Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6) (13 page)

I do, too.

Mrs. Baxter gave his mother a look of disbelief. “So you are saying I should accept these gifts because doing so makes Mr. Livingston more
lively
?”

The image came to him of his uncle doing a jig, and Ben burst out laughing.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

Ben scrambled for something to say, for he didn’t think the jig image would go over well with his uncle. Then he remembered the text from Sunday’s sermon. “Well, Reverend Norton says that, ‘It’s more blessed to give than to receive.’ So you’re making sure he’s blessed, Mrs. Baxter.” He chortled at his own cleverness.

“I’m glad to provide you with amusement,” Mrs. Baxter said in a dry tone. She lifted her chin. “Nevertheless, I can’t accept the doll.”

Uncle Caleb skirted the argument by pointing to the unopened parcels. “Better see what else is in those. Just in case you want to make our squabble bigger.”

His mother harrumphed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two.” She moved past him to the foot of the bed. “I’ll open these. If there’s anything
I
think needs to be returned, I’ll do so myself.”

Mrs. Baxter’s lips pressed into a stubborn line, but she didn’t object.

His mother made short shrift of untying the parcels and holding up the contents for Mrs. Baxter’s perusal. That is, until she opened the package of women’s undergarments. She shoved them back into the paper—as if Ben hadn’t seen them displayed in the store before—and made a shooing motion in his direction. “You, men, get out of here and give us privacy.”

“May I take the baby with me until you’re done?” His uncle directed his most charming smile at Mrs. Baxter.

Ben had seen his uncle give ladies that look before, but not with the warmth displayed now toward their guest. His early speculation returned.
I think Uncle Caleb’s sweet on her.
He glanced at his mother. In spite of the thaw in her usual glacial demeanor, he had no doubt that she wouldn’t approve of Mrs. Baxter as the wife of her beloved brother.

I don’t agree.
In Ben’s opinion, Mrs. Baxter might just be what his uncle needed, even if he hadn’t yet realized that fact.
I think their courtship could use a hand.
He splayed his fingers.
My hand.

A brilliant idea came to him inspired by a story told by Peter Rockwell, the manager of the hotel. At Christmastime, Mr. Rockwell had borrowed Mrs. Thompson’s miniature horses and sleigh and had taken harpist Blythe Robbins for a romantic ride. Ben glanced out the window at the darkening sky. Barring a sudden blizzard, there wasn’t enough snow on the ground for the Thompson’s little sleigh. But the little buggy. . . . Maybe if they had several sunny days and the roads dried, Mrs. Thompson would drive to town and loan Uncle Caleb the equipage.

Old shame shattered his excitement. A weight settled on his chest, and Ben’s stomach tightened in dismay.
I’ll need to ask the Thompsons if I can borrow the Falabella horses and buggy—the very family who has the greatest reason to dislike me and deny my request.

When the door closed behind Ben and Caleb, Edith walked over to the nightstand and removed the glass shade and chimney from the oil lamp. Then she opened the drawer and took out the silver matchbox. She struck the match, lit the lamp, and replaced the chimney on the cut-glass base. She went over to the chest of drawers and did the same thing with the lamp there.

Maggie watched Edith’s movements, trying to gauge her feelings, but the woman kept her face expressionless.
No matter what she says, I will act friendly. It’s the least I can do when Caleb has been so kind as to invite us into his home.

After she returned the matchbox to the drawer, Edith gave Maggie a strained smile. “I’m not sure which way is up.”

Not certain how to take the woman who until a few minutes ago had been so unfriendly—even hostile—Maggie pointed at the ceiling.

Edith rolled her eyes again. “The ceiling is up. Yes, I know.” She placed a hand on her tightly corseted stomach. “I feel most unsettled.”

“I’m sorry if we are causing you discomfort,” Maggie said, wishing she could get out of bed, take Charlotte, and leave. . . .
That I had someplace to go if I did so
. Thinking of the
vardo
made sadness pang through her.

Edith lowered her hand. “Perhaps not all discomfort is bad.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure yet, which you and your daughter will prove to be.”

That’s fair.

“I think since we are in such close confines and will be so for a while. . .you should call me Edith,” the woman said with the condescending air of conferring a favor.

This time, Maggie wanted to be the one to roll her eyes. But she didn’t, for she thought this might be Edith’s idea of an olive branch. She’d been on a first-name basis with some of the women in Morgan’s Crossing, but not Mrs. Morgan or Mrs. Tisdale, the matriarchs of the town. She sensed that starched-up Edith Grayson wasn’t in the habit of familiarity. “Very well. . .Edith.”

“And if I may address you as Magdalena?”

Maggie must be too plebian a nickname for her to use. Yet. . . .
“My grandparents always called me Magdalena.”

With a
that’s settled
gesture, Edith picked up another parcel and shook it. “Shall we guess?”

“After the doll and the women’s undergarments, I have no
idea
what to expect.”

Edith’s laugh was surprisingly light. “Caleb surprised me, too. I never would have suspected he’d purchase such things. I can only hope no one else was in the mercantile at the time, or the gossip will be all over town.”

“What about the shopkeeper? Won’t she share the
delicious
details?” The word came out sounding as cynical as Maggie felt.

Edith’s mouth tightened into a moue. “The Cobbs? Not if Caleb told them not to.” As she spoke, she continued to open the parcels and hold them up for Maggie to see and admire, before refolding each item and neatly stacking everything. Edith picked up a small, nubby package and squeezed. “This is too hard to be clothing.”

“A miniature corset?” Maggie joked. “Perhaps for the doll.”

“This feels harder than whalebone.” Edith opened the parcel and held up a small silver cup. “Pretty. Ben has one like this. Caleb will need to send the cup away to be engraved with Charlotte’s name and birthdate.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Maggie said hurriedly. She didn’t want to draw attention to the actual day Charlotte was born.

“What’s your daughter’s middle name?”

“Victoria.”

“Pretty. We have a lot of Victors and Victorias in our family.”

I know.

“That was what Nathaniel and I had planned to call our daughter. But we never had one. . . .” Edith’s voice trailed away, and her eyes looked sad. She tried to smile but couldn’t seem to make her mouth turn up. “I’ve mentioned Ben’s father twice today.”

“Is that unusual? You don’t mention him often?”

“Very. Nathaniel’s loss pains me still.”

“You must have loved him very much.”

“I did. I tried to be a good wife to him, but I don’t know if I succeeded.” She sighed. “Nathaniel was a loving son to his parents, but they were very. . .proper and refined. I didn’t live up to their criteria, and they disapproved of our marriage.

Although Maggie had heard some of the details from Caleb, Edith’s sad tone and downcast eyes showed how much her in-laws’ judgment still hurt. “I can’t imagine anyone thinking you aren’t proper and refined.”

Edith shrugged. “I am now. A lot of hard lessons learned.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nathaniel quarreled with them, and the relationship became quite strained. We were happy together, but he always struggled with the pain of dealing with his parents. I’ve wondered if that led to his death—not that they killed him, but that—” She thumped her chest. “His heart wasn’t as strong to fight the illness that took him from us.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

Maggie remembered Caleb urging her to share her feelings with his sister and realized she intuitively felt Edith needed to hear a different point of view. “I envy you,” she said frankly.

Edith abruptly lowered the handkerchief. “
Envy
me?” she echoed, her expression disbelieving. She dropped into the chair. “How could you possibly envy me?” she asked in a bitter tone.

Her gaze lowered, Maggie ran a hand over the blue bed covering. “My marriage was ghastly. I was trapped with a man who beat me whenever his will was crossed in the slightest. I tiptoed around him.” She made a walking motion with her fingers. “I never knew what would set him off. I feared for my life and that of my child.” Her gaze met Edith’s. “The accident was the best thing that ever happened to me, for I was set free. And your brother. . . .” Emotion choked her throat, and she had to swallow before she could go on. “Your wonderful brother saved our lives.” Maggie almost mentioned him delivering Charlotte, but she remembered in the nick of time to keep their secret.

Edith pressed a hand to her mouth, a stricken look in her eyes.

“I’d give
anything
to have experienced a devoted union, a caring father for my child—even if only for a few years, even if I went the rest of my life missing him—for I would have
loved
and
been cherished
in return.” Maggie dropped her voice to a whisper. “I would pay the price of lifelong mourning to have had that.”

Edith lowered her hand and leaned back in the chair. She closed her eyes, but a tear leaked out and rolled down her cheek.

Maggie felt awful.
My instincts were wrong
.
I should have kept my feelings to myself.

After several uncomfortable minutes, Edith sniffed and opened her eyes. She didn’t move from her slumped position against the back of the chair, only gazed at Maggie. “I’ve not uttered a word, not even to Reverend Norton, about how bitter I’ve felt about Nathaniel’s death. Thank you for giving me a different perspective, Magdalena. I will think on your words.” She blew her nose and sat up in a rigid ladylike posture. “Dear me. I’m so emotional today.” She sounded more like herself.

Maggie laughed, relieved her intuition had been right, after all.

Edith leaned forward and picked up another small parcel. “We still have a few more to go. My brother must have thought today was Christmas.” She unwrapped the package and held up a rattle, giving the toy a shake. “Now
this
is much more practical for Charlotte at her age than that ridiculous doll.” She handed it to Maggie.

Maggie examined the silver rattle, marveling at the expensive toy—something she never could have given her daughter. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Edith stood and moved closer to the bed, stretching to reach some of the bigger packages. One by one, she unwrapped them, exposing the contents.

Maggie’s favorite was the red shawl, and she immediately picked it up and draped it around her shoulders, enjoying the thick warmth.

Edith stepped back, tilting her head as she surveyed Maggie. “That is an excellent color on you. We are of a similar coloring, so vibrant hues—red, rose, as well as black or navy—will look good on you. Although—” she pursed her lips “—I don’t wear red, for I consider it too bright for a woman of my age.”

“Pshaw,” Maggie scoffed. “Considering that gawky son of yours, you can hardly claim to be a girl. You must be in your midthirties, but you don’t look it. . .or at least, when you
smile
,
you don’t look it.” She straightened, pulled the shawl from around her shoulders, and held it out. “Put this on and go look at yourself in the mirror,” she commanded.

With a slight grimace and shake of her head, Edith obeyed, moving to the washstand to look in the mirror.

“Smile,”
Maggie ordered. “Your brother says I’m bossy, and you’ll know that, too.”

Edith chuckled and then turned to the mirror. “Oh, my!”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that an
‘oh, my, you’re right, Magdalena’
?” she teased.

Edith let out a breath. “Oh, my, you’re right, Magdalena,” she parroted, and then laughed in evident delight.

“Then you’ll buy yourself something in red?”

Edith tried to frown, but a smile broke through. “I’ll think about it.”

Maggie sat back against the pillows, satisfied that she’d brought a genuine smile to Edith’s face. After yesterday’s lack of welcome, she never would have imagined the woman would warm up to her.
Is it too much to hope we can be friends? Or at least on friendly terms?

Probably.

Edith frowned at the clothes on the bed.

“What?”

“Of course, you should dress in black.” Edith pursed her lips. “But I don’t consider black a good color to wear to weddings.”

“Do you think it’s bad luck?”

“Silly superstition, isn’t it? But Nathaniel had a whole flock of aunts and cousins who’d worn mourning for years. They descended on our wedding like a flock of crows.”