Harmony (14 page)

“They most certainly are not.” With that, she rolled off him into the leaves. Several stuck to her hair and littered her shirtwaist and . . . underwear. He just now noticed she didn't have a skirt on. Dainty drawers with lace-bound hems bunched up on her thighs, exposing the shape of her legs.
Very nice.

Edwina laid a hand dramatically across her forehead and heaved a great big sigh. “I think I'm going to faint.”

“I doubt it. Not unless you're suffering from a concussion. Are you?”

“How should I know?”

“You need to see a doctor. I'll carry you to Porter's office.”

“Absolutely not!” She bolted upright, then moaned and clutched her head. “How would I explain falling on you?”

“The same way you'll explain it to me.” He rose to his feet and offered her a hand—which she ignored. “What were you doing in the tree?”

“Rescuing my cat,” she murmured through fingers that covered her eyes, nose, and mouth. Then she peeked upward over her fingertips. In a wavering voice tinged with distress, she cried, “Honey Tiger? Kitty, kitty, kitty.”

A frazzled tabby skulked from a dark corner of the warehouse. Tan fur stood high on its back, and each slow step was low to the ground. The pitiful, plaintive yowl that issued from it filled the clearing.

The cat went to Edwina. She picked it up and held it close. Tom's tight gaze was riveted on the scene—most notably on the swell of her bosom above the cat she comforted against the row of buttons that traveled between her breasts. Her slender figure was seductive; the half-clad image she presented was an unwitting invitation to the bedroom. The wealth of russet hair tumbled down her back, falling past a narrow waist.

Lifting the cat, she put her nose up to its tiny pink one. “Honey Tiger, next time you come when your mama calls.”

Meow.

Edwina grew oblivious to Tom, her focus on a worthless feline as she cuddled and cooed at it. He had as much affection for cats as Barkly did. They were stupid pets; completely worthless. Cats couldn't flush out game, and they couldn't retrieve anything bigger than a field mouse. They never chased after sticks or balls. Okay, so they could catch birds. Big deal. Just the powder-puff varieties. Your sparrows, hummingbirds, and songsters. Other than that, all cats did was sleep the day away, then eat liver and take care of business in a box of sawdust and sand. A pretty sad commentary for a life.

Irritated by the sugary endearments Edwina showered on her cat, Tom made a slight gesture with his right hand. “You lose your petticoat and skirt in the fall?”

“Hmm?” she replied, as if she'd forgotten he was there.

“You're not wearing a skirt and petticoat.”

Quickly looking at her stockinged legs, she apparently remembered she was missing something. The palm she immediately placed over her bent knees did nothing to hide the obvious. “I had to take them off to climb the tree. They're behind that oak where I kicked them.”

Tom strolled in the direction, perusing the area but not finding a skirt and petticoat. “Are you sure you left them over here?”

“Of course I'm sure.” She pointed emphatically. “Right there. Right where you're standing.”

Tom gazed down. There was nothing. Meeting her eyes, he remarked, “If they were here, they're gone now.”

“They can't be gone!” Gaining her footing, she stumbled toward him with the cat clutched tightly in her arms. Leaves scuffled beneath her shoes as she walked around the tree in a circle. A slight rip in the seat of her drawers offered him the vaguest hint of the ivory skin beneath.

As she made another pass around the trunk, he moved in closer and took full advantage of the situation; he walked directly behind her, his gaze pinned to the rip as he gave not a second thought to the skirt he was supposed to be looking for.

She stopped and twirled around to face him. For a moment, he thought he'd been found out. Instead, she stared at him and insisted, “They were here.”

“Maybe if you tell me exactly what happened,” he suggested, opting not to tell her she had a tear in her drawers.

Exasperation colored her usually lilting voice. “I was in the building when
your dog
began barking. Then I looked for my cat in her basket. She wasn't there.”

Unbidden, his line of vision kept inching lower. “Then what?”

She eased away from him while she continued. “So I
came outside and found out
your dog
had chased my cat up the tree. Not having a ladder, I climbed the tree myself. At some point, I realized
your dog
had run off.”

He indulged himself in gazing at the flat of her stomach and the flare of her hips. “What happened after that?”

With all her sidling, she ended up standing behind the trunk for cover, with only her face peeking out. “Then you came outside. The branch broke and I fell. I landed on you.”

“I know that part.”

“Just to refresh your memory.” She shot him an accusing glare. “I didn't think you were paying attention to what I just told you.”

“I heard every word.”

She exhaled heavily. “None of this would have happened if it haven't been for that menacing dog of yours.”

Tom hated to have to tell Edwina, but Barkly had been known to bound off with things he knew he wasn't supposed to—clothing included. To Barkly's way of thinking—if Tom could think like a dog for a moment—it was a game of “catch me if you can.” Most of the time, Tom never caught him, and whatever he stole ended up wherever he got tired of it. He usually made nightly rounds that included the billiard parlor, where he mooched peanuts off Dutch, and then the Blue Flame or the butcher shop, where he ransacked the rubbish bins.

Rather than sparing her, Tom said flatly, “Barkly made off with your clothes.”

Denial flared in the set of her mouth. “Don't joke with me, Mr. Wolcott.”

“I'm not.”

Acceptance didn't readily come. But after a moment spent searching his eyes—as if to say
You're still joking—right?
—she buried her face in the cat's fur and moaned, “I'm ruined . . .”

Tom went to Edwina's side and awkwardly patted her shoulder. Condolences of lost propriety weren't his forte,
but he gave it his best shot. “You're not ruined. Nobody has to find out.”

Her pert chin jutted out. “How am I going to get home like this? I can't just walk down Main Street like the emperor in his new clothes. People are bound to notice.”

Shrugging his agreement, he conceded, “I don't know about some emperor in new duds, but I'd definitely notice you.” Then, as if he'd done this gentleman thing before, he unbuttoned his overshirt and slipped the flannel off his arms. Handing the coat to Edwina, he said, “Tie this around your waist. We'll cut across Birch and take the alley off of Elm to your place. The businesses have been closed for an hour. Everybody should be gone.”

“You're walking me home? I don't know . . .”

Irritation marked his words. “If you've got a better plan, Ed, spill it.”

She didn't.

In the time it took for him to lock up the store, she'd gathered her things and met him out front.

She looked a sight. The bump on her forehead couldn't be hidden by the brim of her hat. She had attempted to tame her hair, but to no avail. The tresses spilled across her shoulders. Gloves had been buttoned—a ridiculous offset to the matching holes at the knees of her black stockings. The shirt around her waist covered only her backside, not the front, except where the sleeves hung down. In the crook of each arm, she carried a pocketbook and a basket. He could guess what was in the latter. If it hadn't been a cat, he would have offered to carry it for her.

As they set out, he took hold of her by the elbow and guided her in the dark past the rear of the building and up the road. Main and Birch Streets posed the biggest problem. On both northern corners, the Brooks House Hotel and the Blue Flame Saloon stood out.

Making sure all was clear, Tom draped his arm around Edwina and swiftly ushered her across into the uneven
shadows behind the saloon. The back door had been propped open for air; tobacco smoke rolled into the night along with the scent of liquor.

They cut through the rear entrances to the barbershop and garden behind the drugstore, bypassing the police department and dashing over Birch and Sycamore. Coming down the sidewalk and staying close to the shrubs, they reached Edwina's without trouble.

As he escorted her up the walkway, the moon came out from behind a cloud to cast silver on her house: three stories with bay windows and a tall, eight-sided cupola, a lot of gingerbread trim, a wraparound porch, flowers in beds, potted plants, and big trees in the yard.

His pace slowed as he took the setting in. Edwina Huntington was a well-off north-end woman. The place reminded him of Elizabeth Robinson's home, but the woman who resided here did not.

“Nice house,” he remarked as he led her up the steps.

She turned and faced him, appearing out of sorts and uncertain. “I can let myself in.”

He waited for her to do so; she didn't move. He also wondered how he was going to get his overshirt back.

Licking her lips and scooting her backside against the doorjamb, she said, “Mr. Wolcott, you've actually been very . . . diplomatic . . . this evening. Although the entire debacle was your fault, you've been gracious enough to rectify the error of your ways and—”

He interrupted, not wanting to hear her out. “With all these windows, I'll bet you use a lot of flypaper sheets in the summer.”

Puzzlement shaping her brows, she replied, “Why . . . yes, as a matter of fact, we do.”

“It figures.”

He held out his hand.

She merely stared at it.

“My coat,” he said in clarification.

“Oh . . . yes.”

Before he could voice his protest, she shoved the cat basket in his hand. He stiffly held it while she undid
the knot and gave him the overshirt. Then she took the basket back.

“Well . . .” she said, crossing her legs at the knees as if to keep herself covered.

“Do yourself a favor,” he suggested, not wanting to linger any more that she wanted him to. “First thing in the morning, go to the police and file a theft report for your skirt and petticoat. Say they got stolen off your clothesline.”

“But—”

“Trust me on this. G'night.” Without a backward glance, he took the steps to the street.

6

E
dwina's fan-plaited skirt had turned up decorating the disposal bin of Nannie's Home-Style Restaurant. Her petticoat's reappearance hadn't been in such a forgiving location. Found in the alley out back of Dutch's poolroom, the cambric had been streaked with mud and smears of tomato sauce from pot roast bones. Had she not informed the police of the so-called theft early that morning, explaining how her clothing had gotten to two different places would have been embarrassing, to say the least.

But at the moment, Edwina couldn't think about Deputy Faragher's visit to the school a half-hour ago when he'd informed her the clothing had been discovered and that she'd have to sign a release at the office to reacquire them. Presently, six students between the ages of sixteen and nineteen were assembled in the Huntington Finishing School, along with Crescencia Stykem, who was the oldest at twenty-two. They sat expectantly at their seats with good posture, all eyes on their teacher.

Edwina's hands lay atop the book of deportment, but gazing out into the fresh faces of these young ladies, she wasn't quite sure how to begin. They were innocent and unchanged by the vast temptations outside of Harmony's
quiet circle. Should she enlighten them? Put the idea into their heads that if they didn't marry, they should know how to financially take care of themselves? Better to prepare them to handle a variety of situations. After all, that was her objective.