Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6) (23 page)

Samantha glanced at the door and back toward Maggie, lowering her voice. “I will say, I think the softening in
this
family is from more than just Charlotte’s influence.
Both
of you have played a part of the mellowing of Caleb, Edith, and Ben.” With a final mischievous glance at Maggie, she finished dressing her daughter and stood. “I’ll see you at the wedding. I’d say we’ll probably have a chance to talk then, but I’m sure the event will be a madhouse, and we’ll be lucky to have even a few words.”

Caleb returned, carrying Samantha’s outerwear and satchel, the scarf, and knotted baby sling draped over one arm. “The buggy awaits.” He set the satchel on the floor and offered Samantha the coat. “Shall we trade?”

Samantha gave Maggie a sidelong glance that clearly said,
see, I told you he’s changed
. She handed over her daughter and accepted the coat in exchange.

Maggie rocked Charlotte, suppressing a chuckle at Samantha’s reaction to Caleb’s assistance with Patricia. But she also had difficulty in seeing Caleb as any way but warm, generous, and good with baby girls.

As if to prove her point, the man deftly took Patricia into his arms.

The baby stared at him, her eyes wide. Then her face puckered.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Caleb teased, bouncing her and speaking in a gentle voice. “My reputation is at stake.”

The baby’s eyes widened, and her face cleared, but she didn’t go so far as to break into a smile. She turned her head toward her mother and held out a hand.

Samantha, already in her coat and knitted hat, lifted the scarf and baby carrier from around Caleb’s arm. She wrapped the scarf around her neck, looped the knotted sheet over her head and one shoulder, and pulled mittens from her coat pocket, tugging them onto her hands. “I’ll take her back, if you’ll haul my satchel outside.”

Caleb made the exchange.

Samantha leaned over and gave Maggie a kiss on the cheek. “You two stay here, where it’s warm,” she ordered. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Good-bye.” Impulsively, Maggie laid a hand on Samantha’s arm. “Thank you again for everything.”

With a smile, the woman left.

Maggie sank back into her chair, envying Samantha her happy marriage and her big family. She kissed the top of Charlotte’s head, suddenly feeling tired. She shifted and her hip panged, indicating she’d probably done too much today. She leaned her head back, replaying Caleb’s kiss.
So soft, and yet. . .there was male need there, too.
She tried to yank away her thoughts.
No sense in wishing the kiss meant as much to him as it did to me,
she lamented.
That way only leads to hurt.

Edith entered the room, followed by Caleb. A smile played about her lips. “Maggie, we have something to show you. A surprise. Let’s go up to your bedroom.”

“Here, let me.” Caleb reached for her daughter. “I haven’t had my time with her yet.”

Maggie placed Charlotte in his arms.

With a fatuous smile, Caleb bent over the baby. “Hello, my sweet.”

Charlotte shook her arms and kicked her legs, obviously happy to see him.

Maggie’s heart turned over.

“Come along, you two,” Edith ordered. “I want Maggie to see her surprise before the light starts to fade.”

Maggie obediently followed the other woman out of the parlor and up the stairs. She paused at the half landing, leaning over the rail to look down at Caleb and her daughter.

As Caleb walked with the baby, he appeared to be having a low-voiced conversation with her.

Charlotte looked fully engrossed in gazing at his face.

With a smile, Maggie shook her head and picked up her skirts. But she couldn’t help a stab of worry at how the baby had become attached to Caleb.
Surely Charlotte’s too young to miss him when we leave.

She continued upstairs and into the bedroom to see two dresses spread over the bed—one a grape purple so dark it was almost black, and the other a lovely red. She gasped and immediately coveted both of them.

Caleb came in behind her. He shifted Charlotte to one arm and touched the purple dress. “They are for you, Maggie. What do you think?”

The dark purple gown had a black velvet collar, cuffs, and a
V
belt with black lace over the bodice and around the hem. Three tiers of frills cascaded from the shoulders, a much softer look than balloon sleeves. “I couldn’t accept such a generous gift.”

He fiddled with the cuff of the sleeve and barreled on, as if she hadn’t objected. “I know the color is not deep mourning, and if this were Boston, of course, you’d wear black—if you attended the wedding at all. But here we aren’t so strict.”

I’d wear yellow in celebration if I didn’t care what people thought. But I do have Charlotte to consider.

“Some of us adhere to proper ways,” Edith said in frigid tones, her facial expression tight, back and shoulders straight.

Oh, dear, Edith is in need of Charlotte’s magic again. Maybe I should have Caleb give the baby back to her.

“Yes, sister,” Caleb said in a placating tone. “I know when Nathaniel died you wore black for longer than a year. But you did start wearing colors when you and Ben moved out here.”

His comment apparently mollified Edith, for her whole body softened. She sent an apologetic glance in Maggie’s direction. “I know your marriage was different than mine with my dearest Nathaniel, and I agree with my brother’s assessment of the situation.”

A lump formed in Maggie’s throat. As each day had passed since Oswald’s death, and she’d been treated with consideration and care by the people of Sweetwater Springs—especially these two—she’d realized more and more how much her husband had mistreated her.

Caleb brushed a hand over the skirt of the red dress. “This one is for later, after a few months go by. When I saw the fashion plate, I knew the color would suit you, and I ordered it.”

The crimson hue attracted her. The sleeves were full at the shoulders, but they didn’t have fat puffs. The high-necked red bodice had an overdress of wide lapels with broad black lace. The cuffs and collar were trimmed in black braid. A line of wide black braid ran from each hip to the hem. A second row dripped with black lacy fringe that made a
V
from the knees to meet in the middle near the hem. In between, a fan shape of black appliqués ended in a point at the bottom of the
V
.

Caleb gave her a look of boyish expectation as different from a blasé expression as could be. “Will you try on this one, Maggie? Just so we can see you in it?”

She could no more resist that appeal than she could ignore one of Charlotte’s needs. She glanced at Edith, silently asking the other woman’s opinion. After all, she’d been the one who’d seemed to disapprove of the presents he’d purchased on the day they’d arrived.

Edith smiled and made a little shooing motion at her brother. “Out with you. I’ll play ladies maid for Maggie.”

Caleb didn’t move, only watched Maggie, his dark eyes hooded, as if brooding.

Her throat tight, she could only nod, and then quickly she looked away.

He rubbed a hand on Charlotte’s back and left.

Once the door closed behind him and the baby, Edith gestured for her to remove her clothing.

Maggie did as commanded, feeling self-conscious about standing in front of the other woman in only her undergarments.

“Let me tie your corset strings tighter.” Edith reached for Maggie’s waist but paused halfway, awaiting permission.

“Go ahead.”

Edith unlaced the ties. “Breathe in; then breathe out.” She waited for Maggie’s exhale and yanked on the strings.

The whalebones of the stays cut into her sides.

“Your waist has gone down a bit,” Edith observed. “And the rest of you is filling out nicely.”

“Mrs. Graves’s good cooking,” she said lightly.
Abundant food will do that.
Too often, Maggie had stinted on her portions, because there wasn’t enough for her and Oswald to both eat well.

Once pregnant, though, she hadn’t been quite as generous, knowing her body needed nourishment for the baby growing within her. Still, she’d worried that she hadn’t eaten enough, that the baby would suffer for the lack of food during the pregnancy, and afterward when she nursed. The lavish meals Maggie had partaken of while she’d been living as a member of Caleb’s household had been a godsend. She’d felt tremendous relief that Charlotte benefited in these first vulnerable weeks and refused to worry about how she would provide sustenance for her daughter in the future.

Worry after the wedding.
The few times she’d hinted to Caleb about needing to move out, he’d changed the subject or had told her she first needed to heal or be stronger. Maggie had given herself a cut-off date for remaining at the Livingston mansion.

I’m healed. I’m strong.
Somehow, the thought didn’t bring the relief it should have.

Edith helped her slip on the red dress and work the fastenings.

Maggie felt like a mannequin, or maybe a little girl playing dress-up.
No, playing dress-up was fun. This is awkward. If I refuse the gorgeous dresses as my pride wants to do, I will hurt Caleb, as well as possibly insulting Edith.
She couldn’t do that to the two people who’d already done so much for her.

Edith stepped back. “Oh, my. I never would have believed the transformation if I hadn’t seen it for myself.” She turned Maggie around so she could stand in front of a full-length looking glass.

Maggie stared in disbelief at the sophisticated stranger in the mirror who hadn’t been there earlier.

“Well?” Edith prompted. “What do you think?”

Is that really me?

Edith whirled and hurried to the door, flinging it open. “You can come in now.”

Caleb carried Charlotte inside.

Slowly, Maggie turned to face him, feeling self-conscious.

The appreciative look in his eyes filled her with feminine power, and she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.

“You look stunning.” He held up Charlotte. “Look, my sweet, see how lovely your mama is.”

Maggie blushed and looked away, catching sight of herself in the mirror—the sophisticated stranger—as grand a lady as Edith Grayson or Prudence Morgan. A wave of despair washed over her.
This isn’t me. This is only Gypsy Maggie clothed in fine feathers.
A wide social gulf still lay between them.

Wearing a gown like this made it all too easy for Maggie to hope, which she knew would only lead to hurt.

I need to move out soon!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
fter a sudden snowstorm made uncertainty about the wedding buzz through the town, the weather cleared. Four sunny days ensured people came into Sweetwater Springs from near and far to attend the wedding of the son of their beloved minister and his wife. The day before the ceremony, guests descended on the hotel and Mrs. Murphy’s boarding house or stayed with friends.

Mack Taylor opened the livery to those folk who’d traveled a long ways and were too poor to pay for a room but who were willing to sleep in the hay, bundled next to each other in their blankets like kernels on a corncob.

In the early morning hours, a crowd of workers hired by Andre Bellaire, as well as volunteers, transformed the church into a bower of white roses and greenery and made an archway of the same outside the church door. A large arrangement of flowers bloomed on the altar, now covered with a gold cloth, and swags of flowers and greenery lined the windows and the aisle side of the pews.

As a surprise wedding gift for his son-in-law, Andre had commissioned a stained-glass window for the church. The day before, Reverend Joshua had been sent on a pastoral errand out of town for several hours, ensuring the secrecy of the installation. Because the window was on the front of the church facing away from the street, word was the younger minister hadn’t yet spotted the new addition.

Set behind the altar, the large window took the shape of a pointed arch, and the background of pale glass looked mauve in some light, pink at other times of the day, and showed gold as the sun set. A simple cross in bluish-purple glass in the center drew the eye. One line of gold and orange and a second of blue and green bordered the sides of the work of art. The bottom showed two panels, each containing mystical symbols, flanking a middle one that contained a wreath of olive leaves circling the date of 1896.

The wedding was scheduled for two o’clock, but those who hadn’t spent the night drove or walked into town hours early, clustering under the oak tree beside the school. Trestle tables covered with white cloths and vases of flowers were set up for a community meal, with food provided by Andre and catered by the hotel kitchen. In addition, all the housewives for miles around had contributed their specialties. The area quickly took on the air of a festival as friends congregated, people ate and talked, and children played the sedate games authorized by their elders, who’d commanded their offspring to remain looking as spiffed up as possible.

The bride was sequestered in the parsonage with Mrs. Norton, and Reverend Joshua mingled with the townsfolk. Micah remained at his side instead of playing with the other children. Obviously the boy’s father wasn’t taking a chance on his mischievous son getting dirty before the ceremony.

At Caleb’s insistence, Maggie left her sleeping baby with him while she went to keep Delia company, although she made him promise to come get her if Charlotte became fussy.

Maggie hurried to the parsonage, careful to hold the skirt of her purple gown off the ground. She loved the sound of the taffeta rustling with each step, making her feel sophisticated, and she moved among the throngs—more people than she’d ever seen together—with her head held high and her shoulders back.

As she passed, Maggie exchanged greetings with acquaintances, surprised by how many people she recognized. After the crowd, the quiet area around the small parsonage was a relief. She knocked on the door. “Delia, it’s Maggie,” she called.

Mrs. Norton opened the door, peering out to make sure Maggie was alone. She wore a navy-blue shirtwaist and skirt, with full, long sleeves, a high collar and cuffs of ivory lace, and ivory appliqués along the hem.

“Why, Mrs. Norton, how lovely you look,” Maggie said, stepping inside at Mary Norton’s gesture.

Pink flooded the woman’s wrinkled cheeks. “My son and Delia insisted I have a new gown.” She gave an anxious flutter with her hands. “Even though I didn’t really need one, because Joshua outfitted me quite extravagantly when he returned from Africa.”

Maggie grasped the woman’s hands. “Dear Mrs. Norton, from what I know of you
and
from what I’ve heard, you are as close to a saint as a Christian woman can be. I have no doubt you deserve to look your finest.”

“Oh, no, dear, I’m not a saint,” Mrs. Norton protested as she ushered Maggie into the parlor.

Taking a leaf from Caleb’s book, Maggie ignored her protests. “Life is not all about denial and charity. Reverend Joshua wouldn’t encourage you to have a new dress if he didn’t feel it was right. And with a husband for a minister. . .why, Reverend Norton would put his foot down, too. So, having the approval of both men of the cloth, I think you should enjoy the feminine feeling of a pretty new dress.” She spoke from recent experience.

Mrs. Norton squeezed Maggie’s hands. “Well, if you think so, Mrs. Baxter—”

“And so Reverend Joshua and I have been telling her,” Delia called from inside the parlor.

Mrs. Norton stepped aside so Maggie could see the bride standing in front of a full-length mirror that must have been moved from a bedroom for Delia’s use. The parlor’s gold wallpaper reflected sunlight from the windows to shimmer over the bride. The scent of roses and orange blossoms from the enormous bouquet resting on the sofa permeated the air.

Delia placed her hands on her hips. “But does Mother Norton listen to us?” she asked in a playful haranguing tone. “Or to her husband or my father?
No.
Then you come along and tell her the same thing about her new dress, and she decides to listen.”

“Oh, no, dearest.” Mrs. Norton touched Delia’s cheek. “I
have
been listening. But you all are my family. Mrs. Baxter is an impartial member of our congregation.”

Maggie shook her head. “I’m sorry to report that you have
no
impartial members of your congregation,” she said, deadpan.

“No?” Mrs. Norton gave her a puzzled look.

Maggie couldn’t help but chuckle before leaning in to hug the woman. “No one is impartial because everyone adores you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Baxter, you flatter me.” Pink flushed her wrinkled cheeks. “Now, I really must go out and see that everything is in order in the church. I’ll return before the ceremony.” She slipped from the room.

Maggie turned her attention to her friend.

Delia was an exotic vision. At first glance, her wedding gown looked deceptively simple, which was probably appropriate for a minister’s wife. The unembellished body of the dress was made of cream satin brocade, with a high, square neck edged with small scoops of lace. The sleeves were plain satin, made spectacular by their puffed shape, and then along her forearms the satin fit tightly. The fabric belled out at her wrists, where froths of lace fell to midway down Delia’s hands. A brocade train several feet in length trailed behind the gown.

“You look so beautiful!” Maggie rushed over and gave Delia a hug, careful not to crease the material or muss her hair. “Like a princess. I love your dress.”

Delia leaned over to whisper, “A copy of Worth’s, although the balloon sleeves are smaller because Joshua doesn’t approve of—” she deepened her voice “—those ridiculous shapes that make a woman look like she’s carrying a bag of flour on each shoulder. And they are a waste of material at that.”

The two laughed together.

“I have to agree with him,” Maggie admitted. “I was quite startled the first time I saw Mrs. Morgan’s new dress for her daughter’s christening party. Then Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Sullivan showed up in balloon sleeves, as well, although theirs weren’t as big as Mrs. Morgan’s. And hers weren’t as broad as those of Miss Maxwell.” She shook her head, indicating disbelief. “I saw her at Caleb’s—Mr. Livingston’s—hotel the other day. She is stunning, really. But in a good wind, our Songbird might inadvertently fly away.”

“I look forward to hearing Miss Maxwell sing.” Delia raised her hands to touch a lovely tiara of pearls that matched her necklace and earrings, and the long froth of lace fell back over her wrists. “I’ve already discovered that as beautiful as this looks, this lace is
most
impractical. The edges keep getting in my way. I don’t know why I didn’t think to have the dressmaker alter the length. I don’t dare eat anything later, for the lace will trail in my food.”

“I have pins in my reticule. We can rescue your lace so you can eat, and then unpin everything when you’re finished.”

“How sensible you are, Maggie! A splendid idea.”

“We can’t have you fainting away from hunger,” Maggie teased. “Plus, you’ll need to fortify yourself for the night to come.”

Dusky rose flooded Delia’s olive skin. She touched the frills at Maggie’s shoulders. “I’m not the only one who looks elegant,” she said, obviously changing the subject.

“Quite a shock to see myself in the looking glass this morning.” Maggie smoothed the skirt. “I never even imagined wearing such a gown.”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Delia called.

Sheriff Granger stepped into the parlor, hat in hand. She wore the same suit as on the previous Sunday, but her braid was wrapped in a high crown that would fit under the hat. She held a telegram in her hands. Her cool gray eyes warmed as she surveyed the two women. “I ran into Mrs. Norton outside, and she told me to come on in.”

Maggie couldn’t help wondering what the sheriff thought of their dresses.
Does she ever wear them or wish she could?
Feeling the tightness of her corset, Maggie wondered about the tradeoff of fashion for comfort. As much as she loved her dress and how pretty and feminine she felt in it, she could do without the corset tied as tight as possible to give her thick waist the illusion of slenderness. But her mind couldn’t stretch to wearing trousers, comfortable as they might be.

She held a telegram aloft. The genuine joy in the sheriff’s smile made her look attractive.

Maggie hadn’t seen that smile before, and she wondered how many people had witnessed a happy expression on the woman’s face.

Sheriff Granger waved the paper. “If I could have a private moment.” She looked from Delia to Maggie and back. “I’ve a wedding present from me to you and Reverend Joshua that I think will give you peace of mind from a certain. . . .”

Delia’s eyes widened. “I’ve told Maggie
everything
. You may speak freely in front of her.”

“Well, then.” The sheriff handed over the telegram and motioned for Delia to go ahead and read.

Delia glanced down, scanned the message, and sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes filling. “How did you know I was worried?”

Worried about what?
Maggie wondered. “Is everything all right?”

Delia waved the telegram in front of her like a fan. “Sheriff Granger brought word that Marcel Dupuy is in New Orleans, and I don’t have to worry about him showing up today. I’ve had nightmares of him striding up the aisle to denounce me in the middle of the ceremony.”

Maggie gave the sheriff an admiring glance. “However did you find out about that horrible man?”

“My father, Big John Granger, was a lawman for many years. He attended West Point before the war. He was. . . .” Her voice thickened. “A man of great conviviality and heart. A man of integrity.”

Maggie’s throat tightened in sympathy, knowing the bittersweet pain of missing a beloved father.

“Big John formed many friendships that even the war couldn’t destroy, although he and many of his classmates fought on opposite sides. Then, too, during the war, he had his own command. Afterward, he stayed in touch with
everyone
. I have a thick ledger with the names and addresses of men and some women all over the country, as well as a big box of his correspondence. After I shipped Dupuy out of town, it wasn’t hard to find someone in New Orleans who’d keep an eye on the scoundrel. My contact dropped by yesterday to check that Dupuy was sitting tight and wouldn’t be causing trouble for us.”

Delia’s tears spilled over. She extended a hand.

With an uncomfortable expression, the sheriff clasped hers.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Delia squeezed Sheriff Granger’s hand. “And I know my dear Reverend Joshua will feel the same. We are blessed to have you here in Sweetwater Springs to keep the law and protect us.”

The sheriff pulled away. “Just doin’ my job, Miss Bellaire,” she drawled.

Maggie shook her head. “I’ve lived in several towns, Sheriff. Traveled through many others in a Gypsy caravan, which tends to bring the law sniffing around to make sure we weren’t making off with anyone’s chickens,” she said tartly. “So I’m familiar with what passes for authority. I agree with Delia.”

A faint flush made the sheriff lift her hat and lower it over her braided bun, pulling down the brim to shade her face. “I’d be checking out a Gypsy caravan, too, Mrs. Baxter. And keeping my eye on the inhabitants,” she commented in a matter-of-fact voice.

Maggie wanted to say a sharp retort in defense of her mother’s people, but she was also her father’s daughter and knew the sheriff was right to be vigilant. “Keeping an eye out is one thing,” she said stiffly. “Running us out of town when we haven’t done anything wrong is another.”

The sheriff nodded. Her gaze swung to Delia. “No frettin’ now. At least not about unsavory types. I’ll keep watch.”

“We are in good hands,” Delia said in a sincere tone. “And from now on, Sheriff Granger, Reverend Norton and I will keep you in our prayers every day.”

“Thank you, ma’am. There might come a time when I’ll need them.” She turned on her heel and left the room, her boot heels clicking down the hallway.

Delia heaved a sigh that seemed to come from her very depths. “In only a year,
everything
has changed for me, Maggie. Sometimes I have a difficult time believing how much. I’ve been afraid the bubble would burst, and my marriage would never take place. But now, I can relax and enjoy this day.”

“I know what you mean by your life changing,” Maggie said in a wry tone. “Like slipping on ice and not knowing how you’re going to land, but you know it will be hard and will hurt.”

Delia raised her eyebrows. “I think
someone
caught you before you hit the ground,” she pointed out. “You might remember him—tall, handsome, dark hair and eyes, banker, hotel owner? A man whom I’ve seen smile more in the last few weeks than in all the months I’ve known him put together. Not to mention carrying a baby around just like a doting father. Anyone like that come to mind?”