The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (14 page)

“I don’t know, Grandmother. He hates me still.” He brought his fist up to his heart. “I feel it here.”

The elderly woman shook her head. “No. Trace isn’t like that. Once he listens to your side of—”

“
If
he listens.” Tye caught sight of his reflection in a gilt-framed wall mirror. He saw the traitorous guilt etched in permanent lines across his brow. He saw his brother, horror-stricken and bowed by grief. Memory provided the image of a third figure. Beautiful. Bewitching.

Bloody.

If he’d had anything at all in his hand he’d have flung it at the mirror. “He wouldn’t listen six years ago. If our places were reversed, I doubt I’d want to set eyes on him the rest of my life. I betrayed him, Grandmother,” Tye said, his voice rough. “I betrayed him—my own twin brother— in the worst possible way.”

“Come here, dear,” Mirabelle said, holding out her hand.

He wanted more than anything to flee the room, but he would not deny his grandmother anything. Steps dragging, Tye crossed the room to stand beside the rocking chair. She took his hand, gave it a squeeze, and brought it to her lips for a kiss. “Other than you, I know Trace better than anyone. He’ll forgive you, Thackery. And once he does, perhaps you’ll be able to forgive yourself.”

He closed his eyes. He wanted that. God, how he wanted that. In the very core of his soul, he ached for his brother’s forgiveness. Emotion clogged Tye’s throat. “It’ll never happen.”

“It will. I am certain of it.”

Tye’s smile was weary. “You believe that, Grandmother, because you don’t know all the facts. You see, there’s something I’ve never told you about that night.”

Concern furrowed Mirabelle’s brow. “Thackery?”

He stared into the fire, remembering the hell of that night long ago. “She was dying. Trace held her in his arms. Tears flowed down his face. Constance looked up at him and smiled. She looked so beautiful, Grandmother. Radiant, like an angel. She told him—”

His teeth clenched. He swallowed hard.

“What, dear? What did Constance say?”

Tye spoke in a broken whisper. “Ah, Nana. She told him about the baby.”

You will have bad luck if you look at the moon through trees or bushes
.

CHAPTER 9

WITH THE WEDDING DATE set a scant three weeks away, Monique plunged into a flurry of anxious planning. Jenny, unable to shake the aura of melancholy hanging over her, paid scant attention to her mother’s arrangements and participated only when forced.

While Monique labored to provide the most elegant wedding Fort Worth had ever seen, Edmund hobnobbed with the city’s elite and communed with the sinners down in Hell’s Half Acre. Three or four times a week he arrived on her doorstep to escort her to various social events. He purchased the best seats in the house for P. T. Barnum’s One and Only Show on Earth, then put on a courtship show as entertaining to the crowd as the performances inside the rings. At picnics, soirees, and dance club socials, they played the happy couple, and soon the pending wedding was the talk of the town, fueled by the snippets of gossip provided in the
Daily Democrat
by Wilhemina Peters.

Amid all the commotion, the bride-to-be devoted most of her attention to Fortune’s Design.

Her situation was getting downright desperate. In filling orders from the ladies of Miss Rachel’s Social Emporium, she had depleted her supplies. Her cash reserves remained woefully small because the majority of those orders had been made on credit, the recipients scheduled to make weekly payments on account.

Jenny knew one word to Monique would replenish her coffers, but Jenny wanted to do this on her own. She needed to do it on her own. She was confident a little conservation here and a little stretching there would carry her through the lean times until her marriage erased the reputation of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress from the minds of the citizens of Fort Worth.

The McBride Menaces took to visiting her shop every afternoon, providing a well-appreciated distraction from her troubles. She found their attempts to dissuade her from her intended course of action both creative and heartbreaking.

They talked about Trace constantly, expounding at length about his good qualities, glossing over his less attractive traits—such as his taste for green peas. Even more telling, the girls acted like angels. They abandoned all their pranks and took up doing good deeds—going so far as to assist Sister Gonzaga in the nuns’ garden. As the wedding date grew closer, they intensified their efforts. They made wild promises, swore vows of good behavior, pleaded their case with tear-filled eyes and a sense of drama that affected Jenny more than they guessed.

Their objective was obvious. They wanted Jenny to marry their father. Short of telling them Trace had sworn—quite forcefully—never to marry again, Jenny did everything within her power to convince them to abandon their hopes. She stated clearly and often that her wedding to Edmund Wharton would take place as planned, at the same time assuring the McBrides that her marriage would not interfere with the friendship they shared.

But Emma, Maribeth, and Katrina refused to give up. The day before the wedding, Jenny arrived at her shop to find Maribeth McBride seated on the stoop. “We’ve a holiday today,” she said.

“So soon?” Jenny unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Maribeth trailed in after her.

“It’s sort of an emergency holiday. There was a big fight at school yesterday, and Miss Blackstone declared a day off to allow everyone time for tempers to cool. You should be proud of us, Miss Fortune. Emmie, Kat, and I sat off to the side and watched. We weren’t involved one little bit. Miss Blackstone could hardly believe it.”

“I can imagine.”

“You should see Sally Franklin, though.” Wonder filled the youngster’s voice. “Biggest shiner I’ve ever seen. Sally will be black and blue for weeks.”

Not wanting to comment on acts of violence in the classroom, Jenny changed the subject by posing a question about the newest housekeeper employed by Trace McBride.

“We’ve decided to be nice to Mrs. Wilson,” Maribeth replied. “She bakes the best green apple pie we’ve ever tasted. Don’t tell Papa, but it’s because of the brandy. She adds a scosh of brandy to the recipe.”

“A scosh of brandy, hmm?” Jenny stifled a smile, hiding her amusement.

“Yep. Papa would probably have a fit if he knew. You know how he is about drinking.”

Jenny remembered the taste of whiskey in his kiss and said, “No, I don’t. What do you mean?”

“Well.” The child paused dramatically and accepted a molasses cookie from a plate Jenny offered. “It’s because he owns a saloon, you see. He tells us he sees some very wicked things that arise from a person’s overindulgence. He wants us to know we never have to worry about him doing anything wrong because of John Barleycorn.”

“John Barleycorn,” Jenny repeated. “Your father said that?”

Maribeth nodded and chomped her cookie. “Papa never touches the stuff.”

Why, the big liar
. Jenny sat at her worktable, thoroughly disgusted. She knew very well Trace McBride had been drinking the day he came to Miss Rachel’s room. Was he trying to protect his daughters from the knowledge of his vices? While she might understand it, she refused to condone it. Lying was never a good excuse for the truth. If she were the girls’ mother, she’d make certain—

Jenny broke off the thought. She wasn’t going to think that way. She wasn’t their mother. She never would be their mother.

After wiping crumbs off her face with her sleeve, Maribeth said, “Miss Fortune, can I talk with you about something?”

“Certainly.”

The girl straddled a chair next to Jenny, heedless of a bold display of petticoat. Her expression turned somber and her eyes glazed. “It’s about the wedding. You must listen to us, it’s very important. Kat and Emma and I are convinced you shouldn’t marry Mr. Wharton.”

Jenny sighed. She’d anticipated this talk for days now, and she’d planned a nice, clear explanation the girls would understand. “Now, sweetheart, I want you and your sisters to know that nothing will change between us once I’m married. You’ll still be welcome here; you’ll still be my friends. I’m doing what I must do.”

“No, Miss Fortune, you’re wrong. Haven’t you noticed how good we’ve been lately? We haven’t done a single bad thing. We’d be
wonderful
daughters.”

Ah, so that’s what this was about. Jenny reached across the table and tilted up Maribeth’s chin. “I’d like nothing more than for y’all to be my daughters. But honey, the fact is—”

Bang, bang, bang
. The back door rattled from the force of the knock.

Maribeth hopped up and ran to answer it. Hinges creaked as the door swung open. “It’s Mr. Starnes from the railroad, Miss Fortune.”

“Howdy, ma’am.” The burly deliveryman stood beside a wagon, invoice in hand. “I have a shipment for you that’s come all the way from Europe. Imagine that.”

Immediately Jenny forgot all about weddings and explanations and excuses. Her fabric had arrived! She’d placed this order months ago, when Fortune’s Design looked to be a resounding success, long before Wilhemina Peters and Ethel Baumgardner started spreading their clothesline talk. Excitement sparked to life inside her. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this shipment. There is a particular bolt of cloth I’m dying to work with. It’s a midnight-blue silk shot with gold and silver threads.”

Starnes mumbled something, obviously unimpressed. Jenny didn’t care. With this shipment of yard goods, she’d create gowns the likes of which this state had never seen. She clasped her hands to her chest, her smile as big as Texas.

“What is it, Miss Fortune?” Maribeth peered up at the crate with interest.

“Oh, Mari, just wait till you see. It’s—”

The deliveryman interrupted with a paper for her to sign, saying, “Put your John Henry here, pay me the $321.75 you owe, and it’s all yours.”

Jenny’s hand stilled in midsignature. “Three twenty- one seventy-five?” she repeated.

She didn’t have the money. She’d used the cash held in reserve for this order to pay the July rent when the first of the bad-luck rumors had surfaced and cut into her business. The payments from Miss Rachel’s girls wouldn’t make a dent in this bill. “I thought I’d have time. I didn’t think it would drag on this long,” she mumbled, closing her eyes in distress.

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“Um, Mr. Starnes, I have a slight problem.” What followed was a ten-minute discussion that degenerated into begging and pleading on Jenny’s part, to no avail.

“It’s gotta go back to the railroad, Miss Fortune,” the deliveryman eventually pronounced. “My hands are tied.”

A heavy sense of defeat weighted her shoulders. She desperately needed this shipment. One look at her designs for these fabrics would have the women of Fort Worth racking their brains for an excuse to order dresses. Her donning of The Bad Luck Wedding Dress for her own ceremony would provide that excuse.

The timing was perfect. Jenny couldn’t afford to allow this opportunity to pass.

She’d borrow the money from her mother.

“Mr. Starnes, I’ll obtain the funds later today and have them for you tomorrow. If you’ll leave the fabric—”

“Sorry, ma’am. This order is COD. I can’t leave the goods without the cash.” He glanced down at his form. “I have a standing order for all goods refused at this address, and I’m obligated to see that the goods are delivered there. Sorry Miss Fortune.” He heaved the crate back onto the wagon.

“Standing order?” Confusion dulled her mind. “What standing order?”

Touching a finger to his cap, he climbed into the wagon. Grabbing up the reins, he glanced down and said, “From a woman in Dallas. Miss Ethel Baumgardner. I’d best hurry along if I’m going to get this delivery back to the station before the next train pulls out.” The wagon rolled forward, leaving Jenny standing stiff with shock in its dusty wake.

Ethel Baumgardner. Ethel Baumgardner!

“That witch,” she whispered. “That underhanded, talentless, green-eyed biddy.” Fury pounded through her as she stared after her departing dreams. Wasn’t it enough that Ethel Baumgardner had capitalized on the Bad Luck Wedding Dress fiasco and stolen all her customers? Did she have to steal the fabric right off her bolts, too? Angry tears swelled in Jenny’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

She felt a tiny hand slip into hers and she looked down.

“Don’t cry, Miss Fortune,” Katrina’s sad voice implored. “Please?”

Jenny glanced around to see Maribeth and Emma standing behind their sister, watching her with somber faces. She tried to smile, but knew it was a sorry effort at best. “When did you and Emma come down?” she asked Katrina in a tremulous voice.

“About the time the grumpy man started carrying on about money. Maybe you should have paid him in kisses, Miss Fortune. That’s what I always do with my papa.”

Jenny swallowed the hysteric laughter that bubbled up at Katrina’s innocent comment. Then Emma spoke, her soft voice filled with concern. “I’m sorry about the yard goods, Miss Fortune.”

“It’s not fair!” Maribeth stared down the alley, arms folded as she fumed. “It’s the stupidest thing, him not waiting one little day. That Ethel woman shouldn’t get your cloth!”

“It doesn’t matter, girls. Let’s go inside.”

“It does too matter! I’ve met that Dallas dressmaker before. The dresses she makes are ugly. She’ll ruin your fabric!”

Jenny closed her eyes and sighed. Maribeth was right. That fabric would be wasted on a designer of Mrs. Baumgardner’s talents.

“Never mind Ethel.” She gathered the girls in her arms and gave them a big, group hug. “I want to talk about you three. Y’all are my very best friends, do you know that? Your support means so very much to me.”

Katrina wrapped her arms around Jenny’s legs and hugged tight. “We love you, Miss Fortune.”

Emotion clogged Jenny’s throat. “I love you, too.” Taking a deep breath, she swiped at the tears on her cheek and stepped away. “Now, don’t you think you should get back upstairs? It’s almost lunchtime, and Mrs. Wilson might have some of that green apple pie waiting for you.”

Acknowledging Jenny’s point, the McBride daughters hurried upstairs. After gulping down their lunch, they settled down in their attic bedroom to complete the extra schoolwork assigned to make up for the unexpected holiday. At least, that’s how they made it appear should Mrs. Wilson check on them.

Katrina mouthed her way through the alphabet. Emma whipped through an arithmetic lesson, and Maribeth stared out the window, her expression glum. “It didn’t work, Emmie. The wedding is tomorrow, and I was just working into my argument when Mr. Starnes knocked. Now Miss Fortune’s too upset to listen to anything we’d have to say.”

Katrina wrinkled her nose. “That mean Miss Baumgardner. I don’t like her. I wish we’d said no to Monique’s idea.”

“Me, too. I think Miss Fortune’s feelings are going to be hurt when she sees us in those dresses. Besides, they’re ugly. They’re better suited for a garden scarecrow than us.” She paused, her forehead knit in wrinkles. “We have to do something.”

Emma looked up. “We will. I have it all figured out. Obviously, our acting good all the time hasn’t done the trick.”

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Katrina observed, plopping her thumb into her mouth.

Emma continued. “It’s all right, Kat. That’s all over with now. The McBride Menaces are about to return. With a vengeance.”

Katrina’s thumb left her mouth with a pop. “What are we going to do?”

“Are we gonna get her fabric back?” Maribeth inquired.

“Yes, we certainly are. We’ll get that fabric. Then, we return it to her in such a way that Miss Fortune will cancel the wedding.”

“How?” the younger sisters chimed.

“It’s simple, really.” Emma offered an angel’s smile. “First, the McBride Menaces are going to rob the train.”

EMMA PLANNED the assault like a West Point general. After listening while her sister outlined their strategy, Maribeth nodded. “Sounds good to me, Emma. Casey Tate will be glad to help us. He’s good at that sort of thing. Papa will kill us, of course, but I reckon it’ll be worth it.”

Katrina nodded seriously. “It’s a good plan, Emmie. We’re lucky you’re the thinker in the family like Papa says.”