Six Little Sunflowers: Historical Romance Novella (American State Flower) (3 page)

No, not forgotten.

Not
noticed
.

She never had any reason to notice. In fact, she had several reasons not to notice him. She ought to say something.

Her mind went blank.

His intense gaze traveled the length of her before fixing on her face. He frowned, a V deepening between his brows.

He was looking at her as if—

A gentleman should usually wait for a lady to recognize him first on the street. This privilege of recognition is her prerogative. Especially is this the case if he is simply the acquaintance of a single evening’s entertainment.

~ Social Life; or The Manners and Customs of Polite Society

“Y
OU HAVE NO IDEA WHO I AM
, do you?” Félicie blurted, and then realized how snooty her question sounded, how her words implied she was someone of importance. Which was not true. She was someone of non-importance. He had no reason to know who she was. They were not in the same social sphere. She was the help. He was the town’s hero. He saved lives. She cleaned toilets.

He gave her a strange look, as if she were an oddity. In light of her most recent comment, that was fair. It was.

And then he shrugged.

Félicie blinked. Really? Of all the...

With a growl under her breath, she lifted her chin. He would not get the best of her. “Shrugs can be an ineffective means of communication. The shrugger assumes the person to whom the shrug was conveyed will understand correctly what the shrug means. Sometimes this does occur, especially if people know each other well. In this instance, sir, I have no idea what your shrug was meant to imply; thus, I am sorry to say, your attempt at communication has failed.”

“Carp?” A policeman strolled up. “Is there a problem?”

He said nothing. Not at first. He stared and stared and stared at her. Then—

“Nah, Seth. I got this.”

Félicie kept her face bland. Rolling her eyes at him would not be good form.

The police officer’s brown-eyed gaze shifted in her direction. The corner of his mouth quirked upward creating a dimple that, she was sure, he knew caused ladies to swoon. Or at least pledge undying devotion. “Well, now seeing how it’s my job to keep watch over the civilians—this time, my friend, I got this.” He tipped his hat then struck his hand out. “Sergeant Seth Beaufoy.”

Beaufoy? She seemed to recall Rena attended last year’s Flower Parade with a policeman named Beaufoy.
Delightful
had been Rena’s summarization of the parade.
Flatteries as polished as the brass buttons on his dark uniform
had been her summarization of the officer.

Sergeant Beaufoy looked at her quizzically. “Can I help you, Miss...?”

Félicie shook his hand. To not do so would be rude on her part. Thankfully, etiquette did not require she share her name. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Beaufoy. Could you direct me to the building’s owners?”

“Are you friends with Miss Laurent?” he asked, still shaking her hand. “Or family?”

“I know her.” Félicie smiled because, in her experience, a smile distracted people from realizing she had not answered their question. Smiling rested nicer on her conscience than lying did.

Yes, there was that, too.

“I have business with Madame Laurent,” she explained.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Sergeant Beaufoy flashed her another one of those swoon-inciting grins that, strangely, made her want to chuckle. “They make clothes, you wear clothes, et cetera, et cetera.” He waved at nothing in particular. It struck her that even if he realized the clothes she wore were not items Madame Laurent would make or sell, he would not care. Why that made her sad, she had no idea.

“Seth, let her go.”

“Carp, be honest. Does she look like she wants me to let her go?” Sergeant Beaufoy winked, and her cheeks felt as warm as the hand he continued to hold. “I think she doesn’t.”

Félicie looked to Captain Yeary. Unlike Sergeant Seth Beaufoy, he wore no smile. He looked down his perfectly straight nose at her. What was that supposed to mean? If she were she Pearl or Alta, she would know how to respond. Rena would know how to respond. Rena knew how to flirt and be coy and how to interpret a man’s glances, winks, and shrugs. Even Mama Helaine could, and she was fifty!

But for the last twelve years, Mama Helaine and Rena had not lived in a hotel or spent their time cleaning a hotel room like Félicie had—alone. Except for church on Sundays, her interaction with men—really, with people—was limited.

Both men looked at her in expectation of a response.

Félicie pasted on a smile. When in doubt, smile.

“Seth, let go of her,” repeated Captain Yeary.

“Alas, my dear.” Sergeant Beaufoy raised her hand to his lips. “Until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she echoed, tightening her coat around her chest.

“The Leap Year Day festival. I’ll look for you at the concert in the park.”

Oh. That. The last Leap Year Day festival she attended had been in the previous millennium—1892, to be precise. Back when her twelve-year-old self still believed in fairies, good luck, and love conquering all. Nothing in the world could convince her to attend tomorrow’s festival.

Félicie indented the corner of her mouth. “You may look for me.” There. She could be coy.

“Yes, indeed I will.” After a slap to Captain Yeary’s shoulder, Sergeant Beaufoy walked off.

“It was nice speaking with you,” Félicie said to be polite. “To you both. I shall leave now.”

Captain Yeary stepped forward.

Félicie stepped back...and then stepped again to put even more distance between them.

His gloved-hand grabbed her arm. “Wrong way.”

Félicie said nothing as he gently pulled her out of the middle of the street. She hurried to keep pace with him. She did, however, noticed the number of people looking their way. She could only imagine what they were thinking: There goes our Carp gallantly rescuing another stray. Another orphan.

Another cast-off.

“I am not a lost pet needing rescue,” she muttered.

His hand readjusted its hold on her. He kept walking, giving no indication of having heard her. If he had, he clearly felt her comment needed no response. Best course of action was to say as little as possible to this man.

Félicie looked to where his grip encircled her forearm. Even if she tried to free herself, she knew he would hold on as long as he felt necessary. How could she know that? How? She did not know him. She did not know his character. She only knew what she had heard about him and how she had seen people at church adore him. So much was hero worship. She did her best to keep her distance, so no one would take her for being a part of the fawning crowd.

Why did everyone think he was a prince among men? He was just a man. Flawed, human, and alone like everyone else.

~***~

Move her to safety—that was his only objective. Only. Carp stopped on the sidewalk, under a glowing street lamp near the ambulance. Although stunned at how frail she felt, he released her arm. If she had excess fat anywhere on her body, he’d be shocked. His gaze fell to the stitching on her sleeve. Her brown coat had seen better days. No hat, no gloves. Good thing they were experiencing a mild Kansas winter. ’Course, he’d known it to snow here in March.

“Carp!” Leland waved him back to engine, signaling the mopping up was finished.

With the fire out and the cause confirmed an electrical short, his job was done. Here at least. He still had to return to the station and fill out paperwork. Miss Cora and Miss Sadie had dinner waiting for him at home. They’d insist he have a good night’s sleep so he’d be refreshed for the festival.

After all, he was the guest of honor.

Carp inclined his head to where the dressmaker stood talking with her daughter. “Your friends—they’ll need somewhere to stay for the night, if you know of a place.”

Her troubled gaze shifted to them. “I do.” She paused. “There was no need for you to walk me over here. You could have pointed out where they were,” she said in a voice as smooth as it was confident. He’d wager she enjoyed reading aloud, even if she was only reading to herself, because she liked to hear the preciseness of the words. She had the kind of voice that compelled people to listen.

Best guess, she was a lady who had fallen on hard times.

Could be looking for employment with the French dressmaker.

“Helping people is my job,” he said to fill the silence as he waited for her to walk away.

She didn’t move. Or thank him. Or gush praises over him for being their hero as most women tended to do while batting their eyelashes repeatedly. Her head—a little heart-shaped, a little oval—tilted to the left. She regarded him with an unnerving expression. A challenging one.

A be-honest-with-me one.

You have no idea who I am, do you?

Her words had struck him more as a statement than a question. She knew he had no idea. Something told him, he should know her name. Or at least he ought to know from where he knew her, from where he’d seen her before. Her hair, rich as coffee, was pulled back in a silky and precise bun at the nape of her neck, with not a hair out of place. Blue-gray eyes the color of the morning sky after sunrise. Lips moist and pink, and remarkably full. Beautiful? No. Even if she gained a few pounds, she would never command the spotlight in a crowd. She wouldn’t attract a company of firemen to stare like the dressmaker’s daughter had. Still, with ears, nose, and cheeks red from the cold, she had a wholesome, pretty look that a man wouldn’t mind waking up to.

Seth hadn’t known who she was either. The man literally had a book with names—and key details—of every unmarried female in Wichita. The man had courted a good number of them.

This woman, though...

Now that Carp had had a good look at her, he knew they’d never met. If they’d had, he would have escorted her to Herron’s Grocery and bought her a couple months’ worth of food.

She continued to study him. It was as if she could see into his soul. See his fears. Know his secrets.

Carp shook his head. She had no idea who he was.

“Carp!”

He waved at his men to let them know he was coming. He twisted his neck until he heard it pop. She might know his name. Might. She didn’t know him. She would never know his secrets. She was nothing more than a woman who looked like someone he knew.

Content with that thought, he took a step back. He’d already wasted too much time staring at her.

“You need to get inside where it’s warm,” he ordered.

“All right.”

He waited for her to say more.

She looked at him as if she was waiting for him to speak.

The dog they’d pulled from the fire ran up to her.

“Well, hello there, Miss Trudy-Bleu.” Smiling, she scooped the pug up in her arms. “I dare say you had an adventure tonight.”

The pug licked her hands.

“Fay—”

Carp looked to his right. One of the dressmaker’s hands was over her daughter’s mouth, the other held her arm as if to stop her from walking over. And that was his cue to leave. He didn’t need any more matchmaking women in his life.

Her voice was soft. So soft he almost didn’t hear her say, “Thank you for helping people.”

He scratched the pug behind the ears. “We all need rescuing now and then,” he said quietly. When he looked up, the girl was watching him with a curious expression in her blue-gray eyes. Carp cleared his throat. “It doesn’t mean we’re weak.”

She nodded and then frowned. Her lovely eyes focused on the sidewalk, her mind lost in her own thoughts.

“Have a good evening.” Carp turned and had taken two steps when—

“Then what does it mean?”

He paused. His heartbeat increased. He opened his mouth to respond, but when no answer came, he closed it.

She continued to scratch the pug’s neck. “I can accept the premise that we all need rescuing now and then. But if our need to be rescued is not because we are weak, then for what reason is it?”

“You tell me,” he grumbled. Who was she to lecture him? Didn’t she know who he was?

She let out a laugh. “The obvious answer is because we
are
weak or lost or caught—literally, figuratively, or spiritually—on the second floor of a building on fire. On the other hand, the deeper meaning is...well, I have no idea,” she said and didn’t sound the least bit ashamed at not knowing. “It is time I leave you. Good night.”

She turned and walked away.

Carp sighed with relief. Talking to her made his brain hurt. She was a strange woman and a strangely familiar one at that. She was also the first female he’d spoken with for more than two minutes and hadn’t learned her name. Right now, he wasn’t quite sure what bothered him more.

All materials, except metals, brickwork and stone, are susceptible to the action of fire; indeed, if the temperature be high enough even these substances are melted or disintegrated. Such excessively high temperatures, however, are of comparatively rare occurrence, and consequently it is usual to term a building constructed entirely of brick, stone and iron—fireproof.

~
The Chemistry of Fire and Fire Prevention

9:23 a.m.

Saturday - February 29th

Hotel Carey dining room

“M
Y NEW CLOTHES ARE RUINED
?” Félicie blurted, her racing pulse causing her words to stampede out of her mouth. “As in gone, destroyed, mitigated to ash, I shall never see them again?”

Mama Helaine nodded.

Rena fed a piece of scrambled egg to Miss Trudy-Bleu.

Félicie laid her fork next to her own breakfast plate, her appetite gone.
Ruined, ruined, ruined
circled in her mind like an unending carousel. Her vision blurred. Eyes burned with tears.

Hats. Day dresses. Skirts and blouses. Wool cloak. Silk stockings. Fancy white leather boots. All ruined by fire, smoke, and fire-extinguishing chemicals. Destroyed because they were all in the storage room next to the electrical box, the closest items for the spark to feast upon. Unwearable because her helps’ hall apartment had had no room for her new wardrobe. And now she had a large closet in a larger apartment on the hotel’s second floor and all she had to fill it was a winter coat, a nightgown, and a handful of undergarments.

Félicie Richmond, calligrapher of the prestigious Hotel Carey did not wear faded gray skirts and white waist shirts that had seen their better day. One outfit—what she wore—was all she had left, except for two black chambermaid uniforms. How was she to start her new job without something to wear appropriate for the position? She could not speak to hotel patrons about their invitation orders when her clothes were unsuitable for a lady.

She had studied the art of fine dressing. She had bought as much beauty as she could afford. And now it was ash.

Ten years of savings.

Up in flames.

Ten years of planning.

Gone.

Ten years of sacrifice to improve her lot in life.

Pointless.

She blinked away her tears. She would have to resign her calligrapher position and resume being a chambermaid. Later she would return to her room and cry. Right now, her employers and too many hotel guests were in the dining room. Ladies did not cry in public…even when they sat in the far corner of a dining room, away from other patrons.

Félicie drew in calming breath. She looked up and met the gazes of the two people in Wichita she loved the most. Her almost mother. Her almost sister. “Is there a reason why you two waited until we had nearly finished eating to tell me the news?”

Rena fed Miss Trudy-Bleu another piece of egg. “I voted to tell you earlier, but Mama—you know how our mother is. Don’t let this devastate you, Fay. You are strong and smart and beautiful and will find a solution.”

“Not this time,” Félicie murmured testily.

Mama Helaine gave an apologetic smile. “
Mon petit chou
, I do not like to see you in pain.” She picked up her teacup. “Captain Yeary said the damage could have been worse. It could have spread from the storage room to the shop and workrooms or upstairs to our living quarters.”

Félicie felt her upper lip curl. Once again a day could not pass without hearing his name. He managed to save all the other gowns in the shop. He should have been able to save hers, too.

“Miss Félicie—I mean, Miss Richmond?” Washington stopped at the table. He smoothed the white cloth over his arm. “May I take your plate?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Mama Helaine motioned to her plate and Rena’s then took her leisure in sipping her tea. Everything Mama Helaine did—from how she dressed to how she drank tea to how she breathed—she epitomized being a lady. The feather in her silk hat? Stylish. Black-and-white suit? Elegant. Ruby ring on her right pinkie finger? Chic. Helaine de Tremoille-Sabin-Laurent-
Peddicord
could dress in burlap and still look sophisticated. She was a lady, not by birth but by choice of character.

“Thank you,” Rena said as Washington took her plate and precariously balanced all three without letting the china clink. “Might I get a refill of juice when you have a chance?”

“Certainly, Miss Laurent.” His white smile shone bright against his dark skin. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

“Miss Richmond,” Mama Helaine said, “will take another glass of milk.”

He nodded.

Mama Helaine gave Félicie a pointed, you-need-to-eat-more look.

As Washington walked away, Félicie looked to where the other servers stood. She would wager they were all staring at Rena who looked lovely as ever, even though she wore yesterday’s deep purple gown. Her red curls spiraled effortlessly out of her chignon. Rena’s cornflower blue eyes with their thick dark lashes against her milky-white skin were what inspired poetry. Rena hated poetry. Especially poems written about her.

She loved people, though, even the flatterers who treated her as nothing more than a pretty face. She made Félicie want to—try to, although she usually failed to—love people like she did. It was strange how Rena could look at people and see life through their eyes, see the best in them. Having Rena in one’s life made a person a better person. From the day they’d met in the orphanage, Rena had begun making Félicie a better person.

Rena Laurent was more kind, more merciful, and more compassionate than she was beautiful, and that was saying much.

Rena adjusted Miss Trudy-Bleu’s collar. She added nothing to the conversation, which was odd. Rena was never without words. Last night while Félicie helped them settle into their hotel room, Rena had talked. This morning while Rena helped Félicie move her belongings to her new apartment, Rena had talked. Something happened during the five-minute conversation before breakfast that Mama Helaine had had with Rena after returning from the inspection of the building. Something Mama Helaine had said caused Rena’s silence.

“The insurance—” Mama Helaine cut her words off. She smiled as Washington set Rena’s juice and Félicie’s milk on the table. The moment he was out of hearing distance, she said, “The insurance inspector said our policy will cover the damage. We were fortunate.”

“
You
were,” Félicie clarified. “I was not.”

“
Oui
.” Mama Helaine sipped her tea again. “I will replace what you lost.”

“No, you will not.”

“Fay, don’t—
ow!
” Rena glared at Mama Helaine.

Félicie did not have to see to know Mama Helaine had kicked Rena.

“Stubbornness is not becoming...on either of you.” Mama Helaine set her teacup down. Her voice softened. “Félicie, you are as much my daughter as Rena is. You will let me do this for you.”

“Rena is adopted,” Félicie pointed out. “You are legally bound to provide for her.”

Sadness lingered in Mama Helaine’s deep-set eyes. “I would have adopted you too if you would have let me. We have the same coloring. No one would have known otherwise.” She paused. “If she wanted to find you, she would have by now. You know that.”

Her future was in ruin, her heart hurt, and this was not a conversation she wished to be having. The past needed to stay in the past.

Félicie laid her napkin on the table. “I need to find Mr. Eaton and explain why I must resign.”

“Don’t be hasty,” Rena put in. “I’ll give you some of my dresses.”

“No,” Félicie replied. “I will not be a person who relies on others when the going gets tough.” Yet she stayed seated, as her mind fought for a solution. Resigning, she conceded, was a hasty decision. If she took her earning from this past week and if Mr. Eaton agreed to advance her next month’s pay, she could afford a ready-made suit which she could turn into three different outfits. If she could convince Mr. Eaton to see the merit in allowing her to work in her apartment, then she could wear her old uniform while doing her calligraphy and change clothes for when she had to meet patrons.

If. If. If.

Once again her future lay in Mr. Eaton’s hands.

Mama Helaine reached inside the sleeve of her fawn velvet gown and withdrew a folded sheet of stationary. She laid it in front of Félicie.

“What is this?” she asked, picking it up.

“A list of potential husbands. All will feel obligated to do the right thing in light of recent events.”

That was Mama Helaine’s solution? Find a man.

It made sense because Mama Helaine had found three men who married her then conveniently died, leaving her an even wealthier widow each time. That she had actually loved them and grieved their passing somewhat mollified her behavior. The last one—Mark Peddicord—was the only one of the three Félicie had met. Within weeks of the wedding, Papa Mark had become the father she never had. He had made her laugh so hard she cried. He had loved adventure, and when he was absent, her life was dull. If she could find a man like him, she might consider marrying. He not only told her she could climb mountains, but he climbed alongside.

He learned to swim by teaching her and Rena.

He learned to shoot a gun by teaching her and Rena.

He learned to dance by letting her and Rena teach him, even though they knew he was only pretending to have two left feet.

He was their father for eight months and four days, and then he died. Rena cried. Mama Helaine opened her dressmaking shop. Félicie became a linen girl at the hotel. She moved out. Moved on.

Félicie stared at the folded paper, wagging her head. Marriage may solve one problem, but it also created others. She looked up. “I—”

Rena leaned forward. “I voted against this idea. Just want that clear.”

Mama Helaine gave Rena a slant-eyed glare. “Have I not taught you both that all thoughts and opinions need not be shared?” She waved at nothing in particular. “Say no more, Rena. You are next.”

“No,” she said, her irritation clear in her tone. “I refuse to marry because you are embarrassed that Fay and I are twenty-eight-year-old spinsters. And I am certainly not proposing to a man today or any other day this year.”

Proposing?

Félicie looked back and forth between Rena and Mama Helaine. Oh! Today was Leap Year Day. She had forgotten. No, she had put it out of her mind because of the absurdity of it all.

Since the leap year day existed to fix a problem in the calendar, the adage was that it could also be used to fix an old and unjust custom that only let men propose marriage. Wichitans loved traditions. Or at least they loved the excuse to celebrate. Despite how ridiculous Leap Year Day traditions were...well, here they were celebrating again. Parade in the morning. Picnic, concert and games in the afternoon. Balls for those in every social sphere all over town in the evening. And leaplings—leapers? leapophiles? oh, whatever they were called—were the guests of honor everywhere. All two of them.

She would wager the merchants in town were the ones propagating the festival. They had to love the “rule” that when the man declined to marry, there must be a consolation prize of a silk dress and a kiss on the cheek. After all, successful and unsuccessful proposals were in their financial best interests.

Even Mama Helaine made extra gowns specifically for—

Félicie’s mouth fell open, and it took several moments before she managed to say, “I will not ask a man to marry me just so he will refuse. I am not that desperate for a dress.”

“Here, here.” Rena punctuated her words with a thump of her fist on the table.

Mama Helaine laid her napkin down, tears brimming in her eyes. She gathered her gloves and pocketbook. “My hope was that this would encourage you to step out of your shell. Maybe then you would find someone to love.” She draped her coat over her arm. “I am going to watch the parade. Neither of you may join me.”

And then she left.

Rena shot Félicie a wry look. “You don’t believe her, do you?”

“I—” Félicie shook her head. “I am not sure what to believe.” She held the note up, giving it a shake. “She gave me a list of men to propose to. Why? What would persuade her to do such a thing?”

“She’s lonely.”

Félicie blinked. And the connection was...?

Rena clearly read her mind. “I know it doesn’t make sense. Mama Helaine is lonely; thus, we must be lonely too. Since she has yet to find another husband—and, really, what are the odds of finding another man as wonderful as Papa Mark?—she has decided to find ones for us.”

“I have no desire to marry.”

“Me neither.”

“There is no other man in Wichita like Papa Mark.”

“I’ve courted enough of them to know
that’s
certainly true.”

Félicie sighed.

Rena did, too.

Miss Trudy-Bleu laid her head down on the table and released a puff of breath.