The Bridal Veil (8 page)

It lay on her bed as if thrown there,
rejected and forlorn as Emily had sometimes felt. Crossing the
floor, she reached out to pick it up. No note of explanation
accompanied it, but there was no need, really. Its return spoke
volumes. Emily swallowed hard against the knot in her throat, then
gently folded the length of satin and put it away in her trunk. She
wasn’t sure if Rose had returned the gift on her own or if Cora had
made her do it.

Cora is the only one who
knows how to handle that mean old biddy.

She’d probably trained the accursed
thing herself—what a dreadful example to set for a child by playing
that dirty trick on Emily.

And that Luke Becker. When
he’d stood over her, practically wagging his finger in her face
about going into the henhouse, if she hadn’t been so rattled from
the experience she’d have been sorely tempted to kick him in the
shins. That very reaction frightened her. Passionate feelings were
to be kept in check, she reminded herself. A lady did not lose her
temper in polite company, raise her voice, or make physical
demonstrations of her anger, no matter how she might long to. Of
course, the term
polite company
barely fit these people. In civilized society, an
uninvited stranger would receive better hospitality than she had so
far. Luke had made her almost as angry as Cora had, first scolding
her, and then dismissing her as if she were an errant child. He
talked to Rose that way, when he bothered talking to her at all.
God above, would Alyssa have been treated the same? No, she
supposed, probably not.

Beneath her fear and annoyance,
though, had been a more subtle feeling that he’d stirred in Emily.
When he’d leaned close, she caught a whiff of him, of newly-turned
earth, hay, and soap. They were an altogether distracting
combination that had been enough to make her look up into his eyes
again. She lifted her gaze now and let it stray to the fields
beyond her windows, to the furrows plowed in them. She could
picture him behind the draft team that had brought her here
yesterday, cleaving the soil for planting, his bare back muscled
and straight under a clear April sky. The image in her mind was so
vivid, when she glanced into the mirror she saw the color and heat
it had brought to her face.

Emily sat upright, appalled at the
direction her thoughts had taken. She had struggled with unseemly
thoughts all her life, ones that no real lady should ever
entertain—jealousy, critical views, fear, anger, impurity,
curiosity. They all were injurious to the spirit, and to one’s
moral and physical welfare. Certainly the copious advice manuals
published on proper behavior warned against these thoughts and
feelings. Her ability to remember these rules and pass them along
to her students had been one reason for her success as a
teacher.

But sometimes, oh, God, sometimes in
her secret heart, the strictures of ladylike deportment felt a bit
too tight, even to her. Though she’d rather die than admit it,
she’d wondered what it might feel like to walk barefoot through
grass, or lounge in bed for a morning, something a person didn’t do
unless she was ill, or—or, just once, how would it feel to sleep
naked on a hot summer night, with nothing between her skin and the
sheets? But she recoiled from the questions because aside from the
impropriety of the deeds she pondered, they tore at the very fabric
of security around which she had built and conducted her
life.

Unbuttoning the bodice of her dress,
she stood and stepped out of the dirty garment. Then she pulled the
pins out of her hair so that she could brush it out and rebraid it.
The soft whisk of the long strands against her waist was another
sensual indulgence that Emily allowed herself to enjoy. A woman’s
hair, her crowning glory it was sometimes called, was to be worn up
in a modest style, not hanging loose in an immodest fall of curls
and waves.

But right now, she decided that this
particular indulgence was one she deserved. She stood in her
chemise and petticoat, pulling the bristles of her brush through
her hair again and again, enjoying the feel of freed locks. If she
missed Cora Hayward’s breakfast, so be it. She knew they hadn’t
waited for her.

~~*~*~*~~

The rock lodged in the disk harrow
finally broke free with a hard, impatient stroke of Luke’s hammer.
With a heartfelt curse, he picked it up and flung it into the
blackberry brambles that edged one side of the property. God, he’d
lost an hour of the morning to this. At least he could finally
start the plowing after breakfast. He glanced toward the sky,
hoping to see a break in the clouds.

What he saw instead was Emily Cannon
Becker, dressed in her chemise as she passed her bedroom windows on
the second floor, her hair tumbling down her back as she drew a
brush through it. He caught only a glimpse, but he saw enough to
recognize that its color was of ripe wheat. Luke, stunned and
suddenly breathless, thought he hadn’t seen anything as beautiful
since a misty sunrise last fall.

And maybe it had been long before
that.

~~*~*~*~~

Just after noon, ravening hunger
finally forced Emily out of her room. She knew she was too late for
lunch, but that didn’t mean there was no food in the house. Wearing
her last clean black dress and with her hair tidied, she was
determined to face the formidable Cora Hayward. Emily had never
been a coward in her life, she thought, as she came down the steps.
Well, yes, she had. Many times. But she had proceeded anyway and
she would do so now.

In the kitchen, Cora stood at the
stove like an eternal sentinel at her post, stirring a black kettle
of something with a pleasing aroma. Rose was back at the table,
drawing a picture in a composition book. With a slender hold on the
courage she’d managed to muster, Emily went to the sideboard and
got a dish and silver for herself. Cora turned to watch her, and
she felt the woman’s eyes on her every move. The silver clacked
against the dish in her trembling hand, and she tightened her
grip.

When she walked to the stove with her
empty plate, she thought of Dickens’s Oliver Twist, begging for
porridge. “Mrs. Hayward, I’d like to make lunch for myself. As I
said earlier, I am not a guest here and I’ll be happy to help
myself. If you’ll just show me where I might find something to eat,
I’ll take care of the rest.” She forced herself to smile as she
spoke.

Cora stared at her. Finally she said,
“I’ve got this kettle of stew we had for the noon meal. I was just
about to put up a jar for Luke. You take some too.” The offer was
grudging but Emily thought she detected the tiniest hint of
chagrin. Cora took the dish from Emily’s hand and ladled on a
healthy portion of the rich, meaty broth studded with potatoes,
carrots, and onions.

“
Thank you.” Emily sat down
at the table and forced herself to keep from slurping the delicious
stew like a boor, but it wasn’t easy. She hadn’t eaten a
substantial meal since the day before.

Cora went to the back door and took up
a shawl hanging from a hook there. “I’m going out to the henhouse
to see if there are any eggs left. If you want more stew, help
yourself.” It sounded more like a command than an invitation, and
Emily drew a deep breath when the door slammed behind
Cora.

At the other end of the table Rose
sat, studiously intent on the picture she was drawing. Her tongue
peeked from the corner of her mouth and she gripped her pencil so
tightly her knuckles were white. This was the first time since
Emily arrived that she’d been alone with the girl, and after the
incident with the hair ribbon, she wasn’t sure how to commence.
Finally she decided on what seemed like a safe topic.

“
What are you drawing,
Rose?” she asked after savoring the last spoonful of
broth.

She didn’t look up. “Nothing
much.”

“
Hmm, it looks like
something
. May I
see?”

“
I guess.” Briefly, she held
up the composition book to show Emily a drawing that revealed a
fair amount of talent. Expecting a rather immature rendering, Emily
instead saw a reasonably accurate depiction of the farmhouse,
complete with the oak tree and the swing that hung from its bough.
The perspective and proportions were a little off, but not enough
to detract from the budding gift she recognized.

Pleased surprise colored her voice.
“That’s very nice! How long have you been sketching?”

The girl shrugged in that annoying way
of hers. Her mumbled response matched the shrug. “I don’t know. A
long time, I suppose. Maybe even two years. Grammy says it’s a
waste of time.”

She
would
, Emily simmered. “Painting and
drawing are very ladylike pastimes for a girl. So is stitchery. Has
your grandmother showed you how to embroider and sew?”

A lock of Rose’s unbound hair fell
over the paper and she pushed it behind her ear. “Nope. I just like
to draw.”

Emily slid her chair a little closer.
“Well, embroidery is kind of like drawing, except with a needle and
thread. You can make pictures of all kinds of things—flowers,
birds, trees, even this house. In the Middle Ages, European women
stitched big tapestries that told stories of great battles and
family histories. There’s a famous one in France called the Bayeux
Tapestry. It shows the Norman conquest of England, and it’s two
hundred and forty feet long, just over one-fifth of a mile. It’s
about a mile into town isn’t it?”

Rose nodded with wide eyes, obviously
impressed.

“
Well, the tapestry could
line the fences along the road for one-fifth of the way into town.
All done with stitchery.” She pointed at Rose’s artwork. “Of
course, you wouldn’t have to make anything so big. But it might be
easier for you because you draw so well. You could sketch your
design on the fabric.”

The girl’s wide eyes now gleamed.
“Really?”

Emily smiled. “Yes. If you’d like to
learn, I can show you how to get started.”

“
Oh, yes, that
sounds—”

Just then, the back door opened and
Cora bustled in, a stack of stove wood on her beefy arm. “Not an
egg left in that whole blamed henhouse.” She cast them both a
quizzical look, then bent a censuring frown on her granddaughter.
The girl fell silent.

“
Would you like that, Rose?”
Emily pressed, looking at her downturned head. “I have all of my
threads and such upstairs in my trunk, and we can begin a sampler
for you.”

“
Um, no, maybe not,” she
mumbled again, and from her answer Emily learned more than she’d
expected to.

Cora plucked an empty fruit jar from a
shelf and went to the kettle on the stove. She spooned stew into it
and screwed on a lid, then put it in a basket with a half loaf of
bread. She covered the whole thing with a clean napkin.

“
Rose, you take your
father’s lunch out to him.” Emily eyed Cora, who turned back to the
stove. “He’ll be in the fields until dinnertime today since he got
a late start.” Cora put the basket on the table. “Go on now, while
it’s still hot. And wait until he’s finished eating so you can
bring back the basket.”

Rose chanced a peek at Emily, and she
smiled back at the girl. “I’ll tell you what, Rose, I’ll come with
you. I need to talk to your father, anyway.”

The older woman spun to look at them
both, her usually-florid face even brighter. “Mrs. Becker, it’s
downright muddy out there with all the rain we’ve been having.
You’re likely to ruin your shoes. The mud will suck them right off
your feet.”

Emily stood and said, “I have a pair
of overshoes upstairs that I’ll put on. I’ll be fine.”

Cora tried again. “Rose can’t wait for
you. Luke’s lunch will get cold.”

“
No, it won’t. I’ll just be
a minute.” Emily turned and dashed up the stairs in a most
unladylike manner, worried that if she took too long, Cora would
send Rose off at a gallop to get the child away from her. She was
fully aware that Cora wanted to keep her separated from Rose, but
she wasn’t sure why.

Throwing open her trunk, she tossed
things out right and left until she found a pair of fleece-lined
arctics that she’d worn through the snows of Chicago. She yanked
them on over her shoes, grabbed her shawl, and bounded back
downstairs just in time to see Rose going out the door, the basket
in hand.

“
Here I am,” she called.
Rose cast a last, uncertain look at her grandmother, whose jaw
appeared to be so tight, Emily expected to hear her teeth crack.
“It’ll be good to go for a walk.”

The two set off down the path to the
fields. The sun had braved its way through the overcast and the
afternoon was warming up. Emily pushed her shawl from her
shoulders.

Rose slogged alongside her, relapsed
into her silence. Determined to draw her out, Emily asked, “Do you
bring your father his lunch very often?”

“
Only when he’s real busy
during planting and at harvest time.”

Cora had overstated the mud. It was
good to be outside and away from the oppression of that house. “It
was nice of your grandmother to fix him this basket,” Emily
exaggerated. “She takes good care of you both.” She knew she was
leading the girl and felt a twinge of guilt. But since no one had
volunteered any information about the family, this seemed to be the
only way to learn about them.