Hidden Places (15 page)

‘‘Jeepers creepers, Betsy, that’s wonderful news!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘Frank Wyatt is a real good-looker.’’

‘‘Sure—if you like courting a fence post.’’ I marched stiffly across the narrow room in pantomime.

‘‘Maybe he is a bit prim,’’ she said, laughing. ‘‘But holy smokes, he’s rich! He’s one of Deer Springs’ most eligible bachelors.’’ ‘‘I don’t know how I can even face him under these circumstances,’’ I moaned, flopping backward onto the bed. ‘‘Father is practically forcing him to marry me.’’

‘‘Horse feathers! Mr. Wyatt won’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, even for land. Besides, if there’s going to be a stampede of men trying to marry you to inherit this farm, it’s better that Mr. Wyatt gets there first than a lot of other drips I could name.’’

I covered my face. ‘‘He’s taking me to the ice-cream social this Saturday, and I don’t know what on earth to say to him all afternoon.’’

‘‘You want to know what I think? I think Mr. Wyatt is just as shy as you are. Why else would he remain a bachelor all this time?’’ Lydia tugged my hands away, pulling on them until I sat up. ‘‘Come on, I’ll teach you a few tricks that drive men crazy.’’

When it came to men, Lydia was an expert. She secretly led a wild life, breaking a different boy’s heart every week. I helped her concoct elaborate excuses, saying she was visiting shut-ins or working late at the store doing inventory, and poor Father believed us. I would hear the fascinating details of her escapades when she returned home at night—a party at the forbidden dance hall, a moonlit bonfire at the lake, a secret rendezvous with a traveling salesman—and I wrote down each installment as if it were the latest chapter in a romance novel.

‘‘First of all,’’ she began, ‘‘when Mr. Wyatt helps you up into his carriage, let your hand linger in his a moment, pressing ever so slightly—like this.’’

‘‘You mean I have to take his hand? He’s such a statue I’m afraid his touch will turn me into stone, too!’’

‘‘More likely gold. I swear, everything he touches turns to gold, Betsy, not stone. And make sure you sit close enough for your thigh to accidentally brush against his—like so.’’

I shuddered involuntarily. ‘‘Oh, Lydia, I couldn’t! The very idea makes my skin crawl.’’

‘‘Don’t be a pantywaist. Now listen, if he says something funny, even if it really isn’t, laugh like this—’’ she demonstrated with a happy, tinkling chuckle—‘‘and touch his arm or his chest ever so briefly, like this, while you do.’’

‘‘I can’t imagine Frank Wyatt cracking jokes.’’

‘‘You’re right,’’ Lydia said with a frown, ‘‘me either. Okay then, tell him how wonderful he is. Flatter him. Men love flattery.’’

‘‘Ugh! I’d probably throw up.’’

‘‘Make something up. This is your chance to write fiction, Betsy. Give it a try. And don’t back away if he tries to kiss you, either.’’

‘‘His lips are so thin and tight his kiss would probably bounce right off.’’

‘‘You’re so funny,’’ she said, hugging me tightly. ‘‘Just be your wonderful, witty self and I swear he’ll fall head over heels in love with you!’’

I wasn’t so sure.

On the afternoon of the ice-cream social, Lydia fixed my hair and let me borrow her best silk shirtwaist with the leg-of-mutton sleeves to wear with my Sunday skirt. She had brought a brandnew, long-waist, five-hook, bust-perfecto corset home from the dry goods store and crammed me into it, yanking on the laces until the rolls of fat around my middle had no place to go but up, lifting my tiny bosom along with them. I stared in disbelief at my reflection in the mirror. For the first time in my life my waist looked tiny and my bust looked full.

‘‘There! You’re gorgeous!’’ my sister cried.

‘‘Lydia, I can’t breathe!’’ I gasped.

‘‘Then don’t.’’

‘‘But what if I faint? I’m feeling light-headed already and I haven’t even tried to walk.’’

‘‘Good. You’re allowed to swoon. That’s what smelling salts are for. Mr. Wyatt will think it’s your dainty, feminine constitution and it will make him feel manly to catch you in his arms.’’

‘‘Ha! He’s more likely to let me drop to the floor like a log.’’

Lydia put on all the finishing touches—a dab of rouge on my chubby cheeks, her own beaded comb in my hair, Mother’s cameo brooch at my throat. I felt like a schoolgirl playing dress-up. Then I heard the plod of horses in the lane below our windows. Frank Wyatt had arrived, right on time.

‘‘Get the wash basin, Lydia! I’m going to throw up!’’

‘‘No, you’re not. Don’t be a ninny.’’ She smiled, tucking a springy strand of my hair behind my ear. ‘‘What are you so afraid of? He’s just an ordinary person—not even half as wonderful as you are. Hold your head up, Betsy. He’s lucky to have the privilege of stepping out with you.’’

‘‘
Stepping out
...’’ I moaned. ‘‘I...I’ve never done this before. What on earth will I talk about all afternoon?’’

‘‘Listen to me,’’ she said sternly. ‘‘Calm down! It’s his job to start the conversation, not yours. Just don’t stop it dead by giving yes and no answers. Keep it going. Ask him a related question back.’’

I held my breath as I walked down the stairs. I had no choice— the corset was that tight. If the laces ever snapped I would look like an exploding watermelon. Lydia’s shirt buttons would go flying in all directions and my skirt would probably split wide open like a gutted fish. I had half a mind to call the whole thing off— until I glimpsed the expression on my father’s face. It was the closest he had ever come to smiling. He was already dreaming of the magnificent orchard he would soon be part-owner of, thanks to me, and I couldn’t let him down. I just couldn’t.

I tried to smile, to breathe normally, to remember everything Lydia had told me as I said farewell and set off for the ice-cream social. At least I had good posture for the first time in my life, thanks to the corset stays. I couldn’t have slouched if I’d tried.

Frank held our front door open for me, then offered me his hand to help me up into his surrey. He looked so cold and formal in his Sunday suit and starched collar that the warmth of his palm took me by surprise and I forgot all about squeezing it until it was too late. When he sat down on the carriage seat beside me he left a discreet space between us and it would have been much too obvious to try to rearrange myself closer so our thighs could ‘‘accidentally’’ brush. Besides, I feared I might get frostbite. He held himself so aloof that I would have needed an ice pick to chip through the invisible shield that surrounded him.

‘‘Are you comfortable, Miss Fowler?’’ he asked suddenly.

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘May I call you Betty?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Oh no! I was already giving yes and no answers! I nearly smacked my forehead in despair, but I hadn’t tested the corset’s full range of motion. It would look ridiculous if my arm didn’t reach that high and I ended up smacking thin air. Or worse still, what if I smacked too hard and I fell over backward and couldn’t right myself again? I’d once seen a box turtle in the same predicament.

We rode in silence for several minutes. I knew it was Frank’s job to lead the conversation, but I struggled to think of something to say so I wouldn’t disappoint my father. ‘‘Um...It turned out to be a lovely day for the social, didn’t it?’’ I asked.

‘‘Yes.’’

I wanted to shout,
Ha! I caught you! That was a yes and no answer!
But I didn’t think I could draw a deep enough breath to shout, let alone gloat.

‘‘We’ve had just the right amount of rainfall this spring, haven’t we?’’ I asked, trying again.

‘‘Yes.’’

I would have heaved a sigh of frustration if my corset would have allowed it. This ridiculous courtship was a sham, an agonizing means to a mutually beneficial end, and Frank and I both knew it. The drive to church only lasted ten minutes but it seemed like ten years.

Everyone gaped when Frank Wyatt showed up on the church lawn with a woman on his arm—although they might have been gaping because it appeared as though poor Betty Fowler had her head ripped off of her frumpy body and pasted onto someone else’s. Either way, we created quite a stir. Every maiden, spinster, and scheming mama in Deer Springs began calculating how they could win Frank Wyatt’s attention now that he had finally decided to start courting. But courting Betty Butterball of all people? Who would have ever thought?

We made a ridiculous pair. Even with my astonishing new bosom I looked like a child beside Frank. He was tall and sunbrowned and muscular from years of hard work—and the top of my frizzy head didn’t even reach his shoulder. I had to take five hurried steps to equal one of his strides, so I must have looked like a little lap dog with my tongue hanging out, trotting to keep up with him.

Although Frank was politely courteous and well-mannered, he never warmed up enough to risk melting the ice cream. He kept my lemonade glass filled and he generously spooned all the toppings onto my ice cream for me at the serving table, but he never asked me a single question about myself in order to become better acquainted. I tried very hard to like him, but the knowledge that he wasn’t the least bit interested in me hampered my efforts. Every time Frank looked at me he saw my father’s pond.

There were three-legged races for the couples and games like musical chairs, horseshoes, and croquet, but Frank showed no interest in any of them. I was just as glad. I could barely walk, let alone dash, bend, reach, or scramble. As we strolled around the church lawn, Frank occasionally stopped to converse with one of the other men, forcing me to make small-talk with their girlfriends. It was hard work for me to be pleasant for an entire after-noon. I wasn’t used to being sociable. Banty hens and books were my usual afternoon companions.

By the time Frank brought me home again I was exhausted. As soon as Lydia loosened my bonds, I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. It was short-lived.

‘‘Did you make a favorable impression?’’ Father demanded to know at the supper table. It was one of the few times in my life that my father had ever shown an interest in me.

‘‘I tried, Father.’’

‘‘You
tried
? That’s
all
? I certainly expect you to do more than
try
if this merger is ever going to take place. Don’t you realize that a man like Wyatt can take his pick of women when it’s time for him to choose a wife?’’

I recalled the scheming mamas all sizing up Frank Wyatt and stared at my mashed potatoes in misery. ‘‘Yes, Father.’’

‘‘Don’t slouch, Betty. Sit up. That’s better. Did he ask you out again?’’

‘‘He said that he’ll be busy with the orchard for a while, but he wondered if I would like to take a drive in the country with him sometime.’’

‘‘Good. Good. I hope you were encouraging?’’

‘‘I told him I would be very pleased to ride with him.’’

‘‘Good. Pass the green beans.’’

Father’s health had been poor for months, so I was glad that this courtship was putting some life back into him. But I knew that today had been just the prologue. A long series of agonizing afternoons with Frank Wyatt would probably follow until he made up his mind whether or not my father’s land was worth the sacrifice of marrying me. But I would persevere. Nellie Bly was indomitable and I would be, too. My overwhelming concern was to not disappoint my father.

Frank courted me all that spring, usually on Sunday after-noons when work wasn’t allowed. In June we went for a drive in the country, to a temperance lecture in the next town, and to a special missionary presentation at church.

‘‘Do you belong to our Women’s Missionary Guild, Betty?’’ he asked on the way home.

‘‘No, I—’’

‘‘You must join.’’

I joined. I had taken ‘‘the pledge’’ after the temperance lecture, too. I would have stood on my head and spit wooden nickels if that’s what it took to convince him I would make a satisfactory wife.

By July the entire town knew that we were an ‘‘item.’’ Frank invited me to sit in the hallowed Wyatt pew with him one Sunday morning. Father was overjoyed.

‘‘Good. You have the fish on the line,’’ he said. ‘‘Now reel him in.’’

Whatever
that
meant. When I asked Lydia, she said it meant I should invite him home for Sunday dinner so he would know that I could cook. She faithfully coached me in the feminine art of courtship, but I seemed to be failing the course. Frank and I had courted for two months and he still hadn’t stolen a kiss from me or even tried to hold my hand. The gap between us on the carriage seat was just as wide as it had been on our first date.

I couldn’t help but compare Frank with the dashing, amorous heroes of my favorite novels, and he always came up short. I wasn’t falling in love with him. In fact, the more time I spent with him the more I hated his cold, overbearing ways. But judging from my own experience and the example of my parents, I decided that love and romance must be the stuff of fiction, not real life. I learned to ignore the feeling of dread that settled in the pit of my stomach every time Frank arrived at my house and to disregard the gnawing unease I felt each moment that I spent with him.

While my courtship with Frank plodded slowly on, Lydia reached a milestone of her own—she dated the same man two weeks in a row, then three! Ted Bartlett was a traveling notions salesman whose route brought him to Deer Springs on the train once a week.

‘‘I’m in love, Betsy! Oh, this time I’m really in
love
!’’ Lydia exclaimed.

It was mid-July, and we lay crossways on the bed in our stifling room hoping that a breeze might find its way through our dormer windows. So far the only thing that had found its way inside was the mosquito that hummed with delight around my head.

‘‘Tell me everything!’’ I said, smacking my own cheek as I missed the mosquito.

‘‘Ted is unbelievably handsome! He has dark, wavy hair and a luxurious mustache that tickles when he kisses me.’’

‘‘You let him kiss you already?’’

‘‘Of course, silly. When I’m with Ted I never want him to stop kissing me. He makes me feel so...loved! I can’t describe how wonderful it is to feel his strong arms around me as he showers me with kisses. Or how glorious it is to rest my head against his broad chest and hear his heart beating beneath me.’’