached just thinking about it.

Not to mention, she would have to spend another evening across the dinner table from Pendergast—this time with the memory of that kiss fresh in her mind. It was too humiliating.

All this, just so she could live with some iota of dignity, on her own terms, as a lady. Not for the first time, she was struck by the tragic irony of her plight. By the time I actually am in a position to be a lady, she thought sadly, I’ll have spent so long lying and laboring that I’ll have forgotten how to be one!

* * *

Rosalyn Pendergast sat on the edge of her mahogany bed, straining to comprehend the words on the page in front of her.
...regret to inform you of your brother’s untimely departure from this life...
That one shocking phrase summed up the whole of Mr. Jake Reed’s letter.

And yet the man wrote in such vague language, he posed more questions than he answered. How had Eugene—timid, bookish Eugene—become involved in a “barroom fracas”? Mr. Reed didn’t say. Nor did he say whether there had been a proper burial. And what of her brother’s possessions? Rosalyn was sure Eugene had more things than the forty-seven dollars Mr. Reed had sent along.

No, none of this made sense. And yet, even as the tears for her only brother spilled down her cheeks, Rosalyn had to admit that it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Hadn’t she begged Eugene not to leave, fearing just this sort of calamity? But her dear, foolish brother had insisted that Texas was just the place he was looking for. It would make a new man of him, he’d said.

She’d even begged him to reconsider the precise destination he had in mind. Annsboro, Texas...the frontier...it was so remote! And all they knew of the place was from a short description written to Gene from Chadwick Watkins, an old college acquaintance who had become superintendent of schools in that area. Galveston, Rosalyn had suggested, was also in Texas, yet it had some of the niceties available, too. But he’d insisted he’d wanted something different, something rugged, as though a change in geography would transform his whole personality.

Poor, poor Gene. Perhaps she’d stifled him, because he was her only relation besides Aunt Patrice. Though Rosalyn gave lessons that earned a little money, Eugene had felt obligated to support her. He’d been trapped, saddled with a spinster sister, relegated to living with his old fretful aunt. And this, his one attempt to free himself, had failed miserably.

Rosalyn slowly stood and walked to the bureau to get a fresh handkerchief. In the small mirror on the wall, she caught a glimpse of her wretched appearance. Her fair skin was mottled, almost scarlet in places from her weeping, and her brown eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Hair that had been so carefully combed and tucked back earlier now threatened mutiny, breaking free of its confining pins. She would have to put herself together before she talked to her aunt. The sad news would probably cause Patrice to take to her bed for at least a month.

And yet, though the lady would never say so, Aunt Patrice would probably consider Eugene’s death a just end to such a foolhardy expedition. Their aunt had been most vocal in her disapproval of Eugene’s plan, especially when she discovered that Rosalyn was supposed to follow him to Annsboro once he was settled. Ingrates, she called them, for abandoning the very person who had taken them in as penniless orphans, reared and educated them.

Rosalyn had agreed—it was terrible of them to leave dear old Patrice after all she had done for them. But the elderly lady firmly refused to join them on their adventure, even when Rosalyn had practically begged her. Patrice had lived in Philadelphia for over sixty years, in this very house, and she wasn’t going to budge now. Especially not to travel to heathen country.

Yes, Rosalyn had agreed, what Eugene and she were planning was heartless. Beastly. Ungrateful.

She could hardly wait to go!

She went red with shame just thinking about how she’d secretly yearned for the moment she could board a train and say goodbye to Philadelphia and this stuffy old house. For months she’d been dreaming about it. Freedom. Eugene felt stifled? He, at least, was a man!

He wasn’t forever expected to accompany Patrice on her tedious round of calls to the same people every week, or tend Patrice through her imaginary aches and afflictions, or to sit endlessly in the claustrophobic parlor, sewing or reading while the noisy mantel clock ticked away the long, insufferable hours. Rosalyn’s only moments of freedom came as she walked to and from the few lessons she gave to people’s children—Latin and French and mathematics for girls. The rest of her hours were diligently and dutifully accounted for. She loved her aunt dearly, almost as much as she loved her brother, but oh, she’d staked all her hopes on escaping this place!

Now escape was impossible. That was what Mr. Jake Reed had truly conveyed to her.

Again she blushed at her selfish, unseemly thoughts. Poor Eugene! Of course, that was the biggest loss of all. Except...

Well, at least
he
had seen something of the world. And from the moment he had heard his loose connection to Chadwick Watkins might help him attain the position in Annsboro, Eugene had had a hope to cling to. He’d been walking on air for months in anticipation, happier than she’d ever seen him at the prospect of leaving everything behind—he’d seemed a wholly different person from the one she had known for twenty-nine years. Maybe Texas
would
have given him a new identity.

Rosalyn looked in the mirror just in time to see her face go pale again.
A new identity?

She rushed back to the bed and plucked the letter off the eyelet coverlet. It said so little—only that Eugene was dead. Jake Reed gave no details, no dying words to comfort a grieving sister. The way he skimmed over the event made it seem so unreal....