Vows (23 page)
"We just got back half an hour ago." He scanned the room but Emily hadn't arrived yet.
"We've been waiting for you so we could start the games."
Tarsy commandeered Tom across a parlor filled with many of the same faces he'd met last week, but this time the older generation hadn't been invited. The group appeared to be all young and single. In the adjoining dining room they'd gathered around the table where they talked and laughed and drank punch. Charles was there but when Tom tried to veer over and talk to him Tarsy dragged him away. "Oh, you and that Charles! You see him every day at work, isn't that enough?" She raised her voice and beckoned everyone into the parlor. "Come on, everybody, we can start the games now! Everybody in here!" Tarsy began arranging chairs in a circle.
Tom slipped away to get himself a cup of punch and met Charles in the dining room archway.
"How did it go?" Charles inquired.
"I got a good start—four riding horses."
"And you actually made it back with no mortal wounds?" Grinning, Charles pretended to inspect Tom for damage, front and back. "No broken bones?"
"She was the epitome of politeness. We got along remarkably well."
"I'll know by one glance at her face when she walks through that door."
"Sorry I made her late. Mmm … who spiked the punch?"
"Probably Tarsy herself, the little wildcat."
Tom glanced around the two rooms. "No parents around, either?"
"No. I think Tarsy has designs on you and having parents around would be against her better interests. They're out for the evening, playing whist. I think we're being summoned … for the second time."
They went to join the others. While Tarsy began explaining the game, Emily arrived—a transformed Emily. Tom took one look at her and felt an involuntary force field build within himself. She'd spent less than an hour convening from tomboy to woman, but the transition was complete. Her hair was twisted high onto her head like an egg in a nest, with loose wisps rimming her face. She wore an astonishing dress of mauve, the rich hue of a spring hyacinth. It was as proper, feminine, and concealing as anything Queen Victoria herself might wear, with its high, banded neck, tucked, tight top, form-fitting long sleeves, and a hip ruffle dropping in a bouncing cascade over her rump. Ivory lace trimmed the garment in such a way that it drew a man's eye to strategic places. Over it she'd thrown a fringed shawl, caught carelessly over one shoulder and the opposite elbow. Where was the girl who'd pulled dead pigs all afternoon? And assessed horseflesh? And ridden several hours on horseback? She was gone, and in her place a woman whose appearance momentarily knocked the breath from Tom Jeffcoat.
He watched her eyes seek and find Charles and telegraph him a private hello, watched his best friend cross the parlor to touch her shoulders and take her shawl while he himself felt the sting of jealousy. Charles rested a hand just above her rear flounce and said something that made her release a short huff of laughter. She replied and they both glanced Tom's way. The amusement fell from her face as if she'd run up against a barbed-wire fence. Immediately she glanced away and Tom raised his punch cup to his lips, realizing Charles observed.
Tarsy called across the parlor. "Oh, Emily, you're here at last. Hurry and take a chair so we can start the game."
Emily and Charles sat across from Tom while he attempted to forget they were there.
He shifted his attention to Tarsy. Tarsy was giddy with excitement, announcing a game called Squeak, Piggy, Squeak. She had placed the chairs in a circle facing inward and when everyone was seated, stood in the center, ordering, "Everyone has to pick a number between one and a hundred to see who's first."
"To do what?" someone asked.
"You'll see. Now pick."
The winning number was chosen by Ardis Corbeil, a tall, freckled redhead who blushed as she reluctantly got to her feet in the center of the circle.
"What do I have to do?"
"You'll see. Now turn around." Tarsy produced a folded scarf.
"You're not going to blindfold me, are you?"
"Well, of course I'm going to blindfold you. Then I'll spin you around a few times and give you a cushion, and the cushion is the only thing you can touch anybody with. The first person you touch, you have to sit on his lap and say 'Squeak, piggy, squeak.' Then he has to squeak and you have to guess who he is."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
Snickers began around the room while Ardis allowed herself to be blindfolded and spun around. Tarsy spun her until the poor girl could scarcely tell up from down.
Muted laughter and whispers tittered through the room. "Shh! No talking or she'll know where you are! Are you dizzy yet, Ardis?"
Poor Ardis was more than dizzy; she reeled and groped and nearly toppled over when released. Tarsy steadied her. "Now, here's your cushion, and remember, no hands! You get three squeaks to guess whose lap you're on, and if you guess right, it's that person's turn to be blindfolded, otherwise you have to pay a forfeit. All right now?"
From beneath the blindfold came Ardis's uncertain nod.
The room quieted of all but smothered snickers. Tipped forward at the waist, Ardis shuffled and stumbled three steps, leading with the cushion.
Tt-tt.
"Shh!" Tarsy slipped into a chair and the room grew silent.
Ardis scuffed forward with the cushion extended in both hands, sliding her soles cautiously across the floor. The cushion bumped Mick Stubbs in the face. He drew back and compressed his lips to keep from laughing outright. Ardis patted the cushion up his head, down his shoulder to his chest, and finally to his knees.
Some of the girls blushed and clapped their hands over their mouths.
Tom glanced at Emily and found her watching him. They sat like islands of stillness in the jollity around them while everyone else's attention was riveted on the game. How long? A second? Five seconds? Long enough for Tom Jeffcoat to realize that what he'd sensed happening between them this afternoon had not been a figment of his imagination. She was feeling it, too, and was doing her best to submerge it. He had been in love once before and recognized the warning signs. Fascination. Watchfulness. The urge to touch.
Beside her, Charles laughed, and she glanced aside with forced nonchalance. Tom, too, returned his attention to the game in progress.
Ardis was perched on Mick's knees and his. face was red with suppressed laughter.
"Squeak, piggy, squeak," Ardis ordered.
Mick tried, but his squeak sounded more like a snort.
Everybody snickered.
"Shh!"
"Squeak, piggy, squeak!"
This time Mick managed a high-pitched vocal rendition that brought laughter erupting all around. Ardis still failed to identify him.
"Squeak, piggy, squeak!"
Mick's third try was a masterpiece—high, shrill, porcine. Unfortunately for Mick, at its end the entire roomful of people was hooting so loud that he lost control himself, giving away his identity.
"It's Mick Stubbs!" Ardis shrieked, yanking off her blindfold. "I knew it! Now you have to wear this thing!"
Mick Stubbs weighed a good 215 pounds. He had a bushy brown beard, and arms as thick as most men's thighs. He made a hilarious sight being blindfolded, twirled, and groping his way onto the lap of Martin Emerson, another bearded guest. It was impossible not to get caught up in the hilarity of the evening as the game proceeded. Everybody loved it. Martin Emerson groped his way to Tarsy, and Tarsy groped her way to Tilda Awk, and Tilda Awk groped her way to Tom Jeffcoat, and Tom groped his way to Patrick Haberkorn; and along the way Tom found himself laughing as hard as the others. He knew the moment Emily, too, began enjoying herself. He saw her resistance to the game melt when the humor grew infectious. He saw her first smile, heard her first laughter, admired her face wreathed in gayness, a facet of her he'd observed too few times. Emily, smiling, was a sight to behold. But always, beside her was Charles. Charles, to whom she was betrothed.
After "Squeak, Piggy, Squeak," everybody voted to pause and refresh their punch cups.
Tarsy monopolized Tom during the break, and he turned his attentions to her gladly, relieved to have them diverted from Emily Walcott. Tarsy was a pretty girl, amusing, and very lively. He made up his mind the best thing he could do for himself was to enjoy her and forget about this afternoon, and the becoming arrangement of Emily Walcott's hair, and how pretty she looked in the mauve dress, and the glances they'd exchanged across a crowded room.
"Tom, come here! I have to talk to you!" Excited, Tarsy tugged him aside and lowered her voice secretively. "Will you do something with me?"
"Maybe." He grinned down flirtatiously into her brown eyes, sipping his drink. "Depends on what it is."
"Will you be first with me on the next game?"
"Depends on what it is."
"It's Poor Pussy."
His grin idled on her eager face. He knew the game. It was filled with innuendo and a certain amount of touching, and he sensed in an instant her underlying reason for introducing it. "And who's the poor pussy, you or me?"
"I am. All you have to do is sit on a chair and try to stay sober while I do my best to make you laugh."
He took another sip of brandy punch, enjoying her avid brown eyes and thinking, what better way to show everyone—Charles included—that Tarsy was the one who sparked his interest?
"All right."
Tarsy giggled and hauled him by an arm into the parlor to resume the fun. "Come on, everybody, we're going to play a new game. Poor Pussy!"
Tarsy's guests returned eagerly, their party mood enhanced by the brandy and the success of the first game. When everyone was seated, once more in a circle, Tarsy explained, "The object of Poor Pussy is for two people to try not to laugh. I'm going to be a cat, and I'll choose anyone I want to play to. The only word I can say is 'meow,' and whoever I say it to is only allowed to say, 'poor pussy.' Three times is all we can speak. If either one of us laughs we have to pay a forfeit of the other one's choice, all right?"
Tarsy's guests murmured approval and settled into their chairs for more amusement.
"Of course," Tarsy added, "all of you can talk all you want—you can prod and tease and offer any suggestions that come to mind. Here we go."
Poor Pussy was so ridiculously simple, it succeeded for its sheer absurdity. Tarsy dropped to her hands and knees and affected a kittenish pout that began everyone laughing immediately. She arched her back and sidled up to several knees before finally adopting a supplicating posture at Tom Jeffcoat's feet. She batted her eyelashes up at him and gave a pitiful "
Meoooow
." The observers chuckled as Tom sat cross-armed and consoled, "Poor pussy."
From Tom's left, Patrick Haberkorn nudged his elbow and teased, "You can do better than that, Jeffcoat. Stroke her fur a little!"
Unable to speak, lest he end up being the one owing a forfeit, Tom looked her over as if with piqued interest, tilting his head to one side.
Tarsy tried again with a doleful, feline, "
Meeeeeeowwwwww
." She made a winning cat, preening herself against Tom's knee and putting on an appealing pout.
"Poor pussy looks like she's starved for attention," Haberkorn improvised.
Tom reached down and petted Tarsy's head, then scratched her beneath the chin, running his fingertips down her throat. "Poooooor pussy," he sympathized. He was in no danger of laughing, but the dimple in his cheek deepened and his mouth took on a half grin as he teased her overtly.
The others got into the spirit of the game and strengthened their efforts to get either of the pair to laugh.
"Who let that mangy cat in here!"
"Hey, pussy, where's your sandbox?"
Tarsy was in the midst of meowing and rubbing her ear against Tom's pant leg when Charles called, "Anybody got a mouse to feed her?" and Tarsy collapsed in merriment, followed by everyone else in the room. Tarsy knelt on the floor, head hanging, too overcome with mirth to get to her feet, having too much fun to try. Tom caught her arm and drew them both to their feet, enjoying himself immensely. "All right everybody, you heard Tarsy. She has to pay me a forfeit."