Liz Ireland (17 page)

At any rate, working on the infernal play would at least give her something to focus her energies on. The more she concentrated on Dolly Madison, the less time she would have to think about Pendergast.

“Someday, you’ll see I was right,” she vowed.

She turned from the store with a flourish and a proud toss of the head, then stomped back across town to the school. There was no doubt that her situation was desperate, especially when she stepped inside her classroom and found it completely empty. What had happened to the children?

Not wanting to be held responsible for the disappearance of every child in Annsboro, she quickly ran back out, trying furiously to figure out where they had all gone. She had left Bea in charge, she reminded herself. If she was Bea, where would she hold class?

That was an easy one!

She fumed all the way back to Dolly’s, up the stairs and into Pendergast’s room, where the man was savoring his role of hero surrounded by adoring children, giving them a heartfelt dramatic reading from
The Gun-toting Peacemaker.
He looked up when she appeared in the doorway and flashed her a devilish grin.

“Something wrong, Cecilia?”

“I
think our patient is fooling us,” the old doctor said with a wink.

“I see.” Rosalyn peeked through the doorway of her aunt’s bedroom. Her aunt was intently focused on the conversation taking place in the hall concerning her “condition.”

Dr. Fitzhugh patted Rosalyn gently on the shoulder, then let out a long hacking cough. The old man’s health couldn’t have been better than many of his patients’. “Sometimes unexpected events—like what happened to your poor brother, God bless him—can make people take to their beds without any symptoms.”

“I see.” Bad as the news about her brother had been, however, cagey Aunt Patrice hadn’t taken to her bed until Rosalyn announced, days later, that she was thinking of going to Texas herself. She had only told her aunt that she merely wanted to see the place Gene was buried, but even so, the woman had collapsed in a weeks-long swoon. Rosalyn had spent the intervening time waiting on her aunt, ushering her aunt’s many friends into her sickroom, and dashing out only occasionally to give lessons.

More than ever, Rosalyn feared she would be stuck in this rut forever—and never be able to find out what had happened to Eugene. Mr. Watkins had never written her back, and she was considering setting out on her own. She’d even pawned a ruby ring that had been her grandmother’s to raise enough money for the journey so that she could leave whenever she wanted; the only thing stopping her was the niggling fear that she would be setting out on a fool’s journey.

And, of course, her aunt. But now the doctor seemed to be telling her that Patrice was fine. “Are you sure that my aunt is quite well?” Rosalyn asked. “Her heart—”

The doctor’s laugh was a sad wheezing sound. “I’ve known Patrice Pendergast since she was in short skirts, and believe you me, she has the constitution of an ox.”

In as low a voice as could still be audible, Rosalyn asked, “Would she be able to stay by herself for a while?”

In the next room, her aunt launched into a suspiciously robust fit of coughing.

“Are you going somewhere, Rosalyn?” the doctor asked, surprised. And why shouldn’t he be? She had never been anywhere in her life!

“Well, yes. To Texas,” she explained, clearing her throat anxiously. “Just for a few weeks. Or a month or two.” What was the use in lying? She stepped closer and said in a whisper, “Perhaps longer. It has to do with my brother.” She looked toward her aunt’s door and felt herself vacillating. “But I don’t suppose I have to go at all...”

“Ah.” Dr. Fitzhugh again wore his grave professional expression. “I should think your aunt would be absolutely fine. In fact, it would probably be good for her. If I know Patrice, without you here to wait on her, she would probably be out of bed like a shot to go calling on friends.”

His words made Rosalyn feel infinitely better, yet she hesitated. This house had been her entire life; in a way, caring for her aunt’s quirks and illnesses gave her a purpose in life. What would it be like to set out on her own, in a strange place? The prospect terrified her and excited her at the same time.

She was showing the doctor out just as the postman came by with a letter. She took the white envelope from him with a smile, then noticed her name written in an unfamiliar hand. Her heart leapt into her throat as soon as she saw the postmark—Abilene, Texas, which was also where Jake Reed had sent his correspondence from. This was the letter she’d been waiting for—it had to be!

“Not bad news?” the doctor asked, concerned.

“No,” she assured him, though she felt no such confidence. She feared opening the letter and finding a note of condolence.

But once she got up to her room and read Chadwick Watkins’s strange account of his recent visit to her brother, describing him as mysteriously “much changed,” she felt, for the first time, trust in her instincts. Something horrible was going on in that little town called Annsboro, and more likely than not it involved Jake Reed.

Her journey to Texas couldn’t be put off a moment longer.

* * *

The afternoon before the pageant, Dolly’s house was bustling with activity as food was prepared and washing and ironing done. Cecilia was itching to get over to the schoolhouse to make last-minute preparations, but she’d promised Dolly she would help her get dressed.

Buck, Dolly had confided to Cecilia just this morning, had finally proposed.

Finally...after two measly weeks? And not only that, but Dolly hinted that they might not even wait through an engagement, but marry right away.

“Unbelievable!” Cecilia grumbled to herself as she hastily unpegged a chemise from the line and dropped it into the basket at her feet. Mr. Wiggles came up to sniff at the item she had tossed, and she shooed him away. Troublesome dog! He seemed unusually frisky today; Bea was probably too busy rehearsing her part to play with her dog.

Cecilia still had a million things to do. Dolly’s dress, which hung on the line, needed to be ironed. She would have to be especially careful with it, given that Dolly considered this a special night—the night her wedding would be announced. The bright white would show the slightest scorch or stain, and Dolly would be sure to inspect the garment carefully.

As soon as she could possibly dress, she would have to run over to the school and give the children last-minute instructions. She was fairly certain Bea would do well, but those older boys always made her nervous.

In the end, she would probably have no time for herself, she thought with resigned self-pity. Her violet dress was laid out on her bed in readiness, but there would be no time for the leisurely bathing and preening she was used to before parties. No, it would be rush, rush, rush—she would be lucky if Dolly even took time out to lace her up.

Mr. Wiggles growled and Cecilia threw a glance his way. What she saw made her eyes bug in horror. The dog, having decided that if Cecilia wouldn’t rise to the bait, then the clothesline made an adequate substitute for a playmate, had his teeth firmly sunk into Dolly’s white dress!

Cecilia gasped and stood rooted to the spot, her eyes pinned on the frisky dog. When the hound shook his head in mock play—as if to snap the dress in two—she knew she had to take action. Slowly, she approached the dog, cooing in a soothing voice. Thinking she was playing at stalking him, Mr. Wiggles growled more menacingly.

Cecilia smiled anxiously. “There, there, Mr. Wiggles. You don’t want to eat that old dress, now do you?”

The dog bared his fangs, confirming that his incisors had ripped two tooth-size holes in the fine white linen. Cecilia’s heart sank. She looked around for something to distract the pooch, and quickly picked up a stick. Taking a gamble, she waved it for a second, then tossed it beyond the clothesline.

Mr. Wiggles, his teeth still embedded in Dolly’s dress, hesitated, looking first at where the stick had landed, then nervously at Cecilia poised to grab the dress once he had let go of it. It was decision time, and his tail wagged anxiously. Finally, he compromised. With a mighty yank, he pulled the dress from the line and went dashing after the stick, with Dolly’s dress waving behind him like a battle flag.

But more than the visual display, Cecilia’s attention was captured by the sound the fabric had made as the dog tore it from the line—the sound of two tiny holes becoming two great big undisguisable ones. She scampered after him, and when she was close enough, dived for the dress. Thus attacked, Mr. Wiggles mounted an aggressive defense and began tugging her toward the open fields.

“Let go, you mongrel!”

The dog growled ferociously as yet another few inches of Dolly’s dress was lost.

“Cecilia! Cecilia!” The voice Cecilia most dreaded hearing shrieked at her from a second-story window. “What is that in his mouth?”

Cecilia gritted her teeth but tried to keep her voice chipper. “Don’t worry about a thing, Dolly!”

Another voice joined in from the next window—a laughing, mocking voice. “Write to us when you get where you’re going, Cecilia!”

Pendergast! It would just figure that man would have to be witnessing this latest indignity.

After a moment’s scrutiny, Dolly finally sized up the situation completely. “Oh, my heavens!”

No, your dress,
Cecilia thought in distress as her friend disappeared.

“Hold tight,” Pendergast cried out, “sounds like help’s on the way.”

Wasn’t he supposed to be sick? Cecilia thought in irritation. Since his return, Pendergast had been shut up tight in that room of his, coming out only recently for a few meals. He’d even refused to talk to the newspaperman Beasley brought in from Abilene. Everyone thought it was wonderful that their town boasted such a modest hero, and Beasley had naturally used the opportunity to tell the newspaperman more about himself and that drugstore. Cecilia felt like the only rational person in the world; she knew the man was hiding from something. But of course he
would
poke his head out of his shell just in time to catch her at her worst!

Oh, this was terrible. In a moment, Dolly would come running outside and discover that her beautiful white party dress was just a sad linen carcass of its former self. How would she ever set this to rights?

True, it wasn’t entirely Cecilia’s fault that Bea Beasley’s dog ate the dratted dress. But she was sure Dolly would exact repayment...somehow. And it wasn’t long before the price of her hapless laundering accident was made clear to her.

* * *

“You look beautiful, Dolly,” Cecilia said a half hour later, trying to keep the despondency out of her voice.

Pirouetting in front of the standing mirror by her bed, Dolly inspected herself from all angles. Cecilia’s violet dress, the only nice dress she possessed in town, perfectly set off Dolly’s slim figure, and the bright color made her peachy complexion fairly glow. Normally Cecilia wouldn’t have even minded making the loan, except...

What in heaven’s name was
she
going to wear? “You’re such a dear to offer it to me,” Dolly said.

“Of course you should wear it,” Cecilia said absently as she mentally tallied up the contents of her wardrobe. Work dresses, discolored and scorched by her own handiwork, made up most of her belongings. She had a yellow muslin summer dress, but it was years old and the wrong weight.

Cecilia suppressed the mighty sigh building within her breast. There was only one social event in Annsboro all year long, and she was going to arrive at it looking as plain as a stump.

Dolly twirled prettily. “Buck is sure to be impressed seeing me in this.”

“I’m sure he will,” she answered in a dejected monotone. This was supposed to be her big night to shine as the schoolteacher, and already she was off to a bad start. “I’d better get ready myself.”

Before she could leave the room, Dolly caught her by the arm and singsonged conspiratorially, “I talked to a certain someone today who’s very interested in dancing with you.”

“Not Mr. Walters!” Cecilia cried. This was all she needed to hear. “That man can turn a girl’s toes into bruised stumps faster—”

“Mr. Pendergast,” Dolly corrected.

Cecilia’s eyes flew open. “He’s not supposed to be out wandering around yet!”

“I was there today when Dr. Parker pronounced him fit to work, and Mr. Pendergast asked him, ‘But am I fit to waltz?’” Dolly giggled. “Isn’t that sweet? I think he might like you!”

Cecilia gaped at Dolly—and managed to suppress the urge to rip her dress right off her friend’s back. She had been avoiding that man as much as possible, which of course didn’t necessarily mean that she had been successful in not thinking about him. The man had haunted her thoughts every waking moment. She’d been devoutly hoping not to see him at the pageant. Or the dance afterward.

In her room she brought out the yellow dress and set it in the place of honor across the bed, where the violet dress had lain, for inspection. Biting her lip, she tried to look at the situation objectively. Actually, nothing was terribly wrong with this dress. It simply lacked...sparkle.

The very idea made her scoff. What need did she have to sparkle, especially at a little school pageant? Pendergast immediately came to mind, but the thought that she should fall into a slump because she wouldn’t be able to impress a desperado made her all the more determined not to care whether he looked twice at her. And she certainly didn’t care if the man never asked her to dance.

But the tripping of her heartbeat made her admit—at least to herself—that all her suspicion and careful avoidance of the man had come to nothing.

As she peeled herself out of one dress and into another, she thought of how little she knew about Pendergast—little more, in fact, than she had known that first day Lysander Beasley had introduced him. The only difference now was that her heart flopped in her chest whenever she caught sight of that hard, dark gaze of his, and she found herself daydreaming of each and every time he had taken her into his arms, cataloging each sensory detail and guiltily hoping for another incident to add to her memory.

Each time she saw him, she felt more ridiculous for the tension that started building deep inside her as she looked into those eyes, or caught herself gazing at the broad expanse of his chest and at his strong arms.

Cecilia shivered. The truly terrible thing was, she craved having those arms around her yet again, no matter who he was.

* * *

Blankets and festive-colored tablecloths dotted the schoolyard, and on them women in their best Sunday dresses spread themselves and their picnic suppers around them to watch the pageant.

The show Cecilia had helped the children prepare was blessedly short. Four kerosene lanterns lit the schoolhouse steps, behind which was draped the banner of the burning White House. Beatrice Beasley, dressed in an empire-waisted gown, her hair done up in ringlets and dusted with twice-sifted cake flour, narrated the audience through the War of 1812 up to the moment when the redcoats burned Washington. The older boys, sporting red-dyed newspaper hats, relished their roles as the evil British, and nearly tripped Bea up by sneaking around behind her.

“You’re not supposed to come out yet, Tommy!” Bea snapped at a tall blond-headed youth who was standing behind her with a lit match.