Courting Trouble (38 page)

‘‘Good heavens. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.’’

The grip she had on Essie’s arm cut off her blood flow and crushed Shirley’s leg o’ mutton sleeve.

‘‘We’re not going anywhere, Mrs. Lockhart,’’ Essie said, ‘‘but you must release us and take hold of the crossbar. Letting loose of the handles is the equivalent of dropping the bridle of a spirited steed. If you remember nothing else, you must forever keep your main hold, else your horse is not bitted and will shy to a dead certainty.’’

Mrs. Lockhart grasped the handlebars.

‘‘Excellent work. Now, rest your feet on the stirrups, but do not exert any pressure on them.’’

She placed her black pointed boots on the pedals.

‘‘This is downright wicked,’’ she whispered.

Sadie giggled.

‘‘It most certainly is not,’’ Essie insisted. ‘‘Your position equally distributes your muscles so that when the exercise begins you will not overuse any one muscle. Now, would you like to move forward or sit awhile longer?’’

‘‘I’ll just sit awhile, thank you.’’

‘‘Of course.’’

She waited for Mrs. Lockhart to become accustomed to sitting astride the animal. Black draped the woman like a mantle—black shirtwaist and skirt, black gloves, black hat, black boots. Yet Essie knew behind all those morose clothes lived a heart that loved intrigue and risk.

The extra folds of skin below the woman’s brows gave her eyes a beady look, but they were alight with anticipation.

‘‘Better?’’ Essie asked.

Mrs. Lockhart gave a slight nod.

‘‘All right, then. Shall we give her a try?’’

Squeezing the handlebars, she nodded again.

‘‘Excellent. Now, there are two things that must occupy your thinking powers at all times: the goal and the momentum required to reach it.’’

‘‘What is my goal, again?’’ she asked, voice trembling.

‘‘Today your goal is to ride, with our assistance, six feet. The momentum required will be one turn of the pedal. Are you ready?’’

A fine sheen of perspiration gathered along her white hairline. ‘‘I am ready.’’

Essie signaled the girls and they walked several feet. Mrs. Lock-hart exerted pressure on the pedals for one rotation, propelling her forward.

‘‘Oh heavens,’’ the woman said, surprise and delight transforming her wrinkled face. ‘‘Oh my. Goodness gracious. Don’t let go.’’

‘‘You did it,’’ Essie exclaimed. ‘‘That’s all there is to it. Congratulations. You have taken your first ride on a velocipede.’’

Sadie grabbed the stool, and the three of them helped Mrs. Lock-hart dismount.

Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, she patted her hairline, cheeks, and lips. ‘‘That was the most exciting thing I have done in years. When can I do it again?’’

‘‘Miss Tyner keeps track of our lessons. If you will go with her to the front, she will tell you when your next appointment is.’’

They’d gone several yards before Essie stopped her. ‘‘Oh my. Don’t forget your cane.’’

Mrs. Lockhart turned around and walked in perfect form back to Essie. ‘‘Thank you, my dear.’’ She squeezed Essie’s hand. ‘‘For everything.’’

————— July 4, 1895 Uncle Melvin pressed his tongue against his teeth and let loose a piercing whistle that bounced off the walls of the Corsicana Velocipede Club and silenced the excited mumblings of the crowd. All eyes turned to the source of the noise—a platform in the corner of the building. Members of the Merchants’ Opera House orchestra shifted in their chairs.

Uncle Melvin offered Essie a hand up onto the platform. She wore a new pink-and-white-spotted taffeta dress with wide, leg o’ mutton sleeves and elbow-length gloves, bracelets dangling over the top.

Her wide-brimmed hat of straw was one of the most spectacular

she’d ever owned with pleated chiffon, ribbon loops, a steel buckle, and a bouquet of American beauties turned up slightly at the back.

‘‘Ladies and gentlemen,’’ she projected across the assembly. ‘‘Welcome to the Corsicana Velocipede Club’s inaugural Group Ride.’’

The crowd applauded, whooped, whistled and stomped. Essie smiled, waiting for them to settle down. Her students had worked long and hard in preparation for this event. She felt like a mother watching her offspring perform in the annual school play.

Splashes of color from the ladies’ garments were juxtaposed with the men’s brown and black suits. Though a few of the younger, more fashionable men were wearing red-and-white striped jackets with white trousers.

Her pupils stood scattered around the track, bicycles in hand, while spectators lined the perimeters of her building.

‘‘Ladies,’’ she said, ‘‘prepare your skirts.’’

The crowd murmured as the men held both their bikes and the women’s. A rustling of fabric ensued and her female students pulled up the drawstrings in their hems, transforming their skirts into bloomers. When all stilled, she turned her back to the audience and faced the band.

‘‘Are you ready?’’ she whispered, raising her hands.

They lifted their instruments into place, poised and waiting.

She gave them four counts, then swept her hands down and up.

The strains of ‘‘A Bicycle Built for Two’’ filled the cavernous room.

She nodded to the director, Mr. Creiz, and he took her place. Spinning around, she watched the bicyclists mount and ride. The crowd cheered, then sang with gusto to the band’s tune.

‘‘Daisy, Daisy, Give me your answer do.

I’m half crazy, All for the love of you.

It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carriage But you’ll look sweet upon the seat Of a bicycle built for two.’’

Mr. Vandervoort whizzed by, with his newly adopted son, Harley, balanced on the handlebars and squealing in delight. He was followed by Mr. Baumgartner, Mr. Pickens of the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store, Miss Lillie Sue, the doctor’s daughter, and Mrs. Peterson, the Crooks’ nanny.

Shirley looked as if she were being escorted by an army of men as they flanked her on all sides with their machines. Mayor Whiteselle and his wife sang and wheeled in time to the music.

Mrs. Lockhart reigned over all, though. Her head high, her bearing regal. She commanded her wheel with ease, but it was her new bicycle costume complete with wide knickerbockers and colored stockings that garnered the most attention.

Essie moved from the platform and made her way toward the front of the building. Mr. Weidmann handed out free samples of his fruitcake, along with some new items on his menu of sweets. Mother poured punch for those with parched throats. Young Lawrence passed out flat fans to the ladies, the backs of which had been printed with
The Corsicana Velocipede Club
.

The song came to a close and the roar of the assembly momentarily deafened Essie’s ears. Some of her pupils parked their bikes and went in search of family. Others continued to ride.

In the center, Sadie and Shirley began free instruction to the lucky two winners whose names had been drawn earlier. Jeremy Gillespie had been one of them. He’d made no delay in getting to Shirley’s side.

She scowled at him and Essie stiffened. It hadn’t occurred to her that Shirley would resent teaching the town drunk’s grandson. Jeremy leaned over and said something to the girl. Her eyes widened.

He smiled, winked, and straddled the bike. Long hours kicking down the oil rig had broadened his shoulders, chest, and legs. It had also given him a confidence and cockiness he’d not had before. He wore a smart suit and straw boater. The transformation from boy to man boggled the mind.

‘‘. . . the conclusion that bicycles are just as good company as most husbands.’’

Essie recognized Mrs. Lockhart’s voice at once and turned to see

her waving her cane at a group of elderly widows.

‘‘Why, you can dispose of it and get a new one without shocking the entire community,’’ she concluded.

The band reached the chorus of ‘‘Say ‘Au Revoir’ But Not ‘Good-Bye’,’’ and the crowd’s voices in song drowned out whatever response the women had to Mrs. Lockhart’s sentiment. But their expressions of horror and disbelief were enough.

Essie choked back a snort.

‘‘Looks like your big debut is a success,’’ Papa said in her ear.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘‘I think so, too. I had no idea folks would turn out in such numbers.’’

He gave her waist a squeeze. ‘‘Perhaps I should have you pick the location of my next well.’’

‘‘You hit oil this last time.’’

‘‘I don’t know if I’d call twenty-two barrels of oil a day hitting much of anything.’’

‘‘Pishposh. You can’t expect to find a gusher the first couple of tries. Where will you drill next?’’

‘‘I’m open to suggestions.’’

‘‘Essie?’’ Ewing said, touching her elbow.

‘‘Ewing! I didn’t expect to see you.’’ She grasped his hands and touched her cheek to his. He was dressed in black, as befitted his station, his hair neatly combed, his jacket crisp and neat.

‘‘Almost the whole town is here,’’ he said, ‘‘including a good portion of my flock.’’ Leaning forward, he winked, a teasing note entering his voice. ‘‘I thought I’d best come to make sure some calamity didn’t befall them.’’

Papa extended a hand. ‘‘Hello, Preacher. I must admit you do a mighty fine job in the pulpit. Mighty fine.’’

‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

Someone called Papa’s name and he turned.

Ewing squeezed Essie’s elbow. ‘‘Congratulations. I’m exceedingly proud of you.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

He searched her face. ‘‘You look as fetching as ever. I particularly like your hat. Is it new?’’

‘‘It is.’’

‘‘Will your box supper have ribbon to match it?’’

‘‘It will.’’

‘‘Then I’ll be sure to watch for it.’’

She shook her head. ‘‘I’m not entering it in the auction.’’

‘‘Not entering it?’’ His crestfallen expression surprised her. ‘‘But why not? Surely—’’ ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’ Mrs. Fowler called. ‘‘Where can I sign up for membership?’’

Essie glanced at the blacksmith’s wife, then back at Ewing. ‘‘I’m sorry. Would you excuse me?’’

He reluctantly released her and she hurried to Mrs. Fowler’s side, guiding her to the front desk.

The rest of the two-hour event passed in a blur as she handed out membership cards, answered questions, accepted compliments on her club, and calmed naysayers.

After the final song, Uncle Melvin informed the crowd the box-supper auction would begin at the park in thirty minutes’ time. The building emptied as fast as it had filled.

Essie thanked the band, picked up some fans that had been trampled upon, and locked up.

————— A large oak at the crest of a hill offered both shade and a view.

Essie shook out her blanket, set her box supper on top of it and sat down.

Oh, it felt good to get off her feet. Mr. Roland’s voice floated up the hill as he enticed the crowd with Miss Lizzie’s basket. Bidding began in earnest.

Pulling the covering from her basket decorated with pink-and-white polka-dotted ribbon, she withdrew her journal, a pencil, and some cheese.

Jesus Christ

She formed the letters of His name with careful script.

Points of Merit:

•
Will never leave me

•
Nothing can separate me from His love

•
Took my sins upon himself

•
Forgave me

•
Turns my darkness into light

•
Cares about everything I do, even knows how many hairs are on

my head.

Drawbacks:

She took a bite of cheese, then tapped the top of her pencil

against her lips.

•
Can’t see Him, touch Him, or hear Him with my physical body

Yes, but blessed are those who have not seen and yet have

believed.

•
Is always right about everything

True. But if you depend on me and trust me, I will take

care of you.

•
Expects absolute obedience

I have warned man that it is better to live in a desert than

with a quarrelsome and ill-tempered woman. It’s in Proverbs,

in case you’ve forgotten.

She took another bite of cheese and suppressed a smile.

•
Has a droll sense of humor

A feeling of shared warmth and amusement washed over her. She

giggled. Wrapping her arms around herself, she basked in the warmth

of His love. It was more fulfilling than she had ever thought possible.

She knew, of course, that she would still go through difficult times. But she also knew she would not be alone. Smiling, she closed the journal and bowed her head before partaking of her meal. She thanked the Lord for her daily bread, for blessing the bicycle club and, most of all, for being her One and Only.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Corsicana, Texas, is passionate about its history. They have preserved it, celebrated it and made it extremely accessible for us to enjoy.

They have a historic section downtown, a Pioneer’s Village—that, in my opinion, ranks up there with the best I’ve seen in our entire country—and a Petroleum Park commemorating the location where oil was first discovered in Texas—by accident while drilling a water well.

If you find yourself on that patch of road between Dallas and Houston, set aside some time to spend in Corsicana exploring all it has to offer while dining on some fruitcake from the historic Collin Street Bakery.

That said, the folks of Corsicana will notice that I bent their timeline in places in order to fit things into my novel that didn’t really take place in 1894. For example, Adam’s story of the Cowhead Trail was true—but it happened in 1860 and the trail boss was a fella by the name of Tom Hester. Oil was struck in 1894, but not in August. It was struck on June 9th. I needed my novel to start on the Fourth of July, though, so I bent the dates a bit.

Also, over a year passed before the second oil well was drilled (two hundred feet south of the original water well). Again, my story only spanned eight or so months, so I had to speed up the drilling process.

The peg-legged rope walker was true, but I found conflicting dates for the actual occurrence. Some sources said it was 1884, some said 1898. Either way, it didn’t happen in 1894, but again, some events in history call to be included even if we have to bend the timeline a little bit.