The Carousel Painter (2 page)

“Forever, I suppose.”

Mrs. Galloway sputtered and then coughed. I wasn’t sure if I should slap her on the back or relieve her of the teacup before the warm liquid spilled onto her silk gown. Since Mrs. Galloway didn’t appear to be a woman who would appreciate a slap on the back—at least not by me—I decided upon the teacup.

She removed a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve. After one final cough, she dabbed her eyes. “I believe I didn’t hear you correctly. I thought you said
forever
.”

I bobbed my head, but then I noted the look of alarm in her eyes.

“But not
here
, of course. I plan to find work and move out on my own as soon as possible.”

“Work? Move out on your own? Young ladies of good reputation do not live alone, Miss Brouwer. And what type of work would you perform? When Augusta told us you would be arriving for a stay, I assumed you had family somewhere in this country.”

I wanted to throttle Augusta. She’d not told her parents about my circumstances. I cleared my throat and laced my fingers together in prayerlike fashion. “My apologies, Mrs. Galloway. I assumed Augusta had told you that I am without any relatives. My father was a talented artist, but he left me with nothing more than two paintings and enough money for my passage to America.”

There! I’d said it. The truth was out.

Mrs. Galloway picked up her fan and flapped it back and forth with a vengeance. Wisps of her mousy brown hair rose and fell in the artificial breeze. She sucked in her narrow cheeks and suddenly she resembled a prune—a prune with flyaway brown hair. I swallowed a giggle.
I must
remain calm. I must remain calm
. I repeated the words in my head while Mrs. Galloway continued to fan herself.

When the hour chimed in the distance, the fanning ceased and Mrs. Galloway jumped to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go upstairs. I’ll be late if I remain . . . any . . . longer.” Her sentence ran down like a clock that needed winding.

“
Oui
, I’ll finish my tea and relax until Augusta returns.” Mrs. Galloway’s wrinkled brow served to remind me I was no longer in Paris. “I mean,
yes
, I’ll finish my tea.” I sighed as Mrs. Galloway and her frown disappeared up the steps.

Leaning back, I crossed my ankles and took in my surroundings. Mrs. Galloway had obviously done her best to keep pace with the latest décor. Every flat surface in the room had been covered with vases, figurines, silver-framed pictures, candlesticks, or potted ferns. Several small tables were draped with fringed or lace-edged cloths and topped with porcelain jardinières and multicolored glass-shaded lamps. The room was far too crowded for my liking, but who was I to judge? I was accustomed to the sparse furnishings in the loft above a small French bakery.

Hoping to discover a more comfortable position, I wriggled into the cushions but met with little success. The divan felt as though it had been stuffed with bricks. One look at the chairs positioned near the front window and I decided it was time for a change of seats. They appeared much more inviting. I’d have a view of the front porch and could see Augusta when she arrived.

The ring of a bell drifted from upstairs and was soon followed by muffled footsteps racing down the hallway. Mrs. Galloway had likely summoned Frances to help her dress. What must it be like to ring a bell and have someone run to do your bidding? I couldn’t imagine. I couldn’t even picture what it would have been like had my mother lived longer, or how it would have felt to have a father answer my questions or shower me with affection.

A carriage slowed in the street, and I bent forward, hoping it would stop and Augusta would appear, but the buggy continued onward. Leaning back against the cushion, I revisited memories of my own dear mother. Mama had always made me feel special, but since her death, I’d experienced an aching loneliness—a need to belong and feel a part of something other than myself. Papa had tried his best, but it was art that had consumed his every thought. He’d loved me in his own way, of course, but I always believed I was an inconvenience in his world. I interrupted his creativity with my requests to walk in the park or play a game of checkers.

I’d written to tell Augusta of his death, and then her letter had come with an invitation to become a part of the Galloway family. In truth, the letter hadn’t exactly suggested a branch on the Galloway family tree, but Augusta had offered a place to stay for as long as needed. To me, that was almost the same thing. I had longed to return to America for many years, having been gone for ten.

The very thought that I might become part of her family had provided me with ample reason to accept. My experience thus far was quite different from what I’d anticipated. I could only hope matters would improve.

CHAPTER
2

C
arrie!”

I awakened with a jolt, not knowing where I was. It took only one look at Augusta to settle my mind. I jumped out of my chair; at least I tried. My right leg remained asleep, and jagged pinpricks raced through the extremity. I hobbled the short distance that remained between the two of us and enjoyed the warmth of Augusta’s embrace—and the fact that she had enough strength to hold on to me until my leg would cooperate and carry my weight.

She leaned back. “It is so good to see you.” She gave my arm another gentle squeeze and took a backward step. “I see you’ve maintained your lovely figure.”

I didn’t tell her it was difficult to gain weight when there wasn’t much money for food. Instead, I said, “And it appears you’ve dropped several dress sizes since leaving France. Let me take a look at you.”

Arms extended, she swirled in a giant circle. Her thick auburn hair had been pulled back in a severe coiffure that accentuated her angular features. She completed a final turn and pressed her palms to her waist. “Giving up those rich French pastries has helped. I think my dress size is even smaller than yours.”

The belief seemed to please Augusta, and I certainly couldn’t argue the point. There was no doubt her waist was at least an inch or two smaller than my own. “And you’ve fashioned your hair in a different style,” I said.

She touched her fingers to one side of her head. “Do you like it? Mother says it’s becoming, but I’m unsure.”

I shook my head. “I prefer a few curls around your face. This makes you look far older than your nineteen years.”

“And it gives my face a horsey appearance, doesn’t it?” She turned sideways to show me her profile and pointed to her raw-boned features. “Don’t dare try to deny it.” She hurried to the mirror across the room and loosened several wispy curls, permitting them to encircle her face before returning for my response.

I gave a firm nod. “Much more appealing.”

She wrinkled her nose in impish fashion. “If I possessed your delicate features and gorgeous blue eyes, I wouldn’t have to worry about hiding my face.”

We’d had this discussion on many occasions when Augusta lived in France. Much to my discomfort, she had constantly compared her appearance to my own. She’d coveted everything from my blue eyes and finely arched brows to the golden highlights in my brown hair. Even more disturbing, she’d considered my upturned nose my most beautiful feature. Strange, because I’d always considered it far too small for my oval face.

“I can see I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ll do my best to avoid such talk in the future.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m delighted you were able to arrive earlier than expected.” Her gaze lingered on my hat, and I didn’t fail to note the twitch in her lips.

A quick look in the hallway mirror reflected the reason for her amusement. My straw skimmer had tipped askew during my impromptu nap. I did my best to push it into place, but the attempt only caused several hairpins to drop to the floor. I unpinned the hat and lifted it from my head, which proved another mistake. Several unmanageable curls escaped and cascaded across my forehead. “I’m a mess.”

“You are not a mess. You are beautiful. And most women I know would pay a fortune for those lovely curls of yours. I know I would.”

I chuckled and pushed the hair from my forehead. “If that’s the case, let’s cut them off and I’ll sell them. I could certainly use the money.” Augusta’s eyes turned serious. “You need not worry about money. You can stay with us for as long as you like. We’re going to have great fun. We’ll be just like sisters.”

I could feel myself longing to curl around a stray branch of the Galloway family tree, but I quickly chided myself. I could never become Augusta’s older sister, neither by blood nor through friendship. Not now. Not ever.

During her time in Paris, Augusta’s aunt Evangeline had permitted us to associate at will. Evangeline Proctor had considered me a proper companion for her niece. But that would not be the case here in Ohio. It had taken but a few minutes for me to realize Mrs. Galloway and Evangeline Proctor were complete opposites. Mrs. Galloway would never accept me as her daughter’s equal, but there was no need to mention such matters right now.

Instead, I clasped Augusta’s hand tight within my own and led her to the uncomfortable divan. With little urging, my friend disclosed the particulars of her life here at home. Some of the details had already been conveyed in her occasional letters to me, but much was new information. I was, however, taken aback by her rather formal behavior—something I’d not observed in Paris.

While living in France, Augusta had been impulsive and carefree. Here in Collinsford, she appeared to worry about propriety. During warm afternoons in Paris, we had thought nothing of removing our stockings and walking barefoot in the grass or wading through an occasional puddle. On cooler days, we had strolled along the narrow streets eating crusty hunks of bread from the downstairs baker’s shop. On occasion we had even managed to cajole the owner of a nearby cheese shop into giving us free slices of the nutty-flavored Emmental he featured in his store. Something about Augusta’s demeanor told me she would never do such things in this city. The realization dampened my spirits, and I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake by coming here.

Augusta studied me with her inquisitive gray eyes that reminded me of Stormy, the silvery cat I’d left in the care of the baker’s wife. Stormy hadn’t seemed to mind when I plopped him on Madame Leclair’s wide windowsill and kissed him good-bye. The baker’s wife said he’d be a nice addition. What Madame Leclair didn’t say, but I already knew, was that she wanted a mouser. She’d be disappointed. Stormy was a fat, lazy cat who’d come to expect his food delivered in a china bowl each day. He’d never become a mouser—unless, perhaps, she starved him. That might force him to action, but I hoped she wouldn’t resort to such harsh tactics.

Thoughts of the animal evoked a twinge of melancholy, and I blurted, “Do you have a cat?” Two tiny frown lines appeared between Augusta’s eyebrows. No doubt she was thinking I’d lost my mind. Here she was in the midst of revealing her hopes to find the perfect suitor, and I asked about a cat. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been missing Stormy.” I’m not certain my explanation allayed her concerns over my mental condition, but at least she smiled.

“We do, but Mother won’t let him in the house. She isn’t fond of cats, so Boots spends most of his time out in the garden with Thomas. Except when it’s too cold. Then he’s sent to the cellar. He isn’t friendly like Stormy.” Augusta shifted her position and leaned a little closer. “So what do you think?”

I narrowed my eyes as if contemplating my response to Augusta’s question while my mind raced to recall what I was supposed to answer. I’d been only half listening throughout her commentary on life in Collinsford. I could feel the beginnings of a giggle, so I swallowed hard and said, “I’m thinking.”

“Don’t be silly. A simple yes or no is all that’s required.” She grinned. “But if you say no, I’ll be forced to keep on until you change your answer.”

“In that case I suppose I might as well say yes.” I did wish I knew what I’d just agreed to, but I supposed time would tell.