Waiting for Spring (2 page)

The slightly mocking tone made Barrett want to wipe the smirk from Warren's face, but before he could speak, Richard crowed, “That's it. Warren, you're a genius. We've got our campaign slogan: Landry Never Lies.”

“I'm so glad Barrett's coming.” Miriam Taggert gasped as Charlotte tightened the corset strings. Though Charlotte had advised her friend and best customer otherwise, Miriam had insisted that the gown she was about to don be made with a waist an inch smaller than any of her other dresses. “Men like small women,” she had informed Charlotte, “and since no one could call me small . . .” With a laugh, Miriam gestured from the top of her carefully coiffed head to her elegant shoes, a length of five feet eight inches. “One part of me needs to be tiny.”

Though some might quibble that Miriam was not beautiful in the classical sense, with a mouth a bit too wide and eyes a bit too small, she was a striking woman who'd used her slender form and her father's wealth to make herself one of Cheyenne's fashion leaders. And thanks to Miriam's patronage, Élan, Charlotte's dressmaking shop, had become the most popular in the city for wealthy ladies under the age of
thirty. The older women either ordered their gowns directly from Paris as Miriam's mother did or joined the city's less affluent citizens in frequenting Miss Smith's establishment. That knowledge assuaged many of Charlotte's fears. With Élan catering to a wealthier clientele, it was less likely that one of the officers' wives from Fort Laramie would discover that Charlotte now resided in Cheyenne. She'd known she was taking a chance by not leaving Wyoming, but the feeling of peace she'd experienced when she'd stepped off the stagecoach in Cheyenne had told her this was where she was meant to live.

“Why is Mr. Landry coming?” she asked. Few men entered Élan, and those who did were normally husbands.

Miriam chuckled. “I told him I wanted him to see the color, but the truth is, I want you to meet him. We've been seeing each other a lot, and Mama thinks he's going to court me. She and Papa believe he'd be the perfect son-in-law, but . . .” Miriam winced as Charlotte gave the corset strings a final tug. “I'm not so sure. I want your opinion,” she said when she could breathe again. “Sometimes I think you know me better than my parents do.”

Though they saw each other only within the confines of Charlotte's shop, the two women had become friends as Miriam enlivened fitting sessions with tales of her mother's matchmaking attempts. “She's convinced I'm an old maid at twenty-four,” Miriam said with a rueful smile. “How old were you when you married?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And was your mother worried you'd die an old maid?”

Charlotte shook her head as she removed Miriam's gown from its hanger. “She was so ill the last few years of her life
that I think she was glad I wasn't married then. A husband might not have been happy that I spent all my time nursing her.” Jeffrey wouldn't have been pleased. Charlotte tried to dismiss the thought. She didn't want to think about Jeffrey now. There would be time later to mark the anniversary of his death.

Turning back to her customer, Charlotte smiled. “Is this gown for a special occasion?” When she'd ordered the silk, Charlotte had had Miriam in mind, knowing that the deep forest green would highlight Miriam's blonde hair and draw attention to her striking green eyes.

Miriam nodded. “We're going to a concert.” The smile that lit her face turned Miriam into a beautiful woman, if only for an instant. “The symphony's playing Beethoven's Ninth. That's one of my favorites.”

“Mine too. My mother used to sing ‘Ode to Joy' while she was working.”

Miriam stretched her hands above her head as Charlotte prepared to slide the dress onto her. “Before she was so ill, was your mother a modiste like you?”

Though Miriam couldn't see her, Charlotte shook her head. “No. Just a wonderful mother.” While she was confident that Miriam would never knowingly betray a secret, Charlotte was careful about the stories she told her. There was no reason to tell Miriam—or anyone—that her mother had been a minister's wife and that her work had involved visiting infirm parishioners and making some of the best jams and jellies in Vermont. To deflect attention from herself, Charlotte spoke while she arranged the demi-train behind Miriam. “I imagine your mother enjoys music as much as you do. The newspaper always lists her among the who's who at every event.”

An unladylike snort greeted Charlotte's words. “Don't tell anyone I said this, but my mother is tone deaf. It's my opinion that she attends concerts only because it's expected . . . and because it gives Papa something to write about. He's always saying that the paper needs to include information that will appeal to ladies, even if it is boring.”

And ladies, despite the fact that they'd been given the vote and had even served on juries in Wyoming Territory, weren't deemed intelligent enough to care about politics. It was, Charlotte knew from the conversations she'd overheard, a common enough opinion.

“You needn't worry. Your secret's safe with me.” Charlotte had become a master at keeping secrets, her own and others'. “What about Mr. Landry? Does he enjoy music?”

Miriam shrugged, then grimaced as a pin scraped her shoulder. “I don't know. He might be like my mother.”

Charlotte suspected that was the case. Though she had never met Barrett Landry, enough of her customers had mentioned him that she had formed a picture of the cattle baron who'd moved to Cheyenne five years ago. Rich and ambitious, he owned one of Cheyenne's finest mansions. Though only three blocks farther north on Ferguson Street from the building that housed Charlotte's shop and her living quarters, the Landry residence was a far cry from the simple brick structure where she plied her trade. It might not possess a ballroom, as some of the neighboring houses did, but Barrett Landry's home was clearly designed to impress. Having seen it, Charlotte did not discount the rumor that he was planning to enter politics. The mansion would be an ideal place to entertain the territory's most influential men, including Miriam's father. Charlotte tried not to frown at the thought that Cyrus Taggert
might be part of the reason Barrett intended to court Miriam, if indeed that was his intention. She hoped that was not the case, for Miriam deserved a man who loved her for herself, not for the votes her father could deliver.

The bell that Charlotte had positioned on the front door tinkled.

“That's probably Barrett.” Color rose to Miriam's cheeks. “Go on out. Molly can help me finish dressing.”

“Are you sure?” Charlotte asked as she moved toward the dressing room door. It was true her assistant could button the three dozen pearl buttons that decorated the back of the gown.

Miriam nodded. “I want your opinion. Your honest opinion.”

“Of course.”

When she entered the main part of her shop, Charlotte found Molly staring. It was no wonder. The man who stood inside Élan was more handsome than even the most breathless rumors had claimed. At least six feet tall, he boasted dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a face that was saved from perfection by the small bump in the middle of his nose. Though he was not as muscular as the farmers Charlotte had known at home in Vermont, his finely tailored coat left no doubt that this man possessed his share of brawn, and yet that brawn was so beautifully packaged that the overall impression was of a gentleman. An important gentleman. Barrett Landry was a man no one would ignore.

“Mr. Landry?”

He nodded. “You must be Madame Charlotte. I beg your pardon, but Miriam never told me your full name. She simply described you as Madame-Charlotte-who-makes-the-most-
beautiful-gowns-in-Cheyenne-better-even-than-Mama's-Paris-originals.”

Charlotte chuckled. “Miss Taggert exaggerates.” Though Mr. Landry had given her the opening to reveal her surname, she did not. When she'd opened Élan, Charlotte had deliberately chosen a French name for the shop and had called herself Madame Charlotte, though she possessed not a drop of French blood. Not only did most of her clients prefer the illusion that they were buying gowns with a connection to France, but by using the title with her first name, Charlotte avoided hearing herself referred to as Mrs. Harding. It was true that she'd signed the bill of sale for Élan as Charlotte Harding, but she still cringed whenever someone called her Mrs. Harding. She'd been Miss Harding, then Mrs. Crowley, never Mrs. Harding. Perhaps she should have chosen another name altogether, but Papa's sermons about the dangers of lying had led Charlotte to use the name she'd had for most of her life.

“Please, have a seat. Miss Taggert will be ready shortly.” Charlotte gestured toward one of the gilded chairs that flanked a small table. It was here that customers waited, occasionally perusing the fashion magazines she carefully arranged on the table. The room—indeed her whole shop—was designed for women. Perhaps that was why she felt so uncomfortable having Barrett Landry here. As for the mission Miriam had given her, to form an opinion about the man who might or might not plan to court her friend, Charlotte could hardly begin a conversation by asking him if his intentions were honorable.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Mr. Landry shook his head before walking toward the shelves laden with bolts of fabric. To Charlotte's surprise, he fingered several pieces.

She bit back a smile as she thought of the report she would give Miriam:
Your gentleman caller was the only man to take an interest in a piece of silk
. At least in that regard, Barrett Landry was not what Charlotte had expected.

The object of her thoughts turned back toward her. “You have very fine merchandise. If I'm not mistaken, that's China silk.” He gestured toward the display of bolts that stood on end rather than being stacked as the less costly fabrics were.

“It is, but I'm surprised you recognized it.” Many of the women who patronized Élan could not distinguish between silk and satin, and not one would recognize the difference between silk from India and China. Barrett Landry wasn't merely breathtakingly handsome; he possessed unexpected facets.

As if he sensed her thoughts, he grinned, the self-deprecating smile only making his face more appealing. “I haven't always been a cattleman. Before I moved here, I worked in my family's mercantile in western Pennsylvania. We didn't normally carry silk, but my father ordered it occasionally.”

The mystery was solved. The cattle baron who might be entering politics had a logical reason for being knowledgeable about fabric.

“Nothing else drapes quite like silk,” Charlotte said. “That's why I enjoy using it for evening gowns.”

Mr. Landry turned back to the bolts and touched one. “This green is particularly attractive. It would complement Miriam's eyes.”

Keeping her expression impassive, Charlotte gestured toward two others. “Then you would prefer it to the sapphire or the apricot.” When Miriam had commissioned the gown, Charlotte had suggested either the sapphire or the forest
green, but Miriam had been drawn to the apricot, perhaps because it was similar to a shade Charlotte had been wearing that day.

“Yes.” Mr. Landry's reply was unequivocal. “The orange—er, apricot—would suit you far more than Miriam.” He was right. The apricot would complement Charlotte's dark brown hair and eyes far more than Miriam's coloring. It appeared the scope of Barrett Landry's knowledge was wider than simply recognizing fabric.

He turned at the sound of the dressing room door opening. “Ah, there you are,” he said as Miriam emerged.

She revolved slowly, letting him see the gown from all directions. “What do you think?” The sparkle in her eyes when she glanced at Charlotte suggested that Miriam viewed this as some sort of test. Perhaps she was trying to learn what kind of husband he would be, whether he'd care about her clothing.

“It's a nice dress.”

Though Charlotte suspected that Mr. Landry was teasing Miriam, her friend pursed her lips as if she were annoyed. “The color, Barrett. What do you think about the color?” She took a step closer to him. “Don't you think it makes me look like a Christmas tree?”

“No, it does not. It makes you look absolutely beautiful. I'll be the envy of every man in Cheyenne.”

Charlotte tried not to stare. Though Mr. Landry did not resemble Jeffrey physically, the tone of his voice and the words he'd chosen sounded like Charlotte's former husband. The casual, friendly tone he'd used when discussing the silk had changed, and the sincerity she had thought she'd heard when he'd told her his color preference had disappeared. The
changes were subtle, but to Charlotte's ears, the words he'd spoken to Miriam rang false.

Afraid that her friend was making a mistake, Charlotte waited until Miriam returned to the dressing room before she said, “I've heard rumors that you're considering entering politics.”