Waiting for Spring (7 page)

“May I escort you and Mrs. Amos to your seats?” Mr. Duncan's words were polite. His suggestion was chivalrous. There was no cause for alarm, and yet Charlotte felt ill at ease.

“Thank you, but your friends are waiting for you.” She gestured toward the trio to her left. Miriam had returned and had placed her hand on Mr. Landry's arm, while Mr. Eberhardt stood only a few inches away, his expression as solemn as if he were attending a funeral. Charlotte gave them
all a smile as she linked her arm with Gwen's. “Good evening, Miss Taggert, gentlemen.” No matter how pleasant it had been talking to Barrett Landry, Charlotte's place was in the back row with Gwen.

“Oh, Charlotte, I never thought it would be so wonderful,” Gwen said as they ascended the stairway. Mr. Landry and his party had remained on the ground floor, chatting with Miriam's parents while other theatergoers began to crowd the staircase, their exuberant conversation almost drowning out Gwen's words.

“Truly, I feel like Cinderella. I've met my Prince Charming.”

Though Charlotte raised an eyebrow, she tried to keep her voice even, not wanting to spoil Gwen's evening. “Mr. Duncan?”

“Yes. And please don't tell me he's too old for me. You know I'm over thirty.”

Warren Duncan's age was not what concerned Charlotte. “I wasn't going to say anything about his age. I just wondered what you knew about him.”

Gwen's face was suffused with a fatuous smile. “Other than that he's the most wonderful man I've ever met? Did you know that he's an attorney? He's one of Mr. Landry's advisers. Can you imagine, Charlotte? He's an important man about town, and yet he noticed me—me, Gwen Amos. It's like a fairy tale come true.”

Charlotte tried not to sigh. Gwen's enthusiasm reminded her of when she first met Jeffrey. The young soldier had literally swept her off her feet, and she'd been convinced that it was a case of love at first sight. Only later had Charlotte realized that infatuation and love were two very different things.

“All I can say, Cinderella, is that I hope our coach doesn't
turn into a pumpkin. I wouldn't want us to have to walk home in these gowns.”

They'd reached their seats, and as Gwen settled into hers, she sighed with pleasure. “Oh, Charlotte, I'm so glad we came.”

“So am I. The music is glorious.” But when the orchestra resumed its playing, Charlotte found that she could not concentrate on the symphony. Instead, as she closed her eyes, pictures of Barrett Landry flashed before her.

 4 

I
'm disappointed in you, Barrett.” Richard's normally placid brown eyes flashed with anger. For a second, Barrett considered ignoring his friend's comment, but he knew Richard too well. The man would not leave the morning room, where they were currently enjoying a late evening repast, complete with some of Mrs. Melnor's berry pie, until he was satisfied.

“What did I do wrong now?” Barrett helped himself to a second piece of pie. “I attended the symphony, although you know I enjoy that about as much as being thrown from a horse. Before and after the performance, I spent at least an hour talking to every potential constituent you sent my way. I—”

Richard's hand made a slicing motion. “You were stupid, and you don't even know how stupid you were.”

“I'm sure you intend to rectify that lapse.” Barrett infused his words with sarcasm, hoping to deflect Richard's annoyance.

It didn't work. His newly appointed business manager
frowned. “You ignored Miriam during intermission. Instead of devoting yourself to the finest woman in Cheyenne, possibly in the entire territory, you wasted time talking to a seamstress. Honestly, Barrett, I don't know what you were thinking, if you were even thinking.”

Barrett decided not to respond while Richard reached for his cup and took a long swallow of coffee. The man was on a tear, and the easiest way to end it was to let it run its course.

“I'll admit the seamstress is pretty enough, if you like dark hair and eyes,” Richard conceded as he forked a piece of pie, “but no one can compare to Miriam. She's a golden goddess, and yet you didn't seem to know she was there.”

“That's not true. She was my companion for the evening. I escorted her to and from the opera house. I never left her side. As I recall, it was you who took her away. What was I supposed to do? Drag her from you? I don't think that would have accomplished anything other than make us all look foolish.”

Richard didn't bother to swallow his pie before he retorted. “I only took her away because you were gawking at the seamstress.”

“Her name is Madame Charlotte, and I wasn't gawking.”

Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Richard glared at Barrett. “See what I mean? You're defending the woman who sews your future wife's clothing rather than caring about Miriam, the woman who's going to share your life and help you get elected. You don't deserve her. A woman like Miriam should be cherished, not ignored for a mere seamstress.”

That made four times Richard had called Charlotte a seamstress. It wasn't a matter of class. Barrett knew that. Unlike Miriam's parents with their rigid ideas of social standing, Richard had never before denigrated a person simply because
of the work he did. There had to be something else bothering his friend. Barrett took another bite of pie, chewing carefully as he thought about what Richard had said.

“It sounds to me as if you fancy Miriam yourself.”

There was a second of silence before Richard said, “It's you and your career I'm worried about. That's all.”

The words rang false.

If Warren had been thirty years younger, he might have jumped with joy, but legs that were more than half a century old did not take kindly to such exuberance. Instead, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and toasted his good fortune.

She was perfect. Not beautiful, but not ugly, either. Not so young that people would gossip, but young enough that she could give him a child of his own. Best of all, she was respectable. Highly respectable, unlike the women who saw to his other needs. No one would look askance if Warren married a hardworking widow with a small child. They'd applaud him for his kindness. They'd see that he was indeed an upright citizen, a man worthy of membership in the Cheyenne Club.

Gwen Amos was perfect.

“You shouldn't have disappeared with him.”

Miriam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I didn't disappear. Richard and I remained on the sidewalk in full view of anyone who came outside. And, Mama, I might add that there were many who did.”

Her mother picked up the silver-backed mirror from Miriam's dressing table and scrutinized her reflection. Apparently
pleased that she had not discovered any new wrinkles, she nodded briskly. “What exactly did you talk about?”

“Music. Richard told me that although he enjoyed the Ninth, his favorite piece by Beethoven is the allegretto from the Seventh Symphony.” As Miriam had expected, her mother rolled her eyes. She might as well be speaking Greek for all Mama understood. Perhaps that was why the memory of her conversation with Richard lingered in Miriam's mind. It was the first time she'd found someone who shared her love of music enough to spend a quarter of an hour discussing the finer points of two melodies.

Barrett would have listened politely if she had told him that the tempo was slightly too slow during the first movement of tonight's performance, but he wouldn't have understood. Richard did. Barrett would have agreed if she'd announced that the “Ode to Joy” was a magnificent piece of music, and then he would have changed the subject. Richard was different. He'd asked her why she cared for the Ode, what specific aspect of the music touched her heart.

Richard might not be as handsome as Barrett. He might not be quite as wealthy. He might not be a man her parents would consider a suitable son-in-law because he had no aspirations outside of Wyoming, but he challenged her in ways no other man had. That was the reason—the only reason—she couldn't stop thinking of him.

“Music!” Mama sniffed. “I suppose that's perfectly respectable, but make sure it doesn't happen again. Even though the man is almost old enough to be your father and no one would think you were interested in him, you wouldn't want people to have the wrong impression, would you?”

“No, Mama.”

Two days later, Charlotte pinned on a hat and slid her hands into gloves. Though she was only going next door and could forgo a cloak, no well-dressed lady would consider leaving her home without a hat and gloves.

“I should be gone only a few minutes,” she told Molly, who was watching Élan in her absence. It was a quiet time in the shop, and Charlotte needed a few items for David. Gwen had chuckled over the fact that Charlotte, whose creations dressed many of Cheyenne's wealthiest women, bought clothing for her son. A proverbial shoemaker's child, she had declared. Be that as it may, David had worn holes in his socks, and while Charlotte might be an expert seamstress, darning was not one of her accomplishments. Fortunately for her, Yates's Dry Goods occupied the northern half of the building that housed Élan. With the James Sisters Millinery just down the block, Charlotte and Mr. Yates had chuckled over the fact that the city's women could clothe themselves from head to foot, all without crossing a street. Men who wanted custom-tailored suits had a slightly more difficult shopping experience, for the best tailors were more than a block away, but for those less particular customers, Mr. Yates offered ready-made trousers, shirts, and coats.

Charlotte was reaching for the doorknob, preparing to enter Mr. Yates's establishment, when the door swung open.

“Mr. Landry.” Though it was foolish in the extreme, Charlotte's heart began to race. The man looked even more handsome dressed in his ordinary clothes than he had at the opera house. She had thought nothing could compare to the sartorial elegance of his evening coat, but the tweed sack coat he wore this morning was at least as attractive. Or perhaps
it had nothing to do with the clothing and everything to do with the man inside.

“Madame Charlotte.” He doffed his hat in greeting, then wrinkled his nose as he closed the door behind him and moved to her side, positioning himself so that the slight breeze would not chill her. “I suspect it's very forward of me, but would you object if we dispensed with formality? My friends call me Barrett, and I'd like to count you among them.”

It was a simple request, yet it warmed Charlotte's heart more than the October sun. “I'd be honored if you called me Charlotte.” She paused before pronouncing the name that then lingered on her tongue. “Barrett.” She had called him that in her mind, but this was the first time she had spoken the word. It felt good and at the same time oddly unsettling to be so familiar with him. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Charlotte gestured toward the package Barrett held in his left hand. “I see your shopping excursion was successful.”

One of the crooked smiles that she found so endearing lit his face. “Promise you won't tell Mr. Bradley I was here.”

“That's an easy promise to make, since I have no idea who Mr. Bradley is.”

“He's my butler. Richard and Warren convinced me that I needed one if I was going to live on Ferguson Street.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “I live on Ferguson Street,” she pointed out, “and I don't have a butler.”

“Touché. I should have said that they convinced me that if I was going to live in an excessively ornate house with enough rooms for a family of ten, I needed a butler. Now I find myself in a predicament, because that very same butler believes that he should be responsible for all of what he calls
procurement.” Barrett gave the brown-paper-wrapped package a rueful look.