Coming Up Roses (17 page)

Therefore, as she pinned the accompanying
tiny confection of a sailor’s hat to her chestnut curls, she felt
as confident as a girl in her circumstances could. She was only
slightly nervous when she left her tent and walked to the stables
to meet with H.L.

A glow of satisfaction suffused her when
H.L., who had been speaking gently to Betsy and Fairy, much to the
appreciation of the two mares, who were affectionate creatures,
turned and saw her. She heard his sudden intake of breath from the
door of the stable, and hoped the shadows in the stable were deep
enough that he wouldn’t detect the sudden rush of color to her
cheeks. She felt them get hot and was disgusted with herself.

“
My God, you look glorious, Miss
Gilhooley!”

Her heart hammered against her ribs like the
gunfire in the Wild West during Custer’s Last Stand, but Rose
managed a creditable, “Thank you,” and a slight nod of her chin,
which she’d lifted for strength.

H.L. strode toward her like a king taking a
castle. Oh, dear, there went her imagination again, spurred on by
her insubordinate heart. Rose told her heart to shut up and sit
still. She didn’t need it to get fanciful on her now. She needed to
maintain her poise.

He stopped right in front of her, which meant
she had to tilt her head back to see his face. His eyes held the
most alarming expression. They reminded Rose of burning coals.

Stop it
, she
shrieked at her heart and her imagination. Then she scolded her
brain for running away and hiding just when she needed it the
most.
Pretend
, she commanded
herself.
Pretend you’re not a
bumpkin
.

“
I must say, Miss Gilhooley, that it’s
a pleasure to be in your company. You make me the envy of other
men.”

“
Pshaw,” Rose muttered. It was the best
she could come up with at the moment, having once more mislaid her
brain somewhere in the mush of her emotions.

H.L. crooked his arm, and Rose laid her
gloved hand on it. She heard him suck in a gallon or two of
fair-scented air and dared a peek up at his face. He was a truly
striking man. She wasn’t sure if his features could be called
classically handsome, but he certainly caught one’s eye and held
it. If she was an ornament to him, he was an ornament to her, too,
and she was glad of it. Rose rather liked the notion of other women
envying her because of her escort, although she knew the sentiment
did her no credit.

Nevertheless, she felt awfully good as they
set out to conquer another day at the fair.

“
Fine Arts and Liberal Arts today, Miss
Gilhooley,” H.L. told her after they’d strolled a few yards, taking
in the sights and sounds abounding everywhere around them. “And
we’re going to visit the Grand Basin, too. Have you seen the statue
of the Republic yet?”

“
Yes. Annie and I walked through the
White City. It’s quite a sight, especially at night when it’s all
lit up.”

“
It is, indeed. We’ll have to visit it
together one of these days. I’d like to hear your reaction to it.”
He frowned down at her. “Say, do you ever have any time off? I
mean, at night? I know you can come out after you finish your act
in the Wild West, but you don’t have much time then.”

“
We don’t perform on Sundays,” Rose
said, wondering what it would be like to walk out of an evening
with H.L. May all by herself, with no Little Elk along as
chaperone. The notion made her insides tingle. Her brain, which
finally surfaced with a pop, admonished her for being forward, and
she hastened to add, “Although Annie and I usually attend an
evening church service.”

H.L. sighed. “Why doesn’t that surprise
me?”

A quick glance at him didn’t serve Rose in
figuring out what that was supposed to have meant, so she didn’t
respond. She did, however, sniff as her brain, again in charge,
asked her why this man should sound sarcastic about two ladies
attending church together. Rose feared this attitude regarding
church on H.L. May’s part boded ill for her hopes about his
intentions.

“
I’d like to show you Chicago,
too.”

Evidently, he’d opted to drop the church and
evening issues for the moment. Rose figured it was just as well.
“Annie and I went to some of the museums when we first arrived,”
she muttered.

“
Oh, there’s lot more to Chicago than
museums.” He laughed.

Eyeing him critically, Rose decided his
laughter wasn’t meant to be snide. “Oh?”

“
Absolutely. Chicago’s a great place.
We have a terrific baseball team, we’re famous for our stockyards,
and we have some grand buildings.”

He smiled down at her, and Rose’s heart
trampled her brain into the mud again. Blast! It was so difficult,
constraining her stupid heart.

“
I’ll bet you’d find the courthouse
fascinating. And the train station. They’re built upon truly
magnificent lines. Not what you’re used to in Kansas, I
imagine.”

Because she really wanted to lay to rest this
image she had of herself—and that he might have of her—as a hick,
Rose said majestically, “I haven’t spent my entire life in Kansas,
if you’ll recall, Mr. May. I saw innumerable grand buildings in
London, Rome, and Paris.” She added a sniff for good measure.

He laughed. Disgruntled, Rose decided it’s
what she should have expected of him. How could she flaunt her
status as a world-traveler if he refused to be impressed?

“
That’s right. I forgot. You can
probably give me lessons on grand buildings, huh?”

“
I don’t know about the lessons part,”
she muttered, feeling small and ill-informed. Why was it she could
feel dumb and insignificant without half trying, but it took an act
of God to make her feel good about herself? Didn’t seem at all
equitable.

He laughed again. Rose sighed and guessed she
was doomed to feel like an imbecile in his company.

They’d entered the Exposition through the
main gate, which led directly to the Court of Honor and on to the
White City. H.L. flung his arms wide in one of the exuberant
gestures Rose so envied. “I love this place!” he declared. “Burnham
and Root conceived the initial plans, and they hauled in architects
from all over. Most of them followed the Beaux Arts style Burnham
and Root favored.”

Rose heaved a large internal sigh. Here they
were again, back to normal: H.L. talking about things that were
incomprehensible to her, and Rose wishing she weren’t such a booby.
Annoyed with him and with herself, she asked, “Who are Burnham and
Root?”

“
Architects,” he replied
promptly.

Well . . . That had been pretty easy. Rose
ventured another tentative question. “And what’s the Beaux Arts
style?” She flinched inside, waiting for his sneer of
condescension.

She was amazed when he didn’t give her one.
“It’s a style of architecture developed in France. You know how
everybody likes to think the French are better at everything than
anybody else is.” He gave another jolly laugh. “At least, the
French like to think so.”

Rose, who breathed more easily when she
realized he wasn’t looking down on her for not knowing more about
architecture, had actually heard that before, when the Wild West
had visited England. The British and the French seemed to have very
few good feelings for, and almost nothing good to say about, about
each other. Rose, feeling more akin to English people than French
ones, probably because she understood their language better,
figured the English were on the right side of the argument. “I
see.”

“
Poor Root died before the Exposition
opened.”

That shocked her. “Oh! How awful. I’m so
sorry he didn’t get to see the fair!”

“
Yeah, it was tough. He caught
pneumonia.”

She shook her head, genuinely sorry for poor
Root, whoever he’d been.

“
But Burnham and the rest of the
architects did a great job, didn’t they?”

He’d stopped walking beside the Great Basin.
With another large gesture, he invited Rose to take in the glory of
the Court of Honor, the first feature one observed when one entered
through the main entrance.

Taking him up on his offer, Rose feasted her
eyes on the spectacular array of buildings, electrical lighting,
fountains, bandstands, and people before her. It was a sight, all
right, and one that inspired awe in her bosom. “It’s beautiful,”
she said simply.

“
It sure it.”

He shook his head, and Rose was happy to
detect a bit of awe in his expression. It was comforting to know
that even a sophisticated man of the world could feel genuine
emotion every now and then.

“
The only building not constructed in
the Beaux Art style is the Transportation Building. See it over
there? You’ll enjoy that one, too. Have you ever seen a horseless
carriage?”

Rose gaped at him. Was he teasing her?

As if reading her mind, H.L. grinned again.
“Honest Injun, Miss Gilhooley, they’re developing motorized
vehicles that don’t require horses to pull them. Pretty soon the
horse will be obsolete.”

If she knew what
obsolete
meant, she might be worried. Since she
didn’t, and there were so many other things with which to occupy
her mind, Rose decided to panic later. Because she felt she ought
to say something, she murmured, “Oh, my,” and hoped it would
suffice.

It seemed to. H.L. went on enthusiastically,
“After we see the Arts buildings, we can visit the Transportation
Building. It sticks out like a sore thumb, doesn’t it?”

Rose didn’t think so. She thought it was
gorgeous, even if it didn’t fit precisely in with the other
buildings. Although she realized her opinion didn’t matter in the
overall scheme of things, she voiced it anyhow. “I think it’s
lovely.”

H.L. grinned down at her as if she’d just
done something wonderful.

“
Yeah. So do I.”

This was a commendation she hadn’t expected.
Her unruly heart leaped happily. Sternly admonishing it to be
still, she said, “And it doesn’t look at all out of place, either.
Rather, I think it adds something.” Was that stupid? Probably. Rose
sighed.

“
I think so, too.”

She cheered up.

“
H.L. pointed to the Grand Basin.
“There’s a wooded island in the middle of one of the lakes that
you’ve got to see. This is only one of the many lakes, fountains,
and waterways around the Exposition.”

“
Oh.”

“
I’ll take you to see the Wooded Island
one of these days, too.”

“
Um, what is it? The Wooded Island, I
mean.”

“
It’s an island with woods on it.” H.L.
guffawed.

Rose frowned. “Yes, I understand that, thank
you very much.”

“
Sorry. Didn’t mean to tease
you.”

Rose would believe that one when hell froze
over.

“
The fair directors named it the Wooded
Island. It’s supposed to be representational of how frontier folks
lived when America was first colonized.”

“
Oh. I see.” Shoot, she could
demonstrate how frontier folks lived right this minute, if anybody
really wanted to know. Rose didn’t think it was such a glorious
thing to live on the frontier and have to scramble to put food in
your children’s mouths, but she guessed she’d better not bring it
up right now. “That sounds interesting.”

Concluding that she hadn’t really fibbed, and
that it might be entertaining to contrast how the first American
pioneers lived with how modern-day American pioneers lived, Rose
didn’t scold herself. She did expect that most of the first
American pioneers might have had a more noble purpose in their
hearts than lots of the folks she’d met in Kansas, many of whom had
fled west to escape the law. Kansas was mighty rough in spots. “I’d
like to see it.”

“
Good. We can do that another day.” He
sounded pleased with himself.

“
Right now, we’re taking in Fine Arts.
You said you like to go to museums, right?”

Actually, she didn’t recall saying that at
all, but she didn’t argue.

“
Right.” She was particularly fond of
the Natural History Museum she and Annie had visited in New York
City, but she had a vague notion that not all museums housed
stuffed elephants and displays of African artifacts and the
like.
Fine Arts
, for
instance, didn’t immediately bring to Rose’s mind images of tanned
buffalo hides or Zulu war drums. She didn’t mention her musings to
H.L., suspecting he’d mock her.

“
This place is great,” he said warmly.
“There are some magnificent paintings in here.”

“
Ah.” So. It was one of those kinds of
museums. Rose supposed she should have guessed, since it was called
the Fine Arts building. But if this structure housed fine arts,
what did the
Liberal
Arts
building hold? Art that wasn’t so fine? These nuances were
confusing to a country girl. In the interest of self-preservation,
she didn’t say that, either.

“
Here we go,” H.L. said, leading Rose
up to the magnificent Fine Arts Building. “The building itself is a
work of art, as you can see for yourself.”

Rose didn’t doubt it, although she wasn’t all
that eager to enter it. Not that she didn’t want to learn what fine
arts were. But a fellow vigorously waving a baton was conducting a
brass band on a covered bandstand in a spirited musical offering.
Rose liked it a lot and didn’t want to miss the finale of the
piece.