The Bridal Veil (4 page)

The dry civil ceremony in Judge Archie
Clifton’s office had hardly been the sort of wedding that Emily had
pictured for herself as a youngster. Even when she and Alyssa had
played bride in the attic of their childhood home, her dreams had
been better than what happened today. Back then, because of her
height, she’d always been forced to wear her stepfather’s wedding
suit, while her sister, small and delicate like their mother, had
worn the family gown and heirloom veil. Of course, as time passed
and Emily’s future became clear, her girlish dreams of a fairytale
wedding had all but blown away like the tall-masted sailing ships
on Lake Michigan.

Then hope, a fragile and ephemeral
thing to Emily, had roused itself with her desperate decision to
come west. She’d been practical enough to understand that Luke
Becker would not greet her with a grand show of romance. Still,
although she didn’t know what she’d hoped for, it had not been
this.

It had all been so hurried, so
undignified. Two men called in from the barber shop next door had
served as witnesses. Rose had sat stone-faced in a chair by the
stove. The judge, whose shaggy muttonchops made Emily think of a
chow dog, had swept through a quick monologue, punctuated by his
requests for their promises to honor each other as man and wife.
The beautiful wedding dress that she’d brought with her, although
it would never fit, lay in the bottom of her trunk with her
grandmother’s veil, the one part of the ensemble she’d so hoped to
finally wear. But the hasty wedding had prevented her from changing
her clothes or even unpacking the beautiful headpiece with its
length of white silk.

Looking more like a crow than a bride
in her wrinkled black crepe suit, she had vowed to take Luke
Becker, a complete stranger, as her husband. Then Luke had placed
on her hand a plain gold band intended for a much smaller finger.
Because it didn’t fit hers, it now encircled her left pinky under
her glove. She’d known a flutter of panic when his warm hand had
touched hers. He could claim her with those big hands if he wanted
to, regardless of what he’d said about giving her only a roof, his
name, and respect. He would be within his rights to do so if he
chose.

Emily glanced down. Her suit was
pretty much a loss to the damp weather, and she was certain that
her hat was a ruined wreck. It wasn’t raining hard. It simply
didn’t stop, and the rain’s dreary grayness seeped into her heart.
In the back of the wagon Rose still sulked, as bedraggled as any
street urchin Emily had ever seen in Chicago. Her ruffled dress was
ruined, too.

The wagon hit a deep puddle, throwing
Emily against Luke’s shoulder. It was a strong shoulder, hard and
unyielding and very male. She pulled away as if it were a
firebrand. Emily had lived in a mostly feminized world for many
years—with her sister and all the females at Miss Wheaton’s
Finishing School—she was unaccustomed to dealing with a man like
Luke. All she knew of him was what he’d written in his letters.
Three years widowed, he grew cabbage and corn on his farm, had been
born in Fairdale, and was the father of eleven-year-old
Rose.

As if their brief contact had jolted
him into speech, Luke said, “I hope you understand about the ring.
I got it from Fran’s store a few weeks ago, when I thought Alyssa
was— Anyway, it didn’t seem like a good idea to go back there
today, after everything that happened. I’ll exchange it some day
when I go into town.”

“
Of course. That’s fine.”
She understood, better than he knew.

“
Do you like ham? Cora has
fixed a little wedding supper for us.”

She looked up at him. He had a fine
nose, not too long or too short, a strong jaw, and a broad
forehead. “Really? Cora is your housekeeper?”

“
Uh, no, not exactly. Cora
Hayward is Rose’s grandmother. She lives with us.”

“
Oh?” This salient point had
been left out of Luke’s correspondence. “I don’t believe Alyssa
said anything about it.”

“
Yeah, well, I guess I might
have forgotten to mention it to her. You’ll meet Cora in a few
minutes.” He flapped the lines in his hands and kept his gaze fixed
on the path ahead as they crossed a narrow, rickety corduroy
bridge. The small logs, laid crosswise, rattled her teeth and made
speech nearly impossible.

None of the scenarios Emily had
envisioned included having to please a live-in mother-in-law. “Does
your father-in-law live with you too?”

“
No, he died before Rose was
born. Cora came to stay with Rose and me after we lost Belinda.”
His sigh was almost imperceptible. “Three years ago,
now.”

They rounded a curve and another
farmhouse came into view. “That’s our farm. That’s the homestead.”
She heard the unmistakable pride in Luke’s voice as he turned the
team into the road that led to the house.

A tidy, two-story place, it was
painted sage-green with cream trim. Its wide, covered porch
stretched across the front and around the side. A barn and with an
attached henhouse stood off to the left, and at the rear edge of
the cleared land, another dense forest of fir trees loomed. Those
on the outer edges seemed to have thinner branches on their eastern
sides, as if they’d been beaten by fierce winds over many years.
Their cold, dark silhouettes made Emily shiver. A stately old oak
grew in the front yard, and a swing hung from it. No other
shrubbery or flowers decorated the yard.

Waiting on the porch was a large,
stocky woman with a stern face and faded red hair that was parted
down the center and pulled into a tight knot at the base of her
neck. She stood with her arms crossed over her ample chest,
gripping a cooking spoon in one hand. Her sleeves were rolled up to
her elbows, as if she’d been working hard since sunup ten years
ago.

Luke set the wagon brake and jumped
down from the high seat, then came around to help Emily to the
ground. Rose scrambled over the wheel and ran toward the
house.

“
Grammy, Grammy, guess
what?” she bugled. Her tangled coffee-colored hair flew behind her,
and she managed to find every puddle in her path, splashing more
mud on her shoes and stockings. “This is—”

“
Rose, that’s not your
business to share,” Luke called after his daughter. “We’re going to
have a talk, missy. You get into the house and wash up for supper,
then wait for me in the kitchen.” Apparently deciding she’d pushed
him far enough today, the girl obeyed and disappeared inside. He
escorted Emily to the porch, where the scent of cooking eddied with
the wind currents. Then to the waiting woman, he said, “Cora, this
is Emily Cannon—well, Emily Becker, now.”

Up close, Emily realized that Cora was
a bit shorter than she’d first seemed. But she was sturdy and
big-boned, with large, work-reddened hands. She bore the faint
scent of lye soap, starch, and wood smoke. Her small blue eyes, as
hard and round as two marbles, missed nothing.

Cora raked her with the same rude
up-and-down gaze that Franny Eakins had. “I thought you said her
name was Alyssa,” she said, her tone accusing. “I thought you said
she was small-built and dark-haired.” She spoke to Luke as if Emily
were not there.

Emily refused to be discussed like a
piece of furniture brought home from a merchant’s shop. Not certain
how Luke would explain her presence, she interjected, “Alyssa was
my sister, Mrs. Hayward. I’m very pleased to meet you.” Briefly,
she described coming in her sister’s place, leaving out the more
painful details of the day.

Cora’s hard gaze fixed on her but her
stern face softened just a bit, and she uncrossed her arms. “I
don’t much like surprises. I want to know what’s coming and I had
my mind all arranged to meet someone else. But I’m sorry to hear
about your loss. I’ve buried kin—I know what that’s
like.”

Another memory of Chicago flashed
through Emily’s mind, this time of Rosehill Cemetery. Of the
winter’s last snowfall settling lightly on Alyssa’s headstone,
plain and small and new. It had been just before Emily left, when
she’d gone there to say goodbye. She swallowed and nodded at Cora,
unable to speak.

Luke left the porch to pull Emily’s
trunk from the wagon. “Emily was an etiquette teacher in Chicago.
It’ll be good for Rose.”

“
Etiquette!
” Cora hooted. Her voice
sounded like a rusty nail being pulled from a weathered plank.
“Well, that’s about as useless as teats on a boar. I’ve taught that
girl all she needs—” A look from Luke stopped her. Carrying the
trunk on his big shoulder, he took it inside and Emily followed it
with her gaze, a feeling of panic elbowing the composure she was
trying to maintain. That trunk was the only familiar thing she had
in this strange new place.

“
Manners and gentle behavior
are important for every young person, Mrs. Hayward.”

The older woman waved a dismissive
chapped hand. “Bah! ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ are good
enough!”

Only manners, gentle
behavior and years of enforced self-control kept Emily from
replying that stealing and a sassy mouth could not be prevented or
cured with the mere use of
please
and
thank
you
. No matter how she might want to, a
lady did not give voice to every thought that came into her head.
Apparently Cora Hayward had not learned this rule, or passed it on
to Rose.

Luke reappeared, and just briefly
their gazes touched. Once again, Emily was struck by what she saw
in the depths of his eyes. It was more than just weariness. She saw
a raw flicker. Too shy to maintain their eye contact, she broke
away first.

“
I’ll leave you to get
settled, then, while I see to the stock,” he said and strode to the
wagon.

“
Don’t be long,” Cora said,
“I’ve had that ham ready to carve for the better part of two
hours.” She shook her head as she watched him lead the team toward
the barn. “That man. Well, come on
Mrs.
Becker
, I’ll show you to your
room.”

She yanked open the screen door and
whisked Emily through a neat parlor. Emily had little time to look
around. Cora continued down a short hall that led to a flight of
stairs, forcing her to follow. On the second floor she noted
several rooms.

“
Heavens, what a big house.”
After years of rented rooms, where Emily and Alyssa had shared a
bed until her stepfather died, this farmhouse seemed
enormous.

“
Luke built this place
himself for my daughter Belinda, plank by plank. I never would have
thought that shiftless man had it in him to build anything. Some
Swedish family lived here before, but the house burned down and
they decided to leave. He got the land cheap. I wondered why he
made it so big—I guess he thought there would be lots of children
after Rose. But there weren’t. This is Rose’s.” They passed a
bedroom that looked as if a tornado had struck it. Clothes were
strewn everywhere and hung from the open drawers of a bureau.
“Luke’s room is in there.” Cora nodded toward a closed door on the
right and passed it. “Yours is this way.”

Emily didn’t know whether to be
disappointed or relieved that she would not share her husband’s
bed. If Alyssa had come, would she have been led past Luke’s room,
as well? In any case, Cora had obviously arrived at her own
decision already.

At the end of the hall,
Emily glimpsed her trunk standing in a clean, bright bedroom. It
was far more cheerful than her room in Chicago, where her view had
been of the brick wall across the alley. This one had two big
windows graced by white lace curtains
and
shades, that looked out on the
plowed fields. Between the windows was a plain wardrobe. A pretty
quilt and bolsters gave the big bed a cozy look. A washstand and a
simple dressing table with a small mirror and upholstered bench
completed the furniture. Emily sensed a woman’s touch here, and
something told her it wasn’t Cora’s.

“
All right?” Cora demanded
like a grumpy innkeeper.

“
It’s very nice. Thank you.”
Emily said.

“
My daughter decorated this
room. She upholstered the bench herself, made the quilt, and
braided the rug.” Emily waited for the warning not to touch
anything. It didn’t come but it was implied. Cora added, “Soon as
you’re ready, we’ll be setting down to supper.”

“
Yes, I’ll be right
down.”

“
I usually serve meals at
seven, eleven and five. Those who aren’t setting at the table on
time don’t eat. I’m not running a restaurant here.”

“
I appreciate knowing the
schedule,” Emily lied.

Cora held her gaze for a
moment, then nodded and closed the door with another
hmph
.

Emily allowed herself a quiet sigh and
looked around at the cream-colored walls. As she perched
tentatively on the edge of the bed, a feeling of ineffable
loneliness settled upon her like a familiar old shawl. She supposed
that her decision to become a mail-order bride was no worse than
taking a position as a governess or a lady’s companion. The chief
difference was that she was legally bound to the situation and the
man who’d brought her to this house. Legally bound, and morally,
too, since she had given her word to God, to Luke, to Judge
Clifton, and to the State of Oregon. She was Luke Becker’s wife now
and the people in this house should be her family.