Marry Me (38 page)

“Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean it was bred in
his
bones. It could be that it was passed along by your mother, right there in her womb when you were only a seedling. Isn’t that right, Cole? Like hair color and whether a person has blue eyes or brown. Cole, tell her about that man and the garden peas.” She stood. “He can explain it all to you. I was only half listening when he explained it to me, but I think I got the gist of it.” She started for the door.

“Hold up, Whit,” said Cole. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or aggravated that she was abandoning him. “Where are you going?”

“I have to pick out the proper dress, don’t I?”

“There’s time for that later. What I want you to do now is call on the Coopers and the Beattys and invite them to join us at the church at three o’clock.”

“Me?” She pointed to herself. “I can go? Alone?”

“Yes. Don’t disappointment me by taking the most circuitous route.”

“Oh, I won’t. Straight there. Straight back.” She hurried over to the sofa, but the first generous hug was for Rhyne, not her brother. “Thank you. This is your doing. I don’t know how exactly, but I know that it is.” She threw her arms around Cole. “Thank you. You are an excellent brother.”

He waited until Whitley was flying up the steps before he spoke. “I’m always excellent when she gets something she’s wanted.”

“She can’t appreciate that telling her no sometimes makes you an excellent brother as well.” Rhyne paused and gave him a frank look. “Do not confuse that with being an excellent husband.”

He leaned over and did what he’d wanted to do since she’d joined him on the sofa. He kissed her. “No confusion.”

Rhyne touched her lips as if she could seal the stamp of his mouth there. She smiled behind her fingertips. “Is Whitley right?” she asked. “Am I somehow responsible for her being allowed to go out alone?”

“You tried to tell me once before that it was safe for her to be out, or as safe as it can be for any young woman. I know now what you left unsaid.”

“It’s still unsaid,” she reminded him.

“But understood.”

“You know Whitley will dawdle.”

“Also understood. It’s in her nature to be curious.” He glanced at the bookshelves. “Bred in the bone, perhaps. Like decency.” His eyes found the slim volume on genetics tucked between Darwin’s
On the Origin of Species by Natural Selection
and
The Descent of Man.
Cole knew Whitley’s fingerprints would be all over them, just as they were all over
Burnside’s Illustrated Anatomy.
“It’s an interesting idea that she has about decency. I don’t know if her hypothesis would hold up to scientific scrutiny, but I like the way she thinks about things.”

“She said it was what your father told her.”

“He might have. I don’t know. I can imagine him saying it.” He smiled. “I can imagine Whitley doing something that provoked him to say it.”

Rhyne raised her legs and folded them to the side, positioning herself in that way tucked her closer against Cole. She watched him stretch his legs and felt the tension ease out of his taut frame. They sat there as if the clock wasn’t ticking behind them, as if they had nowhere to be in five hours. It felt right, and neither of them stirred.

“We could have a social after,” Rhyne said, mulling it over even as she spoke. “Not today. Today is for us. But later, maybe Saturday. That’d be enough time for Estella to do a spread like she said she would. We could ask folks to bring a little dish to help her out. We could ask Sir Nigel, too. He’d want to show off the Commodore’s fine cooking. There’d be dancing. I bet that no-account Beatty boy would play the piano. They’ve got one in the saloon. Ned Beaumont plays a banjo and there’d be Doug Porter and Abe Dishman to play fiddle.”

Cole rested his cheek against her hair. “You’d want that?” “It’d be a social. It wouldn’t be just because we got married.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“No. It would be an end-of-winter social.” She raised her eyes and stared out the window. Sunshine lightened the azure sky and made the frost flowers in the corner of every pane of glass glisten brightly. Snow clung to pine boughs and limned tree limbs shaved of their leaves since autumn. There were drifts leaning against the north face of the house and mounds of snow on either side of the porch steps and walkway. She didn’t need Sid Walker to tell her that mountain spring was still a long way off. “A midwinter social, then. People need that.”

“Have you ever been to one?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly.” Rhyne wasn’t looking at him, but she knew there was an eyebrow being raised in her direction. “Rusty and Randy went. They left the house after Judah was sleeping, and I followed them. They danced with all the girls and twirled each other around when the girls were taken. They both got drunk and carried on and got a good lickin’ when they stumbled home in the middle of the night, but they told me later that it was worth it.”

“What about you?”

“No one knew I was there. I watched everything from the roof of the fancy house. It had a trellis back then that made it easy to climb. It seemed to me that everyone had a fine time raising a ruckus.”

Cole thought back to the dinner parties and opening night galas that he’d attended over the years. There’d been teas and luncheons and balls that went on well after midnight. He’d accepted invitations engraved in gold leaf, offered his hand to dozens of young women in need of a dance partner, and presented his card at the door when he called on them later. On Caroline’s arm, he’d gone to christenings and farewell parties. He’d been present when her cousin made her debut, and he’d escorted her to the theater and to the races.

What he’d never done, he realized now, was raise a ruckus.

“I want to dance with you,” he said.

She turned her head. “Now?”

“Always,” he said. “I want to dance with you always.”

Rhyne wore her finest dress, the one she kept at the back of her armoire because she couldn’t bear to ruin it with water spots or flecks of mud. The batiste handkerchief dress had a closely fitting cuirass bodice and pleated draping. The sweep of the bustle was not pronounced and the clean, almost masculine tailoring did not allow for more ornamentation than lace cuffs at the wrist and ruching along the high neckline. The batiste was the color of cherry blossoms and complemented her ebony hair and slate gray eyes.

She was ready at two o’clock, or thought she was. Rose and Rachel arrived unexpectedly, sent Cole away, and cornered Rhyne in her bedroom. Rose trimmed and dressed her hair with combs decorated with seed pearls while Rachel used a light touch to apply rouge to her lips and cheeks. She brushed Rhyne’s forehead and nose with powder and dabbed her wrists with perfume. Rose fussed with a pair of pearl earrings until she realized that Rhyne’s lobes weren’t pierced.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything to be done about that now,” Rose said, eyeing Rhyne’s reflection in the mirror. “Still, if we put a cape over your shoulders …”

“You’re not drawing blood,” Rachel said. “Goodness, look at her. I think she’s overwhelmed.”

Rhyne was, but it was because her heart was so full. She stared back at them, her eyes too big for her face, and didn’t say a word.

“Of course she’s overwhelmed,” said Rose. “Yesterday she was trying to figure out why some man would want to marry her, and now she’s about thirty minutes from putting herself in that same some man’s hands.”

“I think we know who ‘some man’ is, Rose.” Rachel picked up one of Rhyne’s hands and began to buff her nails. “You love him, don’t you?” she asked, watching Rhyne closely. “Because that would be a good start.”

Rhyne nodded.

Rose’s fingers fluttered at the back of Rhyne’s neck, arranging tendrils of hair that wouldn’t stay in the combs. “He’d be a damn fool if he didn’t return the sentiment,” she said stoutly. She finished with Rhyne’s hair and stepped back to survey what she and Rachel had wrought. “Exquisite.”

Rachel gave Rhyne back her hand and took the other. “She’s talking about you,” she told Rhyne.
“You’re
exquisite.” She smiled when Rhyne blushed. “I don’t suppose you’re accustomed to people complimenting your looks.”

“No, Ma’am.” Self-conscious, Rhyne touched the bridge of her nose with her fingertip.

“Ma’am?” asked Rachel. “Where did that come from?”

“Runt, I reckon. He comes out when my regular thoughts freeze.”

“Now, that’s handy,” said Rose.

Rachel’s look was quelling, but Rose only grinned. “I hardly remember my wedding day,” Rachel said. “My first wedding day, that is. It wasn’t in the church at all. Wyatt and I got married in his law office with Judge Wentworth saying what needed to be said. Sid Walker and Henry Longabach looked on. Every part of me was frozen. Do you feel something like that?” “I do,” said Rhyne.

“Keep those two words in your head,” Rose told her. “You’ll do fine. You won’t need Runt at all.”

As it happened, Rose Beatty was right. Even frozen, Rhyne remembered the important things. She repeated her words flawlessly, reciting each solemn promise with a gravity equal to Pastor Duun’s. While the minister didn’t seem to realize she’d captured his intonation and accent in her responses, Cole did, and when they turned to face the gathering as husband and wife for the first time, he didn’t try to suppress his grin any longer. He bent Rhyne over his arm and kissed her until all the blood rushed to her head. There was stomping and clapping and hoots of laughter, and it echoed in Cole’s ears long after they left the church.

He’d raised his first ruckus.

Saturday evening, the town turned out for the midwinter social. Organized by Mrs. Longabach with the able assistance of the Physician Search Committee, every sort of food appeared on the tables in the Commodore hotel, the Miner Key Saloon, and Miss Adele’s. The three businesses were in spitting distance of one another, and with it being too cold to eat and dance out of doors, the committee looked to another solution that would accommodate the expected turnout.

It was Mrs. Cassidy who suggested that the feasting should be a progression. They would begin with soups and salads and breads in the Miner Key. The tables in the Commodore would hold hot dishes: vegetables, meat and fish, potatoes and noodles. Miss Adele’s had room for desserts, which they all agreed was fitting. People could eat backward or forward or stay in one place and have their fill of whatever they liked. Liquor was available everywhere, but so was café noir and Russian tea.

The soups arrived in large tureens. Potato, cream of pea, vegetable, mushroom, and kornlet were the most popular, but there was a good deal of interest in Mrs. Easter’s cream of celery and the iced bouillon soup provided by the Commodore chef. Fresh greens for salads were not available, but there were delicious offerings made with dried apples and nuts and clear sauces, some tart, some sweet. Cottage cheese was flavored with dollops of apple butter, and pickled string bean salads were arranged on plates with thinly sliced radishes all around. The breads were as varied as the soups. Tables seemed to sag under the weight of baskets of rolls and braided loaves.

It was the same in the Commodore. Fish and fowl, beef and mutton and pork, it was all there in a variety of sauces, braised and broiled, roasted and stewed. The potatoes were served whole or mashed or scalloped, and the noodles were seasoned with herbs and butter or swam in gravy. There were platters heaped with turnips, pickled cauliflower, and stewed tomatoes.

At Miss Adele’s, trays of cakes, pies, and cookies covered every flat surface in both parlors and the dining room. Four flavors of ice cream, caramel sauce, and chopped walnuts, compliments of Sir Nigel, were available in the kitchen.

Rhyne held on to Cole’s arm, too dazed by what she saw to even think about picking up a plate. “I’ve never seen the like.”

Neither had Cole. At formal dinner parties, he was used to food coming in waves from the kitchen, prepared by cooks that remained largely invisible and carried to the table by servants that were wounded if they brought attention to themselves. This was a banquet, a feast of such immense proportion that it was difficult to comprehend.

Rhyne wore the dress she’d worn at their wedding. It wasn’t her first choice, but Whitley convinced her that she’d bring more notice to herself by wearing something plain and everyday than by wearing her finest. It was a good argument, and when Rhyne walked into the Miner Key, she saw immediately that Whitley had known better than she. The miners in particular were turned out in their very best.

The men had brushed off their top hats and frock coats. They wore trousers that were checked and striped and often paired them with vests of opposing patterns. Their shirt fronts and band collars were pristine white, and their wives or mothers must have made sure they scrubbed under their nails because Rhyne often caught them admiring their hands as they lifted their drinks.

The women wore batiste and velvet and fine wool. A few wore silk with cashmere shawls. The colors were all from nature’s palette: moss green; apple blossom; poppy red. The jewelry was jet and ivory and pearl. Women daintily lifted their skirts to show off embroidered slippers and kid boots. Their hands fluttered to their hair to secure combs, or to their neck to make certain a favorite brooch was still in place.

Cole bent his head toward Rhyne and spoke so he couldn’t be overheard by any of the score of people pressing in on them. “Would you rather be sitting on Miss Adele’s roof?”

Smiling, Rhyne shook her head. “I like this view just fine.”

“Good,” he said, straightening and looking over the assembly. “You’re the reason it’s all happening.”

“More like we’re the excuse. I reckon just about everyone was pining to show off their finery.”

“I don’t know about that.” He lifted his chin to indicate where the crowd was three deep at the soup table. Johnny Winslow looked distinctly uncomfortable. He was tugging on his stiff collar as though he needed to make room for his Adam’s apple. The lovely Molly Showalter stood in front of him fussing with his shirt bib and chasing away his hand from his throat. She was smiling. He was suffering.