Summer Lightning (5 page)

Edith lay still and stared in wonder. An angel must have transported her from a dingy boardinghouse room to a chamber straight out of a fantasy. “If this is a dream,” she said out loud, “the next thing I hope to smell is bacon, eggs and coffee. And if there should be strawberry preserves for the toast, I shall know that I have died and gone to Heaven.”

It could not have been more than a moment later that a rap sounded on her door. When it opened, the first thing that entered was the soft smell of eggs and the stronger, exotic fragrance of China tea. The bacon was there too, still sizzling.

“Over by the window, then, miss?” asked the bright-eyed boy carrying the tray.

“Thank you,” Edith answered. She’d never expected her angel to have freckles. Before she could ask any questions or even sit up, the boy opened the wardrobe. Edith could see a brown dress hanging there.

“I hope the clothes are going to be okay,” he said. “I borrowed ‘em from my sister and she’s barmaid at the General Washington. They pick their barmaids by the pound down there.” He grinned, showing a gap where his eyetooth ought to be, as he sauntered toward the door.

Before he vanished, he said, “Mr. Dane said I’m to take care of you personal. So, you need anything, just holler down the hall for Josh and I’ll be right ‘long.”

“Thank you, Josh,” Edith said, but he was gone.

As she pushed back the covers, she realized it was a good thing she’d not sat up. The only item between her and the bedclothes was the petticoat she wore next to her skin. She had no memory of where her other two might be, though she hoped they might be with her dress. She also noticed that she was clean, all the ashes and soot washed away.

Though she knew she should solve the mysteries of this wonderland, Edith counseled herself that she could just as well puzzle out the answer while she ate. The bed seemed reluctant to allow her to leave the solace of its softness, for she must have been caught back three times before she finally freed herself.

It was not the fire or her losses that she recalled first. Rather it was the remembrance of considerate hands, male hands. They had been beautiful and long fingered, like a prince’s. But a prince who had come down in the world and been forced to make his own way: they’d been rough with calluses and marked by scars. Edith remembered vague images of kissing those hands in gratitude as her tears splashed on the brown skin. But no ... that had to be part of a dream.

After eating everything but the design on the china, Edith washed her face and hands with the water in a rosebud-pink ewer and basin. The towel was as soft as the bed linen. She realized this was a very good hotel, dedicated to their guests’ comfort. There was even groundsel and clean water in Orpheus’ cage.

Tired out from dressing, Edith sat again on the deep armchair near the window. Her head felt light, and she lay back to watch the crystals dance in the sunlight.

“Hey now, are you asleep?”

Mr. Dane stood over her. Edith started, and sat up. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I stood outside and knocked for what must of been five minutes. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks to you.” He looked away as though to refuse her thanks, but Edith persisted. “If you hadn’t been so kind last night, I don’t know what would have become of me. You must have guessed that I had fallen into rather dire straits.”

“You mean your boardinghouse burning down? That might have happened to anybody.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Besides, you thanked me plenty last night.” He tugged on his earlobe as he smiled sideways out the window. “There were some complaints about it.”

“Complaints? You are joking, of course.”

“Nope. You see, it was kind of late and you were singing. A few folks stuck their heads out and asked me to ask you to . . .”

“Singing?” Edith stared up at him, astonished. “You
must
be joking, Mr. Dane. I don’t sing.”

“I don’t know much about music, but you sounded all right to me.” Jeff looked down and saw she was seriously distressed. “It’s all right. Everybody understood.”

“Understood what? That I was intoxicated?” Edith stood up and stared straight into his amused brown eyes. “I never touched liquor before last night, Mr. Dane. I trust that is clearly understood. I would never have tasted it at all if not that in my distress I drank it without realizing what I was doing.”

Though she was still far too thin, Jeff was amazed at the difference a good night’s rest and a little food made in her. Her cheeks were naturally meant to be as rosy as they were now with the flags flying in them. Her eyes had snap and sparkle that lent a new dimension of charm to the deep blue. And her voice was not actually a meek whisper but full of mellow, well-rounded music. Any other woman might have made her lightest word an invitation with such a voice, but Jeff couldn’t imagine Miss Parker leading a man on with it. She probably didn’t know how.

“I know you don’t drink, Miss Parker. And you didn’t do anything under the influence that could be called into question. You thanked me for my help and went right off to sleep.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, her eyes cast down. “How did I ... this morning I awoke wearing nothing but . . .”

“I helped you out of your things,” Jeff said. “And wiped you down with a damp towel. You didn’t seem to have any burns. You were lucky.”

Her eyes flashed up again. In them, he could read doubt and alarm, the same expression they’d worn during his first interview with her. Remembering, however, the emotions that he’d known when seeing her patched undergarments, he had no qualms about saying, “Don’t worry, Miss Parker. I’d have done as much for a sunburned cowhand. Besides, I’ve been married.”

“I haven’t been.” Edith was mollified by his comparing her to a cowboy, until she thought about it for a moment. Though she knew she was no beauty, she didn’t appreciate being likened to a saddle tramp. A little stifled enthusiasm on Mr. Dane’s part would at least salvage her pride.

“What song?” she asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“What song did I sing?”

“I don’t know,” he said, lifting his broad shoulders. “It was in some foreign language. The only word I got was
‘amore’
‘cause you kept on repeating it.”

“Amore?”

‘That means ‘love,’ doesn’t it?” At her thoughtful nod, he said, “You were singing pretty loud. I liked it, though, no matter what those ladies had to say about it.”

“Ladies? Never mind,” she said, holding up her hand. “I don’t really want to know. It’s just odd that . . .”

“What is?”

“I’ve been told I cannot sing. My aunt loved music and thought . . . she even sent me for lessons. But I have no voice.”

“Sounds all right to me.”

She shook her head. “No singing voice. No magic. That’s what the teacher said. No magic.”

For weeks after that insult, Edith had busied herself with dreams of standing on a stage, bowing to the plaudits of an enraptured audience, and then tossing her flowers into the lap of an ancient Mr. Fowler. He would have to admit at last that he was wrong. But he had been right.

“Whiskey does strange things, Miss Parker.”

“I never intend to find out more than I have already. So tell me,” she said suddenly, finding this conversation to have become unpleasantly personal, “what are your plans now?”

“Well, I think the first thing should be to get you some new clothes. Then, we’ll get on to Richey in a day or two.”

“A day or two? We’re not leaving at once?”

“I still have some business to get through. I would also say that you need a rest.”

“I?” she asked. Jeff tried not to let her see how much it tickled him when she drew herself up to her full height. No more than five foot five in the barmaid’s shoes, she only came up to the buttonhole in his lapel. “I assure you I’m perfectly well.”

“Maybe. But I’ve seen people through something shocking like a fire before. You may find out you get out of sorts and tired easily.”

Recalling how much dressing had tired her, Edith closed her lips tightly over the protest she was on the point of making. With a half-smile, she admitted, “To be perfectly frank, all I really want to do is tumble into bed again.”

Even that, Jeff noted, had been said in perfect innocence. She hadn’t flirted with her eyes, making more of the words than a simple declaration of fact. She wanted to get into bed and never hinted that he might be welcome to join her.

“Go right ahead,” he said. “I’ve got a few things to do yet this morning. What do you say I come back around eleven? There’s got to be a store open someplace, even on Sunday.”

“I’m afraid there won’t be. The laws . . . These clothes will do me until mine are laundered.”

For the first time, Mr. Dane looked embarrassed. He rubbed the back of his neck under the sharp edge of his blond hair. “I’m afraid your dress . . . fell apart when Mr. Dilworthy took it to be washed. Your other stuff . . . petticoats and stuff . . . will be ready later today.”

“I see. Well, it was rather old.” Inwardly, Edith found herself rejoicing. Never to have to see that old gray dress again! Never to have to take it in or let it out! Never to have to make it over and over so that the dingiest places were hidden!

She had worn it for seven years and hadn’t liked it when her aunt had paid to have it made up. Gray was serviceable, and always appropriate, she said. The fact that it drained all the color from Edith’s eyes and gave her hair a greenish cast was a plus rather than a minus in the elder lady’s view.

Even as she sighed in relief, Edith knew her aunt’s wisdom would prevail. At the department store tomorrow she might look with longing at dashing silks and brilliant satins, and think of herself arrayed in a velvet gown, a long train sweeping behind her. In the end, though, she would undoubtedly find herself once more with a gray poplin dress, with neither ribbons nor frills to soften its hard lines. After all, she would have to spend only what Mr. Dane agreed to advance her.

She was bringing up this subject when he glanced at the gold railroad watch he’d hauled up from his vest pocket. “I’d better be getting on,” he said.

Edith held out her hand. “I want to thank you again for your kindness to me.”

“Pshaw,” he muttered, looking down at the little fingers resting in his rough paw. “I’ll see you for lunch, all right?”

“I’ll be ready.”

“I bet you’re always punctual. I’m usually late, so don’t bother coming down. I’ll call for you.” He paused in the doorway. “Get some rest. Miss Parker.”

She nodded brightly, her figure in the too large dress appearing even thinner than it was. The color had already faded from her cheeks, though the shadows under her eyes had lessened with the morning. Jeff went out and closed the door. For a moment, he remained there, his hand still on the doorknob.

He remembered with what radiant eyes she’d looked at him last night, her silky hair fanned out across her pillow. Maybe it was the whiskey that had turned her blue eyes to fire. She’d murmured something about not minding his being a white slaver, words that conjured up images he tried to forget.

His self-control and his scruples had held strong while he undid the row of buttons that ran over her front. He’d given her petticoat-muffled body no more than an idle glance, yet the look in her eyes, the softness of her full-lipped mouth, had nearly overmastered him. It had been worse when he’d run a wet washcloth over her limbs and face.

Miss Parker, spinster, had not known she was all suggestion as she lay there, but Jeff had known it. His long-celibate body had urged him to act. He had fought that impulse with cold water once in the safety of his room.

He’d do his best to forget the way she looked then. Yet, as he walked down the stairs, he knew he’d relive in his dreams the moment when he’d felt her soft lips moving on his hand. It tingled even now. He thrust it deep into his coat pocket as though that could extinguish the memory.

Chapter 4

The white boxes arrived at ten-thirty. Josh brought them up, his hands by his waist, his lantern chin holding the topmost box safely down. Moving only the upper part of his face, he asked Edith, “Where do you want ‘em?”

“Want what?”

He raised an eyebrow. “This stuff, course!”

The boxes in the middle shifted. As though propelled upwards by a powerful shove, the boxes flew out of Josh’s hands. Falling, they disgorged tissue paper and cloth.

“Tarnation! Well, here they are. I’ll go get the rest.”

“Wait! These can’t be for me,” Edith said, kneeling to pick up the jumble.

“Your name’s on ‘em. Look.”

Her name was written in neat black print on the lid Josh shoved under her nose. She recognized the name Milvoy and Fitch, one of St. Louis’s leading department stores. Yet she knew, as did all the world, that they were never open on a Sunday.

She rested on her heels, a cream-colored silk blouse in one hand, puzzling over the curiosity. Josh tapped his foot. “So you want ‘em, or not?”

Edith wondered if this was one of the temptations her aunt had considered when warning her against the blandishments of the faithless male sex. Yet, though she knew she should sternly refuse the clothes, a devil’s voice whispered that it could do no harm just to look. . . .

“Very well,” she said. “Bring up the rest.”

All the necessities of the toilette: delicate shoes, beautifully embroidered lawn petticoats, silken stockings, a figured sateen corset, and two nightdresses that were mere drifts of batiste. A whole vein of hats to be mined. Undergarments of pink gauze and white silks. Edith felt her face grow hot at the thought of Mr. Dane’s big brown hands tossing over these dainty confections, choosing them just for her.

Opening the last and largest box, Edith’s heart stopped at the sight of gray. Her lips wrinkling in distaste, she withdrew a dress of light poplin. Obviously, Mr. Dane had in mind to replace her old dress as nearly as possible. And yet ...

Edith rose from the chaos of paper and boxes all about her. A small mirror hung on the wall beside the bed. Kicking off her shoes and holding the dress to her body, Edith climbed up on the bed to try to see as much of herself reflected as she could.