Charles turned his gray eyes to Frankie. "Frankie, what do you say?"
"I don't care if Papa doesn't care."
"Emily?" He lifted his eyes to her and she had difficulty separating her distaste for Jeffcoat from the realization that Papa was probably right. Was she the only one in the place aggravated by the entire situation? Well, she hadn't their magnanimity, and she wouldn't pretend she did! With a flash of annoyance, she shot from her chair toward the front door. "Oh, I don't care!" she called back. "Do what you want!" A moment later the front screen door slammed.
Emily's peevishness put an end to the games in the parlor. Charles rose and said, "I'll go out and talk to her."
Edwin said, "Frankie, make sure you bury those fish guts before you go to bed." He went up to spend the remainder of the evening with his wife.
The porch wrapped around three sides of the house. Charles found Emily on the west arm, sitting on a wicker settee, facing the Big Horns and the paling peach sky.
She heard Charles's footsteps approach but continued leaning her head against the wall as he perched on the edge of the settee beside her, making the wicker snap. He joined his hands loosely between his knees and studied them.
"You're upset with me," he said quietly.
"I'm upset with life, Charles, not with you."
"With me too, I can tell."
She relented and rolled her head his way, studying him. She had grown up in an era when most men wore facial hair, yet she would never grow accustomed to it on Charles. His sandy brown mustache and beard were thick and neatly sculptured, yet she missed the clean, strong lines it hid. He had a fine jaw and a good chin, too attractive to hide beneath all that nap. The beard and mustache made him look older than he really was. Why would a man of twenty-one want to look like one approaching thirty? She stifled the critical thoughts and studied his eyes—intelligent gray eyes watching her now with the hurt carefully concealed.
"No," she assured him more softly, "not with you. With all the work, and the worry about Mother, and now this new man coming to town and competing with Papa. It's all very upsetting." She turned her gaze back to the Big Horns and sighed before going on. "And sometimes I miss Philadelphia so badly I think I'll simply die."
"I know. Sometimes I do, too."
They watched the sky take on a blue tint and eventually Charles inquired, "What do you miss most?"
"Oh…" She missed so many things—at that moment she could not choose one. "The skating parties and the round of visiting on New Year's Day and the summertime picnics. All the things we used to do with our friends. Here all we do is work and sleep, then work again and sleep again. There's no … no gaiety, no social life."
Charles remained silent. Finally, he said, "I miss it a lot, too."
"What do you miss most?"
"My family."
"Oh, Charles…" She felt tactless for having asked when she knew how lonely she herself would feel if she were suddenly two thousand miles away from Papa and Mother and Frankie. "But we're here for you anytime you need us," she added, because it was true. Because she could not imagine her home without Charles there most evenings and Sundays. Too late she saw the appeal in his eye and knew he would reach for her hand. When he did, she felt no more excitement than she had when she was six and he was nine and he had squired her down a Philadelphia street with their mothers behind them pushing perambulators.
"I have an idea," Charles said, suddenly brightening. "You're missing the picnics in Philadelphia, so why don't we plan one?"
"Just the two of us?"
"Why not?"
"Oh, Charles…" She retrieved her hand and dropped her head against the wall. "I barely have time to do the washing and ironing and fix suppers and take my turn with Mother."
"There's Sunday."
"The cooking doesn't stop for Sundays."
"Surely you can find a couple of hours. How about this Sunday? I'll bring the food. And we'll take your father's little black shay for two and drive up into the foothills and drink sarsaparilla and stretch out in the sun like a couple of lazy lizards." In his earnestness he captured both of her hands. "What do you say, Emily?"
To get away for even an afternoon sounded so wonderful that she couldn't resist "Oh, all right. But I won't be able to leave until the others are fed."
Elated, Charles kissed her hands—two grazing touches meant to keep the mood gay. But when his head lifted, he gripped her fingers more tightly and the expression in his eyes intensified.
Oh no, don't spoil it, Charles, she thought.
"Emily," he appealed softly while lifting one of her hands again to his lips. The sky had darkened to midnight blue and nobody was around to see what happened in the shadow of the deep porch as he took her arms and drew her close, dropping his mouth over hers. She acquiesced, but at the touch of his warm lips and prickly mustache she thought. Why must I have known you all my life? Why can you not be some mysterious stranger who galloped into town and gave me a second look that rocked me off my feet? Why is the scent of wood shavings on your skin and of tonic on your hair too familiar to be exciting? Why must I love you in the same way I love Frankie?
When the kiss ended her heart was plunking along as restfully as if she'd just awakened and stretched from a long nap.
"Charles, I must go in now," she said.
"No, not yet," he whispered, holding her arms.
She dropped her chin so he wouldn't kiss her again. "Yes … please, Charles."
"Why do you always pull away?"
"Because it isn't proper."
He drew an unsteady breath and released her. "Very well … but I'll plan on Sunday then."
He walked her to the door and she felt his reluctance to leave, to return to his empty house. It brought to Emily a nagging sense of guilt for being unable to conjure up the feelings he wanted of her, for being unable to fill the void left by his family, even for finding disfavor with his mustache and beard when other women, she was sure, found them most appealing.
She knew when he paused and turned to her that he wanted to kiss her again, but she slipped inside before he could.
"Good night, Charles," she said through the screen door.
"Good night, Emily." He stood studying her, banking his disappointment. I'll win you over yet, you know."
As she watched him cross the porch she had the deflating feeling he was right.
* * *
Upstairs, Edwin was reading to Josephine from Forty Liars and Other Lies by Edgar Wilson Nye, but he knew her mind was far from Nye's humorous depictions of the West.
"…leading a string of paint ponies along an arroyo where—"
"Edwin?" she interrupted, staring at the ceiling.
He lowered the book and studied her anxiously. "Yes, dear?"
"What are we going to do?" she whispered.
"Do?" He set the book aside and left his cot to sit on the edge of the big bed.
"Yes. What are we going to do from now until I die?"
"Oh, Josie, don't—"
She gestured to silence him. "We both know it, Edwin, and we must make plans."
"We don't know it." He took her pale, frail fingers and squeezed them. "Look at what happened to Stetson."
"I've been here well over a year already and by now I know I won't be as lucky as Stet—" She broke into a spasm of coughing that bent her and made her quiver like a divining rod.
He bolstered her back and leaned close. "Don't talk anymore, Josie. Save your breath … please."
The racking cough continued for a full two minutes before she fell back, exhausted. He brushed the hair away from her sweating brow and studied her gaunt face, his own weighted with despair at being unable to help her in any way.
"Rest, Josie."
"No," she mouthed, grasping his hand to keep him near. "Listen to me, Edwin." She struggled to control her breathing, taking deep drafts of air, building her reserve for the words ahead. "I'm not going to get downstairs again and we both know it. I scarcely
have the strength to feed myself—how will I ever handle house chores ag—again?" Another cough interrupted momentarily, then she went through the struggle again, recouping her strength before finally continuing: "It isn't fair to expect the children to do my part and care for me, too."
"They don't mind, and neither do I. We're getting along just f—"
She squeezed his hand weakly. Her sunken eyes rested on his, begging for his indulgence. "Emily is eighteen. We've put too great a load on her. She'd rather…" Josephine stopped again for breath. "She'd rather work at the livery stable with you and she needs more time to study if she's to complete the course from Dr. Barnum. Is it fair of us to expect her to be housekeeper and nurse, too?"
He had no answer. He sat stroking her blue-white hand, staring at it while regret filled his throat.
"I believe," Josephine added, "that Charles has asked her to marry him and she turned him down because of me."
He couldn't deny it; he was certain that what his wife said was true, though Emily had never admitted it to either of them.
"She's a good girl, Edwin, devoted to us. She'll help you in the livery stable and me in this house until Charles grows tired of waiting and asks someone else."
"That will never happen."
"Perhaps not. But suppose she wanted to say yes right now—don't you see that she should be caring for her own house … her own children, instead of Frankie and you and me?"
Despondent, Edwin had no answer.
"Edwin, look at me."
He did, his face long with sorrow.
"I am going to die, Edwin," she whispered, "but it may take … some time yet. And it will not be easy … on any of you, least of all Emily. She should have … the right to say yes to Charles, don't you see? And Frankie still needs a woman's strong hand, and this house should be cared for … and meals cooked properly, and you … should not have to take turns hanging laundry and frying fish … so I have written to Fannie and asked her to come."
A bolt of fire seemed to shoot through Edwin's vitals. "Fannie?" He blinked and his spine straightened. "You mean your cousin, Fannie?"
"Do you know any other?"
He sprang from the side of the bed to face the veranda door and hide his heating face. "But she has a life of her own."
"She has no life at all; surely you can read between the lines of her letters."
"On the contrary, Fannie has so many interests and … and friends, she … why, she…" Edwin stammered to a halt, feeling his blood continue to rush at the mere mention of the woman's name.
Behind him Josephine said softly, "I need her, Edwin. This family needs her."
He spun and retorted, "No, I won't have Fannie!"
For a moment Josephine stared at him while he felt foolish and transparent, by turns. All these years he'd hidden the truth from her and he would not risk her learning it now when she had so much else to suffer. He forcibly calmed himself and softened his voice. "I won't have Fannie put in the position of having to say yes, just because you're family. And you know she would do just that, in a minute."
"I'm afraid it's too late, Edwin … she's already agreed."
Shock drained the blood from his face. His fingertips felt cold and his chest tight.
"Her letter arrived today." Josephine extended a folded piece of stationery. He stared at it as if it were alive. After a long silence he reluctantly moved toward it.
Josephine watched the color return to his face as he read Fannie's reply. She saw him carefully attempt to mask his feelings, but his ears and cheeks turned brilliant red and his Adam's apple bobbed. Watching, she hid the regret begotten by years of marriage to a man who had never loved her. Edwin, my gallant and noble husband, you will never know how hard I tried to make you happy. Perhaps at last I've found a way.
When he'd finished reading, he folded the letter and returned it to her, unable to hide the reproof in his eyes and voice. "You should have consulted me first, Josephine." He only called her Josephine when he was inordinately upset. The rest of the time it was Josie.
"Yes, I know."
"Why didn't you?"
"For exactly the reason you're displaying."
He slipped his hands into his rear pockets, afraid she would see them trembling. "She's a city woman. It's not fair to ask her to come out here to the middle of nowhere. The children and I can handle it. Or perhaps I could hire someone."
"Who?"
They both knew women were scarce out here in cowboy country. Those of eligible age remained single very briefly before taking on their own husband and house. He would find no one in Sheridan willing to hire on as nurse and housekeeper.
"Edwin, come … sit by me."
Reluctantly he did, studying the floor morosely. She touched his knee—rare intimacy—and took his hand. "Grant me this … please. Set the children free of the burdens I've brought them … and yourself, too. When Fannie comes, make her feel welcome. I think she needs us as badly as we need her."
"Fannie has never needed anyone."
"Hasn't she?"
Edwin felt a tangle of emotions: fear as great as any he'd ever known, matched by unbounded exhilaration at the thought of seeing Fannie again; pique with Josie for putting him in this ungodly position; relief that she had at last found an answer to their domestic turmoil; a sense of encroaching duplicity, for surely he would practice it from the very moment Fannie Cooper set foot in this house; resolution that, no matter what, he would never desecrate his marriage vows.
"Where do you intend to put her?"
"In with Emily."
Edwin sat silent for a long time, still adjusting to the shock, trying to imagine himself lying in this room on his cot night after night with Fannie across the hall.
There was nothing he could do; she was already en route, even as he sat with his stomach quaking and his leg muscles tense. She would arrive by stagecoach within the week and he would pick her up at the hotel and pretend he had not kept her memory glowing in his heart for twenty-two years.
"Of course I'll be cordial to her, you know that. It's just—"
Their eyes locked and exchanged a silent acknowledgment. Fannie's coming represented so much more than the arrival of help. It represented the first in a series of final steps. Always until now they had lived with the delusion that one day soon Josephine would awaken and feel revived enough to take up her duties again. That life would return to normal. Upon Fannie's arrival they would lay that idea to rest with the same darkening finality as the knowledge that this woman—this wife and mother—would herself be laid to rest in the foreseeable future.
Edwin felt his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He doubled forward, covering Josie's frail torso with his sturdy one, slipping his hands between her and the stacked pillows. He rested his cheek upon her temple but dared not press his weight upon her. She felt like a stranger, bony and wasted. Odd how he could experience such deep sorrow at the difference in her emaciated body when he'd taken so little pleasure in it while it was plump and healthy. Perhaps it was that, too, which he mourned.
Dear Josie, I promise my fidelity till the end—that much I can give you.
She held him and pinched her eyes closed against the pain of losing him to Fannie, wondering why she had never been able to welcome his embrace this effortlessly during her hale years.
Dearest Edwin, she 'II give you the kind of love I was never able to give—I'm sure of it.
* * *
Chapter 3
«^»
Emily was in the tack room at the livery stable the following day when Tarsy Fields came flying in like a kite with a broken string. "Emily, have you seen him yet! He's absolutely gorgeous!" Tarsy was given to flamboyant gestures, exaggeration, and general excess of enthusiasm over anything she liked.
"Seen who?"
"Why, Mr. Jeffcoat, of course! Tom Jeffcoat—don't tell me you haven't heard of him!"
"Oh, him." Emily made a distasteful face and turned away, continuing her preparation of a linseed-m
eal poultice for Sergeant's foot.
"Did he bring his horse in here?"
"We're the only livery in town, aren't we?"
"So you did see him! And probably met him, too. Oh, Emily, you're soooo lucky. I only passed him on the boardwalk as he was coming out of the hotel, and I didn't get a chance to talk to him or meet him, but I went inside and found out his name from Mr. Helstrom. Tom Jeffcoat—what a name! Isn't he absolutely dazzling?" Tarsy clasped her hands, straightened her arms, and gazed at the rafters in a surfeit of ecstasy.
Dazzling? Tom Jeffcoat? The man with no sleeves and no manners? The know-it-all bounder who was setting out to ruin her father's business?
"I hadn't noticed," Emily replied sourly, spreading the thick yellow paste on a white rag.
"Hadn't noticed!" Tarsy shrieked, throwing herself against the workbench at Emily's elbow, bending at the waist to gush in Emily's face. "Hadn't noticed those … those bulging arms! And that face! And those eyes! Emily, my grandmother would have noticed, and she's got cataracts. Mercy sakes, those lashes … those limpid pools … those drooping lids … why, when he looked at me I went absolutely limp." Tarsy affected a swoon, falling forward across the workbench like a dying ballerina, overturning a bottle of carbolic acid with an outflung hand.
"Tarsy, would you mind going limp somewhere else?" Emily righted the bottle. "And how could you notice all that when you only passed him on the street?"
"A girl's got to notice things like that if she doesn't want to live her life as an old maid. Honestly, Emily, don't tell me you didn't notice how good-looking he is."
Emily picked up the poultice and headed for the main part of the barn with Tarsy at her heels, still rhapsodizing.