Summer of Promise (10 page)

“I stand corrected. I should never have challenged a schoolmarm.” Ethan gave her a teasing look, his earlier sadness if not forgotten at least hidden. “So, what do you teach, besides building techniques?”

“English, German, and French, although I’ve had to handle other subjects when one of my colleagues was ill.”

“How many colleagues are there?”

“We’re five in total. Mr. Barnett is our headmaster. His wife teaches art and music. Miss Thayer is our arithmetic teacher, and Woodrow is in charge of history and geography.”

“Woodrow?”

Abigail felt the blood rise to her cheeks at the realization that she had referred to him so informally. “Mr. Morgan,” she corrected.

Ethan’s smile faded. Surely it wasn’t the fact that she’d called Woodrow by his name. After all, she called him Ethan. “He must be the one Jeffrey mentioned, the one you’ll probably marry.”

Abigail tried not to frown. Though she had told the other women about her expected betrothal, somehow it didn’t seem appropriate that Jeffrey had mentioned it to Ethan. But now that the subject had been introduced, there was no point in denying it.

“That’s Woodrow,” she said firmly.

What a fool he was! Why had he asked all those questions, practically forcing Abigail to speak of Woodrow? He’d been so anxious to avoid speaking of Grandfather that he’d thought any other subject would be preferable. He’d been wrong. Now he had the memories of the sparkle in Abigail’s eyes when she pronounced the man’s name and the certainty in her voice as she’d confirmed that Woodrow Morgan, professor of history and geography, was the man she intended to marry.

The thought shouldn’t have rankled. It was only because he’d been out of sorts this evening, first because Oliver had made them late, then because the conversation had turned to Grandfather, that he was bothered about Woodrow Morgan, but he was, and so after he escorted Abigail back to the dancing, Ethan returned to the porch, hoping that the cool evening air would clear his head. It did not.

Swallowing deeply, Ethan stepped off the porch and made his way to the rear entrance. His throat was so dry that he needed something to drink, even if only the sweet punch the ladies seemed to think was the proper beverage for a dance.

“She’s more beautiful than I imagined.” Oliver’s appearance at Ethan’s side dashed his hope for solitude. Though the rest of the assembly remained in the parlor, awaiting their hostesses’ signal to gather in the dining room for refreshments, Oliver must have spotted Ethan. For once, the young lieutenant appeared to have no interest in food and ignored Ethan’s suggestion that he pour himself a cup of punch. Instead, Oliver continued to wax eloquent about the guest of honor. “She’s beautiful. Polite too. Why, she never once said anything about my nose.”

Ethan forbore suggesting that no well-bred woman would embarrass a man by alluding to a physical imperfection, just as he would tell neither Mrs. Montgomery nor Mrs. Alcott that the punch would have benefited from less sugar.

“She dances better than any partner I’ve ever had. While she was in my arms, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” Oliver continued the litany of praise. “I tell you, Ethan, she’s the perfect woman. You’ll see what I mean when you fall in love.”

Enough. Ethan had had enough of the sickeningly sweet punch and enough of Oliver’s sermons. “Save your breath, Oliver. No matter how many times you tell me about Eve and the animals in the ark, it won’t make any difference. As for love—that’s for the poets.” He spun on his heel, anxious to leave.

Oliver followed, talking all the while. “That’s what they all say, just before they fall. I tell you, Ethan . . .”

“And I tell you, enough is enough.”

But though he tried to dismiss Oliver’s words, they continued to reverberate through his brain. Love. His grandfather had told him about love the day he’d discovered the cook’s granddaughter was visiting. A few years younger than Ethan’s ten years, she was in Ethan’s estimation the most beautiful creature on Earth, with long blonde braids and eyes a deeper blue than the bluebells the gardener claimed had been Ethan’s mother’s favorite flower.

“Nonsense, my boy. You’re not in love. Love is a delusion poor people indulge in,” Grandfather had announced when Ethan had declared that he loved little Hilda. “It’s their excuse for marriage. We know better. Marriage is designed to strengthen alliances.”

“Is that why you married my grandmother?” Ethan had seen the daguerreotypes of his grandparents on their wedding day. They both looked so solemn that he had no trouble believing they had never felt the way he did about Hilda.

Grandfather took no offense at the question. “Of course. Her father owned the largest coal mine in Pennsylvania, and my railroad needed that coal.”

Though he was old enough to have known the folly of asking Grandfather questions he didn’t want to answer, Ethan had blurted out the one that had been on the tip of his tongue ever since he’d discovered there were no pictures of his father in the big old house that made Grandfather so proud. “Why did my father marry my mother?”

Grandfather had clenched his hands around his cane, and his face had turned such a deep red that Ethan wondered if he was ill. “Your father . . .” He spat the words, turning them into an epithet. “Your father wanted to get my money. He tricked Veronica into marrying him, using the oldest of traps.” At the time, Ethan hadn’t understood what Grandfather meant, but as he’d grown older and listened to servants’ gossip more carefully, he’d learned that his mother had been expecting a child—him—when she and Father married.

“His scheme didn’t work,” Grandfather had sputtered. “That despicable cur never got a penny of mine. I saw to that, even before he ran off and joined the Army. He claimed he was going to make the world a better place. Hah! The world was a better place the day some Rebel had the good sense to put a musket ball through Stephen Bowles’s heart.”

When he’d left Grandfather’s house for the last time, Ethan had decided that, in addition to his other sins, his grandfather was a hypocrite. How dare he condemn Ethan’s father for marrying for money—if that was what he had done—when he himself had married for coal? How dare he try to expunge all memories of his daughter’s marriage, as if Veronica Wilson had never become Veronica Bowles? And how dare he demand that Ethan bear his own name rather than be known as a Bowles?

Though he’d dreamed of confronting his grandfather, Ethan had known it would accomplish nothing. Grandfather would simply tell him he was mistaken or, even worse, he would ignore him. And so Ethan had bided his time, taking advantage of the fact that no one would connect his real name with Curtis Wilson, the railroad magnate whose reputation caused ordinary men to tremble. By the time Ethan had been accepted at the Military Academy, there was nothing Grandfather could do.

He’d done enough. He’d taught Ethan that duty was more important than anything in the world and that duty was the only reason he had taken Veronica’s child into his home. He had taught Ethan that most men cherished money above all else. And, most important, he had taught him that love was nothing more than a fairy tale.

6

A
bigail wakened to the sound of retching. Grabbing her wrapper, she hurried to Charlotte’s room, heedless of her bare feet, and found her sister bent over the chamber pot.

“What can I do to help?” Either some of the refreshments at the party had not agreed with Charlotte, or she was having a relapse of her morning sickness. Abigail hoped it was the former. Since her sister had not been ill since she arrived, both she and Charlotte had believed that Charlotte had finally passed that stage of her pregnancy.

“Shall I brew some peppermint tea?” Abigail asked. There had to be something she could do to help, and Charlotte had agreed that the herbal infusion had steadied her stomach the first time she’d drunk it.

Charlotte looked up, her face so gaunt and lined with pain that anyone who didn’t know her true age would have believed her ten years older. “Just the thought of anything in my stomach makes me ill.” She wiped her mouth and put the cover on the chamber pot. As she struggled to rise, Abigail slipped an arm around her shoulders and guided her back into bed. Though Jeffrey might have helped, he had left soon after the bugles announced reveille, his boots clattering on the stairs as he’d headed for the company’s dress inspection. It was, Charlotte had told Abigail, a weekly event and the reason worship services were not held until afternoon.

“There is something you can do.” Charlotte’s voice was weak and thready as she leaned against her pillow. “Fetch Mrs. Grayson.”

Abigail tried to hide her alarm. Though she had not seen Charlotte’s previous bouts of morning sickness, today’s must be much worse than usual if she wanted the midwife to visit. “Of course.”

Within minutes, Abigail had gotten directions to Mrs. Grayson’s home and had dressed. Though she hated leaving Charlotte, even for the time it would take to summon the midwife, there was no alternative. Descending the stairs, Abigail found Puddles sitting at the bottom, whining in obvious distress that his legs were still too short to climb the stairs. Impulsively, she gathered him into her arms and carried him to Charlotte. At least if Puddles was there, her sister would not be alone.

“He knows something is wrong,” she told Charlotte, “and he wants to be with you.”

“All right.” But there was no enthusiasm in Charlotte’s voice. That was not a good sign.

“I admit that I’m concerned,” Mrs. Grayson told Abigail half an hour later. Her examination had taken less time than Abigail had expected, and now the older woman sat in the parlor, drinking a cup of coffee. A few inches shorter than Abigail, the sergeant’s wife who served as a midwife to the women at the fort was at least forty pounds heavier, and though her brown hair was not yet streaked with gray, her demeanor was that of an older woman. Perhaps her profession had aged her.

“It looks like morning sickness. I’ve never seen a case where it lasted this long, but I’ve heard it can happen.” Mrs. Grayson drained the cup, then nodded when Abigail offered to refill it.

When Abigail returned with a fresh cup of the steaming beverage, she took a seat opposite the midwife and leaned forward. There was no reason to mask her worries, for Mrs. Grayson shared them. “I told Charlotte this wasn’t normal, but she insisted it wasn’t serious. What can we do?”

“I can’t say for certain, but today’s sickness may be the result of being overly excited last night. That wouldn’t bother most women, but Charlotte cannot afford to take any chances.” Mrs. Grayson laid the cup on the small table and looked directly at Abigail, her brown eyes radiating concern. “I wouldn’t say this to your sister, but I’m afraid she may lose the baby if this continues. She keeps losing strength, and that’s not good for her or the baby.”

As she recalled Charlotte’s animation the previous evening and the way she’d whirled around the dance floor, Abigail found it difficult to reconcile that image with the woman who could barely hold her head up this morning.

Mrs. Grayson took another sip of coffee. “I want your sister to remain in bed for a week. Give her bland food and ensure there are no disturbances.”

“What about the puppy? He might cheer her.” When Abigail had returned, she had found Charlotte asleep, Puddles cradled in her arms. Though Mrs. Grayson had frowned at the sight of a dog on the bed, Abigail was encouraged by the fact that her sister slept.

The midwife tipped her head to one side, considering. “It probably won’t hurt, but I’d advise you to limit the creature’s time with her, especially since he’s not yet trained. And if your sister appears to be tiring, take him away. It’s vital that she regain her strength.” Mrs. Grayson rose and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Channing about suitable foods.”

When the midwife had left and Mrs. Channing had promised to listen for any signs that Charlotte might have wakened, Abigail retrieved the now rambunctious puppy. She might as well take him with her while she told Jeffrey what had occurred. The walk would help wear off some of Puddles’s energy.

“Abigail, what are you doing here?” Jeffrey looked up from the report he was reading, his nose wrinkling with displeasure at the sight of the puppy. “And why did you bring that mutt?”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to leave him with Mrs. Channing.”

“Charlotte could have—”

“No, Charlotte could not.” Care for the dog, or even descend the stairs. Abigail had tried to think of a gentle way to break the news to Jeffrey, but she found herself bristling at his peremptory tone, and so she did not mince her words. “Charlotte is very ill.”

The blood drained from Jeffrey’s face, leaving his freckles in stark relief against his pale skin. “But she was fine last night.”

Her brother-in-law’s obvious distress caused Abigail to soften her voice. “That was last night. This morning, she’s so weak that she asked me to fetch Mrs. Grayson. She’s ordered a week’s bed rest for Charlotte.”

“Bed rest. That hasn’t happened before.” The slight trembling in Jeffrey’s voice told Abigail he appreciated the gravity of the situation. “Charlotte’s got to get better. She has to.” Furrows appeared between his eyes as another thought assailed him. “What about the baby?”

Abigail almost sighed with relief that Jeffrey’s first thought had been for his wife. Charlotte’s fears that Jeffrey loved her only because she would carry his children were unfounded.

“The baby’s all right at this point,” Abigail said, “but Mrs. Grayson doesn’t want to take any chances. That’s why she’s insisting Charlotte have no disturbances.” As she had walked around the parade ground and seen the men in formation, Abigail’s thoughts had turned to the tall blond soldier who made mealtime so pleasant. “Would you explain to Ethan that our meals will be very simple and that it would be better if he not come to the house at this time?”

“Of course.” Jeffrey was silent for a moment. “Charlotte should be Mrs. Channing’s only concern. Ethan and I will eat with the other officers.” He stared into the distance for a moment, his jaw clenched. When he spoke, Jeffrey’s voice was fierce. “Nothing must hurt my wife or my child.”

“I’ll be all right.” Though Charlotte’s face was still pale and she continued to have bouts of morning sickness, she looked better than she had two days earlier. She stretched out her hand to clasp Abigail’s and held it tightly. “Honestly, Abigail. I’ll be fine. After all, it’s not as if you’re deserting me. You’ll only be gone for an hour or so, and I know you must be bored. It can’t be any fun being cooped up here with me sleeping most of the time and Jeffrey gone.”

To Abigail’s surprise, Jeffrey had taken to heart Mrs. Grayson’s advice that Charlotte should not be disturbed and was hardly ever at home. He ate with the bachelor officers, and when he returned late at night, he slept on a pallet in the parlor rather than climbing the stairs and risking the possibility of disturbing his wife. Jeffrey stopped in once or twice a day, spending no more than five minutes with Charlotte before leaving again. To Abigail’s way of thinking, it was her sister who must be bored . . . and lonely. That was one of the reasons she hesitated when Charlotte suggested that she take her mare on a ride.

“You really need to be outside more,” Charlotte continued. “It seems to me the only activity you get is chasing Puddles and brushing twigs out of his coat.”

“For a little dog, he has a lot of energy,” Abigail admitted. “There are times when I’m out of breath just trying to keep up with him.” The puppy loved to run, and Abigail wouldn’t deny him that pleasure, even though it meant running around the yard in what her mother would have called a most unseemly manner. It was almost as tiring trying to get Puddles to hold still long enough to be brushed. “I suspect I’ll never figure out what he gets into.” The twigs, as Charlotte called them, were not ordinary twigs. These stuck to Puddles’s hair as if they had a hundred tiny hooks.

“Tumbleweeds.” Charlotte’s answer was succinct. “They have sharp edges everywhere—worse than a rose’s thorns.”

“Worse than a yucca?”

Charlotte tipped her head to one side, as if pondering the question. “Maybe not, but yuccas don’t chase you. Tumbleweeds do.”

“And Puddles catches every one.” In doing so, he’d deepened Mrs. Channing’s disapproval. Each day she delivered a litany of complaints about what she called “the despicable creature’s despicable behavior,” insisting that the only reason she remained was Charlotte’s illness. “It wouldn’t be fair to desert Mrs. Crowley now,” she announced, “but when she’s back on her feet . . .” The threat, though not voiced, was clear.

Charlotte looked down at the puppy with the outsized paws who was sleeping peacefully on the floor. “He may be rambunctious, but he’s such a delight. I don’t know what I’d do without him—and you, of course.” Charlotte’s mischievous smile told Abigail she had deliberately pretended that she was an afterthought. “Puddles and I will be fine while you’re gone. So, go, enjoy yourself and don’t rush back. I feel like taking a long nap.”