Vows (13 page)

 
Fannie seemed amazed when she realized the dishes were all put away.

 
"Gracious, I didn't do a one!"

 
"We don't care," Tarsy said. "Tell us more."

 
They trailed upstairs where the stories continued as Fannie began unpacking a trunk, winning a series of near-swoons from Tarsy as she pulled out dress after dress, more glamorous than anything Sheridan had ever seen.

 
"The last time I wore this one, I swore I never would again." Fannie held up a dress with lace rosettes running diagonally from breast to hip. "We were playing parlor games and it gave me away."

 
"Parlor games?" Tarsy's eyes danced with interest.

 
"They're the rage back East."

 
"What kind?"

 
"Oh, many different kinds. There's whist and dominoes and hangman. And of course, the men-and-women kind."

 
"Men-and-women kind?"

 
Fanny laughed enchantingly and collapsed on the side of the bed with the dress heedlessly smashed onto her lap. "I'm afraid I shouldn't have brought them up. They can be quite naughty at times."

 
Tarsy bent forward, insisting, "Tell us!"

 
Fannie seemed to consider, then folded the dress with the rosettes and crossed her hands on it. "Very well, but it wouldn't be a good idea if your parents found out about them, particularly Joey. She never approved of levity, and most certainly not this sort!"

 
Agog, Tarsy wiggled closer. "We won't tell, will we, Emily? What kind of games?"

 
"Well, there's Poor Pussy and Musical Potatoes, for laughs, and Alice, Where Art Thou, in which the suspense gets hairsplitting. And then when the night gets older and everyone is feeling … well, freer, shall we say, there's the Blind Postman, and French Blind Man's Buff. That's the one we were playing the night this dress gave me away."

 
Fannie gave a provocative sideward glance and a mincing grin. Tarsy fell forward in a melodramatic show of impatience. "But what were you
doing
?"

 
"Well, you see, one player is blinded—he has a scarf tied over his eyes, naturally—
but
…" Fannie paused effectively. "His hands are tied behind his back."

 
Tarsy gasped and waved her hands beside her cheeks as if she'd just taken a bite of something too hot. Emily barely kept her eyes from rolling.

 
Fannie went on: "The others position themselves around the room and the blind man is only permitted to walk backwards. The others tease and buff him by pulling at his clothes or tickling his face with a feather. When he finally succeeds in seizing someone, the blind man has to guess who it is. If he guesses right, the prisoner must pay a forfeit."

 
"What's a forfeit?"

 
"Oh, forfeits are the most fun."

 
"But what are they?"

 
"Whatever the blind man decides. Sometimes the prisoner must become the blind man, sometimes if everyone's in a silly mood he must imitate an animal, and sometimes … if it's one of the opposite sex, she must pay a kiss."

 
Emily found herself startled by the very idea. Kissing was an intimate thing; she could not imagine doing it in a parlor with a roomful of people looking on! But Tarsy flung herself backwards and groaned ecstatically, fantasizing. She gazed at the ceiling, one foot dangling over the edge of the mattress. "I'd give anything to go to a party like that. We never have parties. It's dull as liver around here."

 
"We could have one—not that kind, of course. It wouldn't be proper. But it certainly seems that Emily's betrothal deserves a formal announcement. We could invite all your young friends, and certainly Edwin and Joey will want to ring out the news to
their
friends and business acquaintances. Why don't we plan one?"

 
Tarsy sprang up and grabbed Emily, nearly toppling her off the bed. "Of course, Emily! It's the perfect idea. I'll help. I'll come over and … and … well, anything at all. Say yes, Em … pleeeeease!"

 
"We could have it next Saturday night," Fannie suggested. "That would give you a full week to get the word out."

 
"Well … it … I…" The idea became suddenly exciting to Emily. She imagined how Papa would enjoy having people in the house again, and how proper it would be for both him and Charles to invite those with whom they did business. And Tarsy was right, this town was dull as liver, hadn't she just said as much to Charles? But suddenly Emily's expression became a warning signal and she pointed straight at Tarsy. "No kissing games though, do you understand?"

 
"Oh, perfectly," Tarsy agreed breezily. "Right, Fannie?"

 
"Oh, none!" Fannie seconded.

 
The two of them had only met today and Emily had heard every word they'd said to one another. Yet she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that they were wordlessly conspiring.

Chapter 5

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^
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O
n Monday morning, Tom Jeffcoat awakened in his room at the Windsor Hotel and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking of Julia. Julia March, with her heart-shaped face and almond eyes, her caramel-blond hair and dainty hands. Julia March, who'd worn his betrothal brooch for more than half a year. Julia March, who had thrown him over for another.

 
His eyes slammed shut.

 
When would the memory stop stinging?

 
Not today. Certainly not today when it was only 5:30 A.M. and she was on his mind already.

 
It's done with. Get that through your head!

 
Throwing the covers back, he leapt from bed and skinned on his britches, letting the suspenders dangle at his sides. Snatching the white porcelain pitcher from the washstand, he stepped barefoot into the hall and helped himself to a generous slough of hot water from a covered tin container waiting on a trivet.

 
Hell, the Windsor wasn't so bad. It was clean, the food was decent, and the water hot when promised. Besides, he wouldn't be here long. He fully intended to have his own house up before the snow flew.

 
But what about then? Would it be any less lonely? Would he miss his family any less? Would he miss Julia any less?

 
Julia's practically on her way up the aisle. Put her from your mind.

 
But it was impossible. Being alone so much gave him plenty of time for thinking, and Julia filled his thoughts day and night. Even now as he washed from the waist up he studied himself in the mirror, wondering what it was that she'd found preferable about Hanson. The blond hair? The brown eyes? The beard? The money? Well, he wasn't blond, his eyes were blue, he didn't like beards, and he sure as hell wasn't rich. He was so
un
rich he'd had to borrow money from his grandmother to come here. But he'd pay her back and make something of himself in this town. He'd show Julia! He might even become rich as a lord, and when he was, he wouldn't share a penny of his money with any woman alive. Women! Who needed the mercenary, fickle bitches?

 
He poured hot water into his shaving mug, worked up a lather, and lifted the brush toward his face. But he paused uncertainly, running four fingertips over his scratchy jaw, wondering if he should let the beard grow. Was it true? Did women really like them? Why, even that mouthy Walcott tomboy preferred a man with a beard. But he'd tried one before and found it hot, dangerous around the forge, and prickly when the hair grew in a tight curve and got long enough to poke him in the underside of his chin. Resolutely he lathered and scraped his face clean, then observed his bare-chested reflection with a critical eye.
Too dark. Too much hair on the chest. The wrong color eyes. Eyelashes too short. The dent in the left cheek ridiculously lopsided without a matching one on the right.

 
Suddenly he threw down the towel and released a disdainful snort.

 
Jeffcoat, what the hell are you doing? You never gave a damn before about how you measured up to other men.

 
But the fact remained: being spurned by a woman undermined a man's self-regard.

 
In the hotel dining room he ate an immense breakfast of steak and eggs, then headed toward Grinnell Street to get his wagon, dreading the idea of running into Emily Walcott in his present state of mind. If that damned little snot was there she'd better button her lip this time or he'd wrap that leather apron over her head and slip a horseshoe around her neck.

 
She wasn't. Edwin was. A likable man, Edwin Walcott, affable even at seven A.M.

 
"I hear you're meeting Charles this morning and going up to the Pinery after lumber."

 
"That's right."

 
Edwin smiled smugly. "Well, you'll be spending the day in the company of a happy man."

 
He offered no more, but minutes later when Jeffcoat pulled up before Charles's house. Bliss jogged out with a smile on his face. "Good morning!" he called.

 
"Morning," Tom replied.

 
"A wonderful morning!" exclaimed his companion.

 
It was, in fact, drearier than a Quaker wardrobe.

 
"You look happy."

 
"I am!" Charles bounded aboard.

 
"Any special reason?"

 
As the wagon began rolling Charles slapped both knees, then gripped them firmly. "The fact is, I'm getting married."

 
"Married!"

 
"Oh, not for a year or more, but she's finally said yes."

 
"Who?"

 
"Emily Walcott."

 
"Em—" Jeffcoat's eyes bugged out and his head jutted forward "Emily Walcott!"

 
"That's right."

 
"You mean the Emily Walcott with the britches and the leather apron?"

 
"That's right."

 
Jeffcoat rolled his eyes and muttered, "Jesus."

 
"What does that mean … Jesus?"

 
"Well, I mean … she's…" Tom gestured vaguely.

 
"She's what?"

 
"She's a shrew!"

 
"A shrew…" Surprisingly, Charles laughed. "She's a little spunky, but she's no shrew. She's bright and she cares about people, she's a hard worker—"

 
"And she wears suspenders."

 
"Is that all you can think of, is what a girl wears?"

 
"You mean it doesn't matter to you?"

 
"Not at all."

 
Tom found that magnanimous. "You know, I like you, Bliss, but I still feel like I ought to offer condolences instead of congratulations."

 
Amiably, Charles replied. "And I'm damned if I know why I don't knock you off that wagon seat."

 
"I'm sorry, but that girl and I get along like a pair of cats in a sack."

 
The two assessed each other, realizing they'd been wholly honest in a way that friends—even friends of long standing—can rarely be. It felt good.

 
Suddenly they both laughed, then Tom angled his new friend a half grin and challenged, "All right, tell me about her. Try to change my mind."

 
Charles did so gladly. "In spite of what you think of her, Emily's a wonderful girl. Our families were friends back in Philadelphia, so I've known her all my life. I decided when I was thirteen that I wanted to marry her. Matter of fact, I told Edwin so then, but he wisely advised me to put off asking her for a while." They both chuckled. "I asked her the first time about a year ago, and it took four proposals to get her to say yes."

 
"Four!" Jeffcoat raised one eyebrow. "Maybe you should have stopped while you were ahead."

 
"And maybe I'll knock you off that wagon seat yet." Charles playfully tried to do so. He punched Tom soundly on the arm, rocking him sideways.

 
"Well,
four!
My God, man, I'd have gone where I was welcome long before that."

 
Charles turned serious again. "Emily had things she wanted to do first. She's taking a correspondence course in veterinary medicine but she ought to finish that sometime next summer."

 
"I know. Edwin told me. And I made the mistake of peeking at her papers the first time I walked into the livery office. As usual, she lit into me. If I remember right,
that time
she called me rude and nosy." His inflection made it clear the altercation was only one of many.