Harmony (4 page)

Where Mr. Wolcott had thought of a way to bring gentlemen to their small Montana town, Edwina had thought of a way to show those very gentlemen that charming women didn't necessarily reside only on city streets. Perhaps her students would impress the men into staying, and those marriages could add a diversity to the community.

Edwina crossed the street, then proceeded on Main toward her residence on Sycamore Drive. Sugar maples shaded the walkway, their leaves showing vague signs of the autumn change. The season hadn't taken hold yet. Though nights brought a shivering chill, days could be warm beneath the buttery sunshine.

She had a seven-o'clock meeting that evening at her home. A cake needed to be baked and the silver tea service brought out. Tonight was an important night. Everything had to be perfect. The afternoon had upset her, but at least she'd been apprised of the situation before Mr. Wolcott had come to the law office.

When she'd first learned about Mr. Magee's selling the warehouse twice, she'd wanted to give him a stern piece of her mind. But immediately thereafter, she'd been informed that he had died in an accident, and she'd felt horrible for having wished he would have one. Only in her mind, he hadn't died . . . merely suffered some minor blood loss with a fracture. Or two.

She could hardly bear to think that she'd spent what precious little money she had left in the bank—just over five hundred dollars—much less being asked to come up with another five hundred with which to buy out Mr. Wolcott. To add insult to injury, when she found out that she'd paid fifty dollars more than him—for the
exact
same property
—she'd felt as if Mr. Magee had made a mockery of womankind. He must have thought females pretty stupid when it came to business deals.

Edwina's lips curved down. Well, she'd been stupid enough, but right now that was a moot point.

Of course she didn't have a business adviser. But after finding out that she'd been made a fool of once, she wasn't about to be one twice. Especially not in front of Mr. Wolcott. He needn't know that she couldn't afford to buy him out.

She wouldn't have had this trouble if she'd taken that quaint suite in the Ellis building. But the deposit and monthly rent would have sent her to the poorhouse even quicker than she was already headed.

Turning down a sycamore-lined street with Queen Anne homes, expansive lawns, and multitudes of color in both trims and landscape, Edwina clicked the tip of her parasol on the hard-packed ground.

Sporting goods.
Why did he need to sell that nonsense? The Sears and Roebuck catalogue sold the basics a man needed, and even then, the few items she'd seen while flipping to the ladies' section had looked rather silly.

A mere wall dividing them would surely not be enough. Among other things, his remark insinuating that his dog would eat her cat had cinched that. She'd take a waffle iron to that mongrel if it harmed so much as one hair of her precious Honey Tiger's fur.

But for the good of all the marriageable young ladies, Edwina would endure any inconvenience she had to. She longed to see happy homes with loving husbands, celebrating christenings, birthdays, and anniversaries. Of course, that wasn't to be for her. . . . No gentleman would ever marry her if he knew the truth.

So Edwina Huntington had to pretend to be an unapproachable old maid, uninterested in affections. Because she had a deep, dark secret. One that she'd rather take to a presumed spinster's grave than ever—
ever
—reveal.

2

E
dwina had left the downstairs windows partially open. The lace curtains whispered the soft autumn evening through the house, filling the parlor with the late scent of roses and second-blooming phlox. Warm ginger and cinnamon came from the kitchen, where Marvel-Anne was icing the batch of gingerbread Edwina had baked when she'd come home.

From her bedroom upstairs, an indignant Honey Tiger meowed behind the closed door. Her tabby had a fixation for Mrs. Treber's petticoats—she wore them fourfold. Honey Tiger would bat at the frilly hems and cause annoyance; Edwina didn't want anything to disrupt the evening.

Pausing at the hall mirror, she pinched color into her cheeks, then ran her hands down the smooth lines of her sage green dress with chocolate stripes. She plucked off a few stray honey-colored cat hairs before she squared her shoulders and took in a deep breath. Confident her pulley-belt encircled her waist snugly and her plackets lay neat, she turned away and went into the parlor as Marvel-Anne came through the dining-room portieres carrying the tray of confections.

“Did you want me to put these out now, Miss Edwina?”
The stout hired girl moved to the tea cart as if she knew what Edwina's answer would be.

“Yes, please.”

Marvel-Anne had worked for Edwina's family as long as Edwina could remember. Because of the woman's good organization and no-nonsense personality, the parlor was always rigidly neat. Marvel-Anne dusted behind the pictures and never left the shades up in summer sunshine more than ten inches so as not to fade the Axminster ingrain carpet. The ceiling lamp's crystal pendants always glittered, as did the brass chain links that pulled down the globe so the red-colored kerosene could be lit. On Mondays, she did the washing; on Tuesdays, the ironing; on Wednesdays, the mending. Thursdays and Fridays, she gave the house an extra cleaning. Saturday, she did baking, and on Sunday, there was the Sunday dinner to prepare and the best china to wash afterward.

When Edwina's father had died four years ago, Marvel-Anne had practically moved in to help. Then she'd aided Edwina with the nursing of her mother, who had taken ill the past summer. Mother had gone peacefully in her sleep, and now Edwina was alone in the big house. She should have let Marvel-Anne go because the residence didn't need nearly the attention it was given—that, and there was the matter of money. Or, rather, the lack of any extra. When she'd tried to broach the subject of dismissal in a roundabout way, Marvel-Anne quickly minced her carefully chosen words. She'd say, “Never you mind, Miss Edwina. Don't worry a lick about me. There's nothing else I'd rather do with my time. After all these years, I know the routine and I like to keep routine in my life.”

Edwina hadn't the heart to tell Marvel-Anne that she hadn't been thinking of her well-earned retirement. Simply, Edwina couldn't afford to pay for her services anymore. But after tonight, if all went well, she'd be able to stay afloat for a while.

The bell cranked, and Marvel-Anne lumbered to the
door. Within the next few minutes, the parlor was filled with a gaggle of ladies balancing steaming teacups and dainty plates of gingerbread.

“Ladies,” Edwina announced while standing up in a motion so fluid and graceful one would swear she'd never practiced the move. “I'm so glad you all could come.” Amid the clatter of china against saucers and silver fork tines against dessert plates, Edwina proceeded. “It pleases me greatly to inform you that the Huntington Finishing School is now a reality. I have secured a building for the girls, and it will be ready for occupancy—I hope within the week.”

There were approving nods all around the group, but there were two abstentions: Mrs. Elward and Mrs. Plunkett.

Prudence Plunkett sat in one of the chairs ornamented with a tassel valance around the bottom. The cushioned hassock her large feet rested on swallowed her shoes whole; only the tips of pointed black peeked from the damask. “I don't want my precious Hildegarde to marry an Eastern gentleman and move away to the nasty city.” Big, ungainly, and solid, she suddenly became afflicted with a pain in her side, which she gripped with plump white fingers; the other hand held firmly onto her third serving of cake.

Edwina had witnessed Mrs. Plunkett's “attacks” before; she suspected they weren't some foreign ailment that she professed the doctor told her was incurable, but rather plain old ordinary indigestion. “Are you all right, Mrs. Plunkett?” Edwina asked. “Shall I have Marvel-Anne make you a bicarbonate of soda?”

Waving a dumpling arm, Mrs. Plunkett's fleshy pink mouth frowned. “No, no. It shall pass.” She snuck in another bite of cake.

The druggist's wife, Mrs. Elward, sat like a pencil on the divan's silken edge. A thin, nervous little woman, all curls and ruffles and beads and dangling ribbons, she ventured to say, “You don't know what happens to girls in a metropolis . . . married or not.”

Mrs. Kennison set her cup and saucer down. “Fanny, don't be a boob.” Rarely did anyone contradict Grayce Kennison. She was too stunningly beautiful to spar with. Her complexion seemed transparent, and she could pile her golden hair in a wavy pompadour higher and fuller than any of them ever could. “I don't think a city is an evil place. I for one wouldn't mind if my Camille could live in New York or Philadelphia. I'd be tempted to go with her.”

Shallow gasps circulated through the room. Grayce gave a heavy sigh laden with frustration. “
With
Mr. Kennison, of course.”

Brows settled reassuringly back into place.

“Miss Huntington,” Mrs. Calhoon said, lifting her chin a bit and causing the light to shine on her nose. Her cluster of summer freckles had begun to fade. “You were in Chicago. Was the city wicked, as far as cities go?”

A discomfiting heat stole into Edwina's cheeks. Talking about Chicago and the business college wasn't something she wanted to do. Memories were all she had left, and it was heartbreaking for her to relive them.

“Chicago offered valuable resources that one cannot glean from a town of our size. But that isn't the question here tonight, ladies.” Edwina commandeered the conversation down a different avenue. “What is of the utmost importance is that your daughters are properly educated in the deportment of our society so that they may marry men worthy of their wonderful charms.”

“We wouldn't want them to become old maids,” Mrs. Treber commented, “like that dear Crescencia Stykem.” There was no imminent danger of a lack of suitors for her own daughter. Mr. Treber owned the men's clothing store, and Mrs. Treber eyeballed every male customer as a potential son-in-law.

“Poor things,” Mrs. Calhoon said, seconding the sentiment. “They can't help it.”

Mrs. Plunkett washed down the last of her gingerbread
with sweetened tea. “People ought to be sorry for them.”

“Why nobody ever took a shine to Crescencia Stykem before beats me.” Mrs. Brooks's mud-colored eyes were set deep in her narrow face. She admitted to sleeping in her corset to keep her figure straight and inflexible—much like her way of thinking.

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Elward added, “now that you point it out. She's thrifty and capable. And from what I understand, a commendable cook.”

Mrs. Treber chimed in. “She'd make a real helpmate for some good man.”

“I declare,” Mrs. Kennison said. “When you see the girls that do get married, it seems to me men haven't got the sense that God gave little apples.”

Mrs. Calhoon nodded. “With Miss Crescencia's not having a mother to guide her, we should talk to her about enrolling in Miss Huntington's school. Why, my Lucille is sixteen and on the shadowy approach to being an old maid herself.”

“So is my Ruth,” Mrs. Elward sighed. “Good land—I shudder to think she should find herself on the shelf at seventeen.” She grimaced.

“That Wayland girl married at fourteen,” Mrs. Kennison said.

Mrs. Plunkett refused Marvel-Anne's temptation of a fourth serving of cake. “That's a little too young for comfort.”

Mrs. Treber begged to differ. “Unless the man is reliable.”

Grayce agreed. “Which Harvey Wayland was.”

Mrs. Brooks tsked. “I'm glad I haven't got one of those lazy, easygoing fat men to contend with.”

“So true.” Prudence brushed the spicy crumbs from the voluptuous yards of black cashmere comprising her lap. “Mr. Plunkett has his faults, but I must say he is a good provider. I cannot imagine going through life without a husband to take care of me the way Mr. Plunkett does.”