Harmony (56 page)

Gazing over the paper's top margin, he said, “I wanted to tell you something, Ed.”

Perplexed by his nervousness and the way he kept shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, she was somewhat on the defense. If he'd come here to try to change her mind about marrying him, still wanting her to give up her school—which was a moot point at this stage because she had done so already—she didn't want to hear anything he had to say. That might mean she was uncompromising, but she couldn't go through another argument about it, not without utterly breaking down and sobbing through every hankie she owned—which she had already done, too.

“Tom, you could have saved yourself the trip. Crescencia knows the telephone number of the salon.”

“Yeah . . . well. . . . Crescencia, I don't think she
would have given it to me. She's not speaking to me after the riot act she read me.” His next words were mumbled and she couldn't be sure, but she thought he'd said “And I deserved it.”

“Really? That doesn't sound like Crescencia. She's nonconfrontational.”

“Not anymore.” Tom gazed at the paper, then at Edwina. “I haven't gotten it all memorized yet, but I'm working on it. I've gotten from Susan B. Anthony to Fanny . . . um . . . something with an
E.
I'll get it, though.”

“What are you talking about?” She lifted her arms to tuck them beneath her breasts as she waited.

“Crescencia . . . she gave me this book to read. It's about women in vocations. Jobs and stuff.” Hesitation marked his brows as he scanned his paper, then looked at her. “Did you know Powell's candied walnuts are manufactured by a woman?”

“Certainly.”

“How come you didn't tell me that?”

“Would you have been interested?”

“No.”

“That's why.”

“But I'm interested now.” Back to the paper, he began to recite. “Susan B. Anthony . . . well, she's this woman who's in charge of some club called the National American Woman Suffrage Association.” Glancing at her, he conceded, “I had to look up
suffrage.
I thought it meant hurting—you know, suffering. I guess that it does mean that in a way. This Anthony woman, she's okay. But she doesn't like booze—which, what the hell, I gave it up last week so she'd be square with me if I ever met her. Not that I won't have a beer every now and then.”

Edwina grew increasingly puzzled. What on earth had possessed Tom “The Hunter's Best Friend” Wolcott to see the reason in the suffrage movement? And had Cressie really berated him?

“Then there's this woman lawyer in Utah. And this
other woman in Indiana who's organizing textile workers.” Tugging on the sleeve of his shirt, he shrugged. “The women workers in her factory could have woven this. I'd never thought about that before.”

He proceeded, gazing at his list, then at her. “I'm not particularly a church man, so I wouldn't have ever found this out—but did you know there's a woman preacher in New York?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't.” Then to the notes again. “This Elizabeth Blackwell is a doctor at the Cornell University Medical Center. It never occurred to me that a woman could save my life.”

“A woman gave you life,” she said in a whisper-soft voice—no condescension, no patronizing—just a quiet fact.

“You're right.”

“I'm not trying to be right.”

“I know that.” Then with an intake of breath, he read on. “A woman in London—some rich one who didn't have to or need to work—she aided aborigines. That was another word I had to look up. Anyway, she was honored with a peerage for public achievement. Had to look up
peerage
, too.” He lowered the paper. “It's come to my attention my reading is just about as bad as my mathematics.”

“Your mathematics aren't bad.”

“Mediocre,” he countered. “Whoever the skirt—um . . . woman—was who wrote ‘Women Vocations' had a dictionary on her lap she did.”

Edwina merely stared, still uncertain where all this was leading.

“The last one I know by heart is that Fanny, the ballet woman. She makes a lot of money in Austria. More than me.”

In spite of herself, Edwina laughed.

Tom folded the paper, stuffed it into his pocket, removed his hat, and tucked it beneath his arm. She didn't know what to think. His expression had sobered to a
degree she'd never seen. It . . . frightened her. The intensity was bone chilling. She felt like she had to sit down. The stays in her corset, which had been laced a half inch tighter than she usually wore it to make her waist as small as that of the woman for whom she wore the gown, pinched her to sudden lightheadedness. But she refused to falter. Whatever Tom wanted to say to her and the reason why he'd recited the names of some of the women from the pamphlet must be very important for him to have come all this way.

“Edwina, I don't admit I'm wrong very much. Hell, I don't think I ever have.” His gaze fixed on her and held her immobile. “But I can see now I was wrong to tell you not to teach at the school after we married. It shouldn't matter a hill of beans what my wife does. Anyone who sees that differently is . . . well, I'd say jackass, but I don't want to offend you.”

“You just said it,” she pointed out, then paused before adding, “and, Tom . . . you
were
a jackass.”

He snorted and looked to the tips of his boots, then at her with a rueful smile. “I was hoping you wouldn't agree.”

It was her turn to reluctantly smile.

A brief moment of silence fell on them.

Tom looked around the room, through the curtains, then placed his hat back on his head. “I came down here because I wanted to let you know that I'm proud of you, Edwina; glad that you have a chance to use your education. You seem to be doing all right.”

Words couldn't begin to express how she felt with his admission. A jumble of emotions played through her. In succeeding, she'd lost him, but gained his respect. Why couldn't he have seen this in Harmony?

“Are you happy here?”

His question barely registered. “I'm adjusting,” she said after a moment. She had to tell herself to stay on safe topics. “How are things back home?”
Home
. Why had she said that? This was her home now.

“Fine. Shay is doing good. Crescencia . . . well, I
haven't gotten close enough to her since last week to ask. My guess is she's fine.”

“And the store?”

“All right. Gearing up for spring . . . the fly fishing tournament and all.” His hands were stuffed into his pockets in a gesture that said he was being a red-blooded man who didn't permit himself to be softened by women . . . or words. But she could tell right now that it was an act. He
had
turned softer, more gentle. On the outside, he still looked like Tom. But on the inside, he'd been discovering that a man could be broad-minded and still be a man.

Love for him swelled in her heart.

“Tom . . .” she said, licking her lips and hoping she was making the right choice in telling him. “I'm not a suffragette or a woman who preaches suffrage to men. I don't think the women in Harmony should apologize for wanting to be housekeepers, any more than they should have to defend earning a wage. All I ever wanted was to do what I enjoyed. At first that meant accounting. Then the school came into being and my educating women about their capabilities was important to me. I knew when I went to Gillette's there wouldn't be a slew of business jobs waiting—probably none. But I accepted that. Because when I got my certificate, it meant I had done something very few women had.”

“I see that now, Ed.” More gazing at his boots. He'd never done so much of it, in her recollection. It was sort of . . . funny—Tom Wolcott acting sheepish, the boob. Why couldn't he have been this way before she'd left? Why couldn't he . . . ? They . . . ? Oh . . . dammit all, anyway.

“You know, Edwina, if you're happy here, I'm happy for you. But if you were to say . . . that you feel you wanted to come back to Harmony . . . I wouldn't make it hard for you. I'd leave you alone . . . if that's what you wanted. You could still have the school. Hell, Ed,” he said as he gazed at her, “why'd you give it to me?”

“Because you were entitled.”

“I'm not entitled to take what you worked so hard at. It's yours. It always will be.” More hedging. “If you want it. Like I said . . . it's there for you, Edwina.” Another gaze at his boots; she had to bite her lip from smiling. “Do you want to come home . . . maybe . . . for some reason . . . just because . . . ?” He gave her no room to reply. “People miss you. Those girls . . . they've been up to no good. I saw that one—Hildegarde—at it again, spying on the redhead—what's her name?”

“Lucille.”

“Yeah, Lucille. You need to refine Hildegarde a little more. She needs some deportment lessons or something on looking where she's going. And that other one . . . Meg . . . her folks run the hotel. I saw her riding down Birch Avenue to the bellman's cart. Not exactly ladylike behavior.” His eyebrows pulled together. “That Camille. Pretty girl, but her head's in the clouds. Hasn't been doing much of anything while you were gone. She needs some kind of purpose. Maybe one of those ladies' projects—you know . . . that ladies do. . . . Ladies projects . . .” his voice trailed off.

Edwina dared to hope, but her heart was already pounding. “What about you, Tom?”

“Me . . . what?”

“Do you want me to come home?”

His eyes came to study her face, looking for her reaction. She didn't want to reveal anything. Not if they weren't thinking the same thing. “If you want to come home, Ed, I'd . . . like it.”

“That's all?”

“Edwina . . . I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to.” He was mumbling. “But I want you to. If you want to. Do you?”

Now she did smile. Very broadly. Her mirth caused him to scowl. “Quit all the apologizing and backpedaling. I like you better when you're puffing out your chest and telling ridiculous male anecdotes. You oaf.”

A grin hooked the corner of his mouth. “That's vermilion oaf to you, Ed.” He came forward and tentatively
reached for her but stopped shy of her hands. “I've never said this to anyone, and I should have said it to you before.” A sincerity filled his eyes, holding her captive. “I love you, Edwina.” Placing his palm on his chest, he curled his fingers a little into the flannel. “With all my heart. I love you for you. Don't change. Ever.”

A tear slipped past her lower lashes. “I love you, too, Tom. I should have said so myself.”

Then he took her into his arms and she readily went inside them, laying her cheek on his shoulder and breathing him in. He felt so good—strong and hard and . . . hers. She gazed up at him, and he kissed her gently. Feeling his mouth on hers was like a homecoming. She'd missed the touch of his lips, the way he kissed her. The way he could make her melt inside and become warm and dazed with passion.

Speaking against her lips, he said, “I would be honored if you married me, Edwina. I was a fool once. I won't be twice. Will you?”

He pulled slightly back to see her eyes when she replied.

“And I'd be a fool to say no. Yes, for the last time you'll ask . . . I'll marry you.”

Their lips met once more, ardently. The caress of his lips on her mouth and his arms around her waist set her aflame. A dreaminess enveloped her. She could kiss him this way forever. And she would.

“There's one condition.” Tom's voice tickled over her mouth. She lifted her head and gazed at him while he held up his hand. “Actually four.” He showed her his fingers and brought them down in turn. “One, you reopen the school. Two, the money you earn is yours to use however you please—I wouldn't decline for-no-good-reason-other-than-you-want-to presents of any kind . . . your buffalo-head knives with turquoise inlay in the handles wrap up nice.”

She broke into a smile. “Turquoise inlay on the handles, hmm?”

“With a lifelike carved buffalo head at the base of the
blade. I've gotten rid of almost all my manly pride. But there're still some parts that are staying exactly how they are—if you get my meaning.”

“I get your meaning. What's three?”

“Three, you'll do the accounting for my store for pay.” He dipped his head and dropped a kiss on her mouth. “And four, you keep this dress on. We're going to use it right now.”

Epilogue