Cinderfella (6 page)

She pouted, actually puffing out her lower lip just a little bit. “He bought me lemon drops, just like you did, and told me riddles.”

If she knew what a picture she made she would surely be devastated. Maureen was right. Charmaine was still a child, in many ways, spoiled and unreasonable and occasionally intolerant. For all her education and damned seminars, she still had so much to learn.

“Then I apologize,” he conceded. “I should have passed the news along.”

The apology seemed to appease her, as he'd hoped it would. Damnation, she was beautiful, so much like her mother, and while he couldn't say he cared for this sort of fierce independence in a female of any age, there was something special about Charmaine. A spark, a brightness. When she turned her devotion in the right direction — her family, her home — she was going to be quite a woman.

But for now, for the moment, she was still his little girl.

 

 

 

 

 

Four

 

Ash was headed in for the day when he was stopped by the sound of squeaking wheels and slow, tired hoofbeats on the road. The sun was setting, and it was the middle of the week. Who would be paying a call at this time?

A friend of Verna's, he imagined with a sigh. One of those high-hat women from town she occasionally invited for dinner. But on a Wednesday? He had a stray and unwanted thought that perhaps it was Charmaine Haley, come to torment him as she had just four days earlier. But of course if Charmaine were to come again it would be on a fast white horse by the bright light of day, not in a lumbering wagon at sunset.

When the wagon came into view, Ash's dismay disappeared.

The conveyance that crept toward the barn with an occasional lurch was a boxy enclosed wagon with the words “Sweet's Traveling Thespians” painted on the side in fading red paint. The wagon had seen better days. There were large sections of rotting wood on the side Ash could see, and a good-sized hole in the roof; and the entire conveyance canted oddly to one side. The nag that pulled the wagon, Pumpkin by name, was a red roan the unfortunate color of the vegetable she was named for. And the man driving the wagon looked as run-down as Pumpkin.

“I'll be damned,” Ash said as the lumbering wagon came to a halt. It had been three years since he'd seen his godfather, the eccentric actor Nathan Sweet, though they had corresponded by mail sporadically. There was more gray in Nathan's hair, a little more meat on his tiny bones, but other than that he was unchanged. Five-foot-four standing ramrod straight, he'd always been given to expensive clothes that had no place on a farm. His traveling ensemble consisted of a bowler, fancy shoes, and a gray Easterner's suit given a splash of color by a bright yellow scarf.

The years had left their mark, but Nathan's aristocratic features were the same, as was the drooping and well-groomed moustache.

“After all this time,” Nathan said wearily as Ash assisted him to the ground, “that's the greeting I get?”

Ash gave his godfather a hearty hug that lifted the older man from the ground. “It's good to see you.”

When Ash stepped away, Nathan smiled and smoothed back his mussed hair. “Much better.”

There was no movement from the wagon, no sound but the labored breathing of Pumpkin.

“You alone this time?” Ash asked, and Nathan nodded once.

“It's just Pumpkin and I, this visit,” he said. “Two weary travelers in search of solace and the occasional adventure. I hope you don't mind if we stay for a while. I felt the need for the simplicity of the country — fresh air, wide skies, honest people.”

“Mind? Of course I don't mind. How often have I asked you to visit?”

“I wanted to come earlier, really I did, but the troupe's been busy,” Nathan said grandly. “San Francisco, Denver, St. Louis, and everywhere in between.” He gave a grandiose sweep of his hand. “Sold-out performances across the West, standing ovations, extensive newspaper coverage in every town.”

Always the actor.
“Then what are you doing here?”

“I told you, fresh air, wide skies. . . . ” Nathan's arm dropped heavily and his face fell. “My leading man quit, unfortunately taking my leading lady with him, the bastard. Shows were canceled, money refunded, and before the week was out the rest of my troupe deserted me like the seditious cowards they are.”

“Broke again?” Ash asked, sure already of the answer.

“Completely.”

They unhitched Pumpkin, and Ash offered to see to the animal while Nathan sat and rested for a few minutes. There was no need to face Verna any sooner than was absolutely necessary.

He led Pumpkin to the barn, and Nathan followed. “So,” the refined voice broke the rapidly chilling air. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Ash answered, the word a habitual response to almost any such question.
How's the wheat, Ash? Fine. How's the family, Ash? Fine. How's life treating you, Ash? Fine.

“Well, that's a barefaced lie,” Nathan said as he plopped his small body on a stool and leaned against the rough wall of the barn. “Fine. Hah! You're tired and unhappy and there are circles under your eyes. You haven't been sleeping, have you?”

Ash turned from the horse to stare at the little man on the stool. Just like that, Nathan saw what no one else did. “Not too well,” he confessed.

Nathan's face was lightened by a coy smile. “You're much like your father, you know. Your mother Lila, bless her departed soul, told me that when John was tense he would roam through the house half the night. She'd find him in your room one night, on the porch the next, in the kitchen perhaps . . . just wandering. She said she was never sure exactly what he was searching for.”

“I didn't know that.” Ash turned back to Pumpkin and began to brush her coat.

Lila Montgomery, before her marriage, had been one of Nathan's leading ladies. John Coleman had taken one look at her and fallen head over heels in love. She'd been playing Juliet at the time, in Lawrence. Used to such attentions, she had spurned the persistent man. Ah, but she didn't know just how persistent this particular man could be. It had taken some courting, on John's part, but Lila had finally fallen deeply in love with the quiet farmer. Many times Ash had heard this story, from his mother and then from his father and on occasion from Nathan, who still smarted over losing his favorite leading lady.

All those years ago Lila Montgomery Coleman had given up the stage to come here, to this farm, but she hadn't left her thespian friends behind. They had visited the Coleman farm over the years, for a few days or a few weeks at a time. Ash could remember his father grumbling over the odd people who'd regularly show up without warning at his door, but he would never think of turning away one of his beloved wife's friends.

“So,” Nathan said brightly. “Before I meet this woman who was foolish enough to try to take Lila's place, why don't you tell me a little bit about her?”

 

Charmaine watched her mother finger the trimmings of the ballgown they'd worked on for the past week. White satin was spread across her bed, and the lights sparkled on its elaborate ornamentation.

The gown was frivolous, most likely sinful, surely made for nothing but attracting a man and appealing to his lower instincts. Howard would despise it.

Still, Charmaine couldn't help but be just a little bit excited at the prospect of wearing such a beautiful garment. All her life, she'd had the best — the best clothes, the best education. The best of everything. But she'd never owned a fine gown like this one.

She felt a little guilty for allowing herself to get giddy over something as frivolous as a gown. She had to learn to still her excitement, if she was ever to truly become the woman she wanted to be.

She'd felt a similar guilt after the masked ball she'd attended with Felicity and Howard. It had been thrilling! Bright and beautiful and vibrant. The music, the dancing, the laughter, it was all intoxicating. She'd prattled on for days, until Howard had pulled her aside and explained to her how debasing such an event was, that the waltz was nothing more than a mating dance and that the finery was donned solely to appeal to the baser nature of the opposite sex. That a masked ball, any such grand entertainment, was an unnecessary frivolity, sure to lead to the fall of many a weak soul. He told her the only reason he'd attended, with his wife and sister-in-law in tow, was to appease a generous contributor to his current cause.

Guilt. She'd had fun at that masked ball, and she was actually beginning to look forward to this one.

What harm could it possibly do to humor her father?

“The musicians will arrive from Kansas City on Thursday morning,” her mother said as she turned away from the gown that was spread across Charmaine's bed, “and your father's ordered the old cabin aired out and scrubbed down for them, so they'll have their own place away from the house. Several of your father's cronies will be spending the night, so every guest room in the house will be filled.”

“This is too much work for you.” Charmaine took her mother's hands and squeezed. “You've been tired, and don't tell me I'm wrong. I can always tell.”

Maureen Haley smiled softly. “You could always see right through me, more easily than your father, more easily than either of your sisters. Yes, I'm tired, but I'm also having great fun. Ruth has been a tremendous help, and I've hired two new girls to help Jane full-time until after the ball. Now that everything's in motion and your gown is finished, I'll have a few days to sit back and relax.”

Charmaine knew her mother too well to believe that she would sit back and relax while there was work to be done. Maureen Haley always had to have a finger in every pie. Even if she didn't do the actual work, she would be there to make certain it was done correctly.

Her mother didn't stay much longer, but excused herself and headed for bed. When she was alone, Charmaine sat on the edge of the bed and fingered the heavy white satin and the peach trim, much as her mother had done. A strong wind rocked the limbs of the maple tree that grew just outside her window. Brilliant red leaves brushed against the window, dancing and whispering against the glass.

In the past week, since her visit to the Coleman farm, she'd found herself often thinking of Ash. Out of the blue there he would be, a mud encrusted hairy man with big rough hands and still, clear eyes.

Like now, as she fingered the white satin. His face was just
there,
in her mind, as clear and true as if he stood before her. Not Ash the boy she remembered, but Ash the man, whose bearded cheeks and wide shoulders held no resemblance to the smooth skin and lithe frame of the young man she recalled so distinctly.

Had time changed him so much, or did her memories lie? Of all her childhood memories, the heartbreaking moments with Ash Coleman were the strongest. Especially the day he'd dried her tears and she'd declared that one day she would be his wife. She'd had a lemon drop in her mouth, and the sun had been shining very brightly. Her dress had been a blue gingham, and Ash had been wearing a new hat.

Ridiculous! She wasn't a silly child anymore, she was a grown woman with very definite ideas of her own, and there was no call for her to get sentimental and weepy over a memory that was probably as much false as true. People had a tendency to remember only what they wanted to, and she was sure it was the same with Ash.

This dose of realism was for the best, she was certain. She could return to Boston after the masked ball and resume her work with Howard. No illusions remained, no childish fantasy. If she ever thought of Ash Coleman again, she would remember him as he really was, a common farmer.

There was a seminar planned for next month, and she should be back in time to assist. At one time, Felicity had been the one to stand at Howard's side and support him. It had been Felicity who had handed out manuals and spoken privately with those women who were too embarrassed to discuss such delicate matters as marital relations and contraception with a man. But that had been before Hester's birth. Motherhood was demanding, and it seemed that Felicity had lost interest in Howard's important work.

And so it had fallen to Charmaine to stand at Howard's side and do her part to convince the uneducated that a woman had more to offer this world than servitude to a man. That a pure marriage was a higher calling, and that baser impulses could and should be ignored.

Howard and Felicity had a pure marriage. They loved one another deeply, but unless and until they decided to have more children there was no physical relationship. They even had separate bedrooms to avoid the possible excitement of shared quarters. Charmaine knew her parents would be shocked to hear this, and would be even more shocked to learn of Charmaine's knowledge of such personal matters.

They should understand. Surely they didn't have a physical relationship, not at their age.

They'd settled into married life comfortably, with respect and honor and pure love. If not, there would have been other children.

Charmaine knew she would likely never marry. Her work with Howard was too important, her beliefs too strong. How could she throw it all aside to become no better than a man's slave? To offer herself up to his demands and expectations? She couldn't do it. Wouldn't.

Besides, deep down she was a little afraid. Felicity had suffered a difficult pregnancy and an even more difficult childbirth. She didn't only agree to Howard's insistence on marital continence, she seemed relieved by it. The sexual embrace, Felicity had confided on one cold Boston evening nearly a year ago, was solely for the man's benefit. It was an act to be endured, to be suffered through.

Charmaine had never been one for suffering, if she could help it.

So it was definitely a relief to find that she had no tender feelings for the
real
Ash Coleman, that her fanciful imaginings were just that. Imaginings.