The Bride's House (19 page)

He said nothing at first, only writing a letter himself and taking it to the post office. Then one night at the supper table, he remarked, “This afternoon at the station I ran into a friend of mine from Butte. He’s a friend of Tom Glendive’s, too.”

Pearl blushed at the name and stared at her plate. At first she thought Charlie would reveal some bit of flattery about Tom, but something in her father’s casual way of mentioning her suitor made her wary.

“He’s a nice young man,” Mrs. Travers interjected, “a sticker.” She had once called Charlie that.

“Not so’s you’d notice. It seems he’s been about a good deal,” Charlie replied. “Pearl, did he ever mention to you he’d worked in the copper mines up in Butte?”

“Yes,” Pearl replied, playing with her fork as if she knew what was coming.

“He worked in several mines, or so this fellow told me. Tom was fired from one for high-grading and let go at another for fighting. Seems he hit another miner with a shovel, a fight over a girl, the way the fellow tells it.”

There was a silence while Pearl stared at her hands. It did not occur to her to speak up for Tom Glendive. She had never contradicted her father for the simple reason that she could not conceive of his being wrong.

When Pearl didn’t respond, Charlie said, “The girl was Tom’s wife.”

Pearl looked up sharply.

Now it was Charlie’s turn to look away. “Of course, there could be an explanation, but the fellow said—”

Pearl interrupted him. “No need, Papa,” she said.

Mrs. Travers looked at the girl as if she thought Pearl had the backbone of a caterpillar and wished she would defend the young man or demand to know the truth before she dismissed him. “People tell tales. I thought he was a right smart fellow,” the older woman said. “Most likely the wife’s dead, and he can’t bring himself to talk about her.”

“No, Papa’s right. I was never especially fond of Mr. Glendive, anyway. He was only an amusement.” She left the table and went into the study, because her eyes had turned bright. She wiped away a tear or two as she sat in her father’s chair, surrounded by the comfortable smell of tobacco and whiskey. She did not wonder that her father had been at home all day and hadn’t ventured to the depot. And later, she was not surprised to find among the bills to be paid an invoice from a detective in Butte.

The next time Tom called, Pearl told him, “I believe you are wasting your time, Mr. Glendive.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I thought you and I—”

“You have misunderstood,” Pearl said, closing the door in his face.

*   *   *

Over time, Pearl finally realized that Charlie found a way to discourage her interest in
any
man who courted her. But she did not question her father, because she was sure that he was only looking out for her. She believed that someday she would find a man who suited both Charlie and herself and did not give the matter a great deal of thought, although she was growing beyond the age when most women married. Mrs. Travers, perhaps, understood that Charlie was unlikely to approve of any man who courted his daughter. “Pearl’s almost twice as old as Nealie was when you met her. You ought not to stand in the way of her finding a husband,” she told Charlie.

“I’m not,” he replied, warning, “It’s not your business.”

“It is. I raised up that girl from the day she was born.”

Charlie gave her a long look and didn’t reply. He was not predictable when it came to Nealie and Pearl, and perhaps Mrs. Travers feared a rare explosion of his temper, which could stir up hell with a long spoon. So she said no more.

There was no reason, then, to think that when Frank Curry began to court Pearl, he would be any more successful than her other suitors.

Frank was an exceptionally good-looking man. When Pearl opened the door and found him standing on the porch, she felt her breath stop in her throat, and she reached for the cameo at her neck. It wouldn’t do to let the man know she had reacted so, and Pearl swallowed twice and opened the screen, asking if he had come to see her father. Charlie was away but expected back at any moment, she explained.

The man removed his hat and introduced himself, saying he was indeed looking for Charlie, and would she mind if he waited. He could sit on the porch.

“Oh no,” Pearl breathed. “Please do come inside.” The man entered the house and followed Pearl through Charlie’s study into the parlor. They stood for a moment beside the library table, where Mrs. Travers had placed a white pitcher of lilacs. “I smelled them when I came up the walk—Chinese lilacs. They have the sweetest smell,” he said.

Pearl nodded and touched one of the purple bunches. She moved the stems around a little in the jar. She had seen other women arranging flowers, standing as if in a tableau, but she herself was not any good at either placing the boughs or posing. Still, she played with the flowers, because she did not know what else to do with her hands. In a moment, she realized the man was still standing and asked him to be seated. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He said he would if it wasn’t any trouble.

“No trouble,” Pearl breathed, and fled into the kitchen to calm herself. She added kindling to the banked fire in the cookstove, then poured water into the kettle, setting it on the stove to boil. She took out the tea things, the cups and saucers and the silver teapot, set them on a tray, then took down the tin of tea and measured out the leaves. When the water boiled, she filled the teapot and carried the tray into the parlor and set it on the table next to the lilacs.

“It makes a very pretty picture, the silver against the purple and the white,” Frank told her. Another man might have flattered Pearl by adding that she was a part of the pretty picture, but that would have embarrassed the girl, knowing it was not true. So the young man was wise not to say too much. Pearl sat on one of the horsehair love seats and gestured to Frank to take the other. He set down his hat and walking stick and seated himself.

Pearl hated times like this, when she was expected to be clever and charming, engage in superficial talk, and usually, she was mute. At that moment she felt acutely her inability to make small talk. She sat stiffly, clasping and unclasping her hands, pondering and discarding possible subjects for conversation.

“You may be wondering why I called,” the man said at last, and Pearl nodded, although she hadn’t. She was used to men requesting her father’s advice. “I’ve come to ask Mr. Dumas’s opinion about molybdenite. Do you know of it?”

“Oh,” Pearl said, forgetting her shyness. “I
have
just learned about the ore molybdenite—I believe the metal is called molybdenum, is it not?—and I’ve wondered what possible good it is.”

“Oh.” The man seemed surprised that she should have heard of the mineral. “And you can pronounce it correctly, too.”

“Why shouldn’t I pronounce it correctly?” Pearl asked, surprised.

“Most women can’t.”

“I never saw the sense of being ignorant about a thing.”

“Other women wouldn’t agree.”

Pearl blushed, wishing she weren’t always so frank, but that was the way she was. “What’s the good of it?”

“Of not agreeing?”

“Of molybdenite.”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s why I’ve come to see your father.”

Pearl wondered if the remark meant the man didn’t want to talk about molybdenite with her, so she stood abruptly. “I’ve forgotten the tea. It should be ready.” She poured the tea into cups and set them on saucers, handing one to Frank, then held out the spooner and sugar bowl.

He shook his head and waited until Pearl returned to her seat before he sipped his tea. Pearl held hers in her lap. She did not especially care for tea, although she found sitting in the parlor in the late afternoon with her father, over the teacups, to be a pleasant habit. It was something they did often, a time she cherished, because she liked nothing more than being with him. “You know about mining, then?” he asked.

“A little.”

“I should say more than a little.”

Pearl shrugged, and the two were silent, Pearl embarrassed at her lack of social grace. Frank finished his tea, then stood and began to examine the objects in the room. At the same time, Pearl studied him. That he was handsome, she had already observed, but now she saw that he was well formed, slim in the hips with broad shoulders. He wore his clothes casually, like her father, but his suit was well fitted and pressed, not wrinkled like Charlie’s clothing. Pearl liked the man’s manner; he was sure of himself although not cocky. She thought it odd that while she was ill at ease in the room she had known all her life, he was comfortable.

Frank went to the ore case and picked up a chunk of rock and held it out to Pearl, a question on his face.

“Cripple Creek. The Gold Coin,” she identified it.

He selected another specimen, and she said, “A mine in Russia. Someone sent it to Papa. The quartz in it is odd, don’t you think?”

“Unusual. I saw one like it at school. Did you go to college?”

Pearl shook her head, knowing now that not continuing her education had been a mistake.

“Oh, I thought maybe you’d attended the Colorado School of Mines in Golden.” It was a little joke, since women were not allowed to enroll in Mines. Pearl was not used to being the subject of a joke, however, and she thought Frank might be making fun of her. She frowned, so as if to reassure her, Frank said, “You could have gone. I’d bet you know more about mining than any girl I ever met.”

Pearl was not sure that was a compliment, and she went to the tea table. To occupy herself, she emptied the dregs of her teacup into the waste bowl before holding up the teapot and asking Frank if he would like another cup.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t like tea much. I prefer coffee.”

“Oh, I do, too,” Pearl breathed. “Tea tastes like straw.”

“I’ve never tasted straw.”

Pearl thought that an odd remark, and it took her a moment to realize Frank had made another joke. Unsure how to respond, she said, “I could make us some—coffee, that is, not straw.”

Frank laughed, although Pearl had not intended to be funny but had only clarified her statement. “Your mother surely would not approve of your wasting both tea and coffee on me.”

“I don’t have a mother,” Pearl said, adding quickly, “Of course, I
had
a mother, but she’s among the unloving.” The young woman thought she should not have used that old-fashioned term for the dead, but in her mind it had always fit Nealie. The girl knew her mother and father had loved each other, because married people did; that was why they married. But she had always wondered how Nealie felt about her. After all, Pearl had cost her mother her life, so why would she love her daughter? But Nealie might have loved her at least a little. Besides, her father and Mrs. Travers did, and that was enough.

“I’m sorry. You must miss her.”

“She died when I was born,” Pearl said matter-of-factly.

“And your father never remarried?”

The man was inquisitive, and Pearl said flatly, “No.”

“I’ve offended you,” he said. “Let’s talk about something else. Have you always lived in Georgetown?”

Pearl sat down again, wishing she had not set aside her teacup, because her hands were restless. She clasped them together to calm them. “I was born here.”

“Well, I find it a very quiet place. I suppose when you know it, the town is much more exciting.”

“No,” Pearl said, searching her mind for something amusing to say about Georgetown, but failing.

“I think much better of it since I’ve met you,” Frank said. Then he laughed. “You must think me a flatterer. I daresay I’ve been bold, and I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Miss Dumas—Pearl Dumas.”

“Pearl,” he repeated. “What an oddly fitting name.”

“I’ve never thought so.” It did not occur to Pearl to ask why he thought the name fit her.

Frank, perhaps sensing she was uncomfortable with flattery, did not continue. “Do you play tennis? I’ve just taken up the game and say it is splendid.”

“I’m not much good at sports,” Pearl answered miserably.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Would you like to watch me play sometime?”

Pearl hesitated, but before she could reply, she heard her father at the door. She was both disappointed and relieved as she stood up and announced, “Here’s Papa now. I will introduce you—Mr. Curry, didn’t you say?” she asked.

“I did. Frank Curry.” He stood and picked up his hat and walking stick.

Pearl repeated the name, not to commit it to memory, because she knew she would not forget it, but because she liked the sound of it. After Charlie went into his study, she led the visitor through the parlor doors and announced, “Papa, you have a visitor. Mr. Frank Curry. He is here about molybdenite.”

“Ah,” Charlie said. “Has anybody found a use for it yet?”

“That’s why I’ve come to see you, sir.”

Charlie shook hands with the young man. As he sat down, he nodded at the chair in front of his desk. Pearl stood quietly to one side, hoping her father would not notice and she could stay, but Charlie dismissed her with, “Would you close the parlor doors when you leave, my dear?”