The Bridal Veil Page 5

  Emily, his wife—hah, that was a sorry kind of joke, wasn’t it? He linked his hands under his head and stared at the darkened ceiling. She’d also stayed in her room after dinner. He’d already asked himself a dozen times tonight if he’d only made things worse by marrying her. And he got no answer. That tall, skinny drink of water with her black clothes, stiff ways, and city-bred notions—he was probably asking too much of them all in bringing her here.

  Still, she had to deal with Cora. Even Alyssa, if she had come, wouldn’t have known about her until she arrived. He hadn’t figured out a way to tell her about his scolding, domineering mother-in-law. So if Emily was guilty of trying to fool him, he supposed he was equally guilty of keeping Rose’s grandmother a secret.

  When Belinda died, he’d been so wrapped up in his grief, he was glad to see Cora move in. After all, what did he know about cooking and washing and keeping house? Rose had been too young to shoulder that much responsibility and stay in school. To Luke’s way of thinking, educating his daughter had been more important than turning her into a housekeeper, and he still felt that way. It hadn’t been easy, though. He’d taken on the job of tending Cora’s property as well as his own. Her fields lay fallow but he saw to the upkeep of the house and outbuildings. And after a while he’d begun to chafe under her carping and domination, until his nerves felt as if they’d been buffed with sandpaper.

  Whenever a disagreement arose between him and Cora, she’d threatened to move out. To keep the peace and a stable home for Rose, he would cave in like the Three Pigs’s straw house. Every time he did, she became a little more bossy, a bit more entrenched. These days, he got the impression that Cora thought this was her home and Rose her own daughter, and he was merely the one who put food on the table.

  Sometimes he wondered why all the good things in his life had been stripped away, one by one, leaving him a nearly empty husk. Damn it, he’d changed his ways—he wasn’t a no-account, shiftless fool that many had once believed. Didn’t that count for something? Didn’t he deserve a little happiness? He had but one true joy in his life, and that was Rose. The day she was born, she’d made a man of him, even more than Belinda had.

  Just before he closed his eyes, he glanced at the dim silhouette of the oval-framed photograph on the dresser, the one of him and Belinda, two scared kids just starting out. If only they’d had more time together. He stretched out a hand to the other side of the bed and closed it around the emptiness. Three years she’d been gone and he still missed her every single day.

  He wasn’t a scared kid any longer. He was just worn to his soul from the bickering and the loneliness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Despite the stressful events of the day, sheer exhaustion had claimed Emily, and she’d fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep. She woke early with a renewed sense of purpose and hope. Even though it was still overcast, she saw this Saturday morning as a fresh day and she was determined to make a fresh start.

  In the hours following dinner, she’d sat in the rocker in her room, her big shawl wrapped around her. Though self-pity was a quality she frowned upon and warned her students away from, she had come perilously close to indulging herself last night. So many things had happened over which she had no control, and it seemed she had come to the end of a long road to find not a reward, but yet another trial. Briefly, her mind had even strayed to the memory of her real father, Captain Adam Gray. She didn’t often think of him, but last night he’d come to her thoughts. She really couldn’t remember his face anymore—she’d been just six years old when a November storm on Lake Superior claimed his ship. Mostly she recalled that he’d seemed as tall as a mast and had been light-haired. And he’d brought her the most dazzling gifts from other ports. Then he simply stopped coming home and her mother had told her that he’d gone to heaven.

  Later Letty had remarried, to Robert Cannon and nothing was the same after that . . .

  This morning, though, things looked more hopeful. In her mind, she’d begun to put together a lesson plan for Rose, focusing on her most pressing problems first—getting the girl cleaned up and improving her table manners. Why her grandmother sometimes dressed her in those engulfing ruffles and at other times let her run around like a little savage was a mystery. But Emily knew that she would have to first make amends for snapping at Rose last night.

  She looked in her trunk and found a pink satin hair ribbon that Alyssa had given to her years before. She still remembered the Christmas morning when she opened the small package. They’d lived in the big house on Washington Boulevard then. The family had still been together—Father, at least the man she’d come to think of as her father, Mother, Alyssa, and Emily—all secure and safe in a house that had smelled of spice and pine and beeswax candles. Who could have foreseen what would happen to all of them? How could she have guessed that she, Emily, the least promising of the Cannon girls, would be the only one left fifteen years later?

  She looked down at the ribbon again. It was a special keepsake, but she wanted to give it to Rose as a peace offering. All girls liked pretty things, even unmannered tomboys like her.

  Searching through her belongings, Emily found a sheet of creamy vellum, an envelope, and her pen and ink. She pulled out the chair at the dressing table and wrote a note:

  Dear Rose,

  It is my sincere hope that we can become good friends. This hair ribbon is very dear to me and I would like you to have it.

  Just two lines, but she agonized over the wording for fifteen minutes. Then she nibbled on the end of the pen, trying to decide how to sign it. Finally, she settled for Emily Cannon Becker. It was a bit formal but the circumstances were so odd, she decided to stick with proprieties. One couldn’t go wrong with proper form. She slipped the note and the ribbon into the envelope, wrote Rose’s name on it, and sealed it.

  If her new life here was truly to be a new start, if she was going to fit in, she decided she would have to learn to get along with the cranky matriarch downstairs, as well. Until yesterday she had not known that Cora lived under Luke’s roof, but there she was, and Emily realized that in order to reach Rose she must also win over the grandmother. She didn’t even want to consider what she might have to do to win over the remote, handsome Luke.

  After washing, she put on the black dress she’d worn at dinner the night before. Then she braided her hair into a tight coronet and pinned on her mourning brooch. Cautiously she opened her door and was greeted by the welcome aromas of baking bread and frying bacon. Her appetite was back after the disastrous meal last night—surely the bread would taste good, she hoped. Hurrying down the hall, she slipped her envelope under Rose’s closed door, then proceeded to the stairs. With a sense of resolve, she was going back into the lion’s den—her new home.

  She came into the kitchen and found Cora at the huge black stove. Her calico dress was shapeless except where her apron cinched the waist. “Good morning, Mrs. Hayward.”

  Cora glanced at her over her shoulder. “Mrs. Becker.” Emily clenched her back teeth. There was a tone like curdled milk in Cora’s voice when she addressed her, but Emily swallowed and put on a smile.

  “It’s good to see a break in the rain. I wonder if the sun will come out later.”

  Cora ignored Emily’s further attempts at conversation. Finally she asked the question that hovered in her mind.

  “Where is Luke this morning?”

  “Out working in the fields—that’s what farmers do.”

  Emily’s head began to ache from the pressure she exerted on her jaws. “Will Rose come down for breakfast, do you think?”

  That got Cora’s attention. She turned to look at Emily. “Why? Do you want to improve her some more? The child cried her eyes out for the better part of last night. She’s still asleep.” The knife in her hand flew as she sliced potatoes into a skillet.

  Emily felt herself flush. What she wanted was to make amends with the girl, but she decided not to answer Cora’s sarcasm. “Maybe there’s something I can do
to help with breakfast.”

  “I’ve been getting along just fine all these years without help.” The potatoes sizzled in the hot grease. “You can go set in the parlor until you’re called.”

  Genuine anger flared to life in Emily’s chest. After years of respectful students, she was unprepared for Cora Hayward’s barefaced rudeness. No one back home would have spoken to her so. She could rise above it, though, she told herself. She had to, no matter how she longed to make a reply that would pin back Cora’s ears. Something about Rose touched her heart. She wanted to help the girl, and she’d promised Luke that she would. To do that, she felt she had to win Cora’s approval. She tried again. Deliberately misunderstanding the dismissal, she said, “Mrs. Hayward, you don’t need to treat me like a guest. I could set the table, or slice bread, or spoon out the—”

  Cora turned. “You want to help? All right.” She grabbed a handled basket from a shelf beside the door. “Go out to the henhouse and gather the eggs. Mind that you don’t break them.”

  “Henhouse,” Emily repeated. She didn’t know a blasted thing about gathering eggs but she’d be horsewhipped before she’d admit it. How hard could it be? Hens sat on them, and all she had to do was search under their feathers. Probably.

  “That’s it out there.” Cora went to the window and waved in the general direction of the barn, indicating a low, weathered building attached to it. “Go on now. And be sure to close the coop gate behind you so the other chickens don’t get out.”

  Emily went to the door, struggling with an outrage that was alien to her, but one that made her want to twist off the knob when she gripped it. As she went down the porch steps, she felt Cora’s eyes on her.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  Damn this rocky soil, Luke thought as he stood in the side yard, trying to pry a rock out of the disk harrow. No matter how many stones he pulled out of the earth, there were always more. Some of them were as big as steamer trunks and had to be hauled out with the horse team. This one was small, maybe the size of a cabbage, but it was wedged in there as tight as a shotgun groom between the bride’s parents. If he’d been paying attention, instead of thinking about Emily, he might have seen it before he ran over it. He didn’t know who he wanted to swear at—himself, Emily, or the rock. With a chisel and hammer, he beat on the offending stone, making sparks fly, but the thing wouldn’t budge.

  Stopping for a moment, he dragged his sleeve across his sweating forehead and considered the situation. Suddenly, he heard a tremendous ruckus coming from the henhouse. By God, if the weasel had come back again— He dropped the tools and ran toward the squat building, splashing through puddles, determined to wring the varmint’s neck with his bare hands if he could catch it. But just as he reached the henhouse, he heard a decidedly feminine squeal that was neither chicken nor weasel.

  He yanked open the door and found Emily pinned against the back wall by the oldest biddy in the flock. The squawking bird leaped at her in a confusion of wings, claws, and beak. Emily did her best to cover her face, but the backs of her hands were scratched and bleeding. The rest of the hens were in an uproar, all flapping around and screeching, and raising a storm of feathers and straw. Cora’s egg basket lay on the floor with broken eggs running out in a river of yolks and whites.

  “Ma’am!” Luke batted the hen out of the way and grabbed Emily’s arm. “Come on.” He snapped up the basket and pulled her outside, slamming the door on the henhouse. She stood, swaying slightly, with dirt and chicken droppings streaking her black dress. Feathers dotted her hair and skirts. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded once, or at least he thought she did. The movement was so faint, he thought she might just be trembling. She sure looked dazed. “Thank you for rescuing me. I-I didn’t know what to do.”

  “What the hell were you doing in there?” Even his own breath was short.

  Stray locks of hair hung on either side of her face, and all the color had drained from her cheeks. “I c-came out to gather eggs for breakfast,” she said, her voice quavering. “That one chicken, she was like a creature possessed. She attacked me and—and— It must have been something I did, but I don’t know what.”

  He took her slender elbow and steered her toward a rough, weather-bleached bench that leaned against the barn wall. “Here, sit down.” He put the basket at her feet and stood in front of her, ready to bawl her out for straying into danger. God, he’d known her less than twenty-four hours, and she’d already caused more trouble than he usually had in a week. “Cora is the only one who knows how to handle that mean old biddy. She should have stopped you from coming out here.” He put one foot next to her on the bench and leaned his arm on his knee.

  Emily gazed at the backs of her scratched hands, which shook mightily. “I asked her to let me help with breakfast and she gave me the basket. She said not to break the eggs, and I dropped them—”

  “You mean she sent you?” A hazy suspicion began to take shape in Luke’s mind but he backed away from it, as he often did when he thought of Cora’s machinations. If he pondered it too long, he’d end up having to talk to her about this stunt she’d pulled on Emily. And that would turn into another disagreement.

  She reached into her pocket and dabbed at her hands and face with a black-edged handkerchief. He could see that she struggled for dignity, but damn, it was a pretty long reach when a person was bleeding and spotted with chicken shit. Then she looked up at him, her spring-green eyes vivid with a fear that he could almost feel himself. “Yes, I wanted to be useful. I’m capable, I can help. After last night and everything that went wrong . . . ”

  And kept going wrong, as far as Luke could tell. He rubbed the back of his tense neck. “Look, you go inside and get cleaned up. Don’t worry about helping.” He started to walk away.

  “Mr. Becker, wait.”

  He turned and waited.

  “I-I was hoping to talk to you about Rose’s education. I know she needs guidance, but I’d like to know if you have something specific in mind. I’ve formulated a basic plan.”

  He glanced at the harrow, idle in the yard, the rock still jammed in its workings. Daylight didn’t wait for anyone, and he had another five acres to plow. “We can worry about that later, too. For the time being, just stay out of trouble. Can you make it back to the house? ”

  She gave him a chilly look, plucked up the gooey egg basket, and rose from the bench, her movements still shaky. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Becker. I shall manage well enough.”

  With her back straight and her chin lifted, she glided regally across the yard and toward the back porch as if she were the lady of the manor.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  “Well, Mrs. Becker, where are those eggs?” Cora stood at the table, stirring what looked like pancake batter. Her gaze took in Emily’s dishevelment, and Emily knew by the twitch of her mouth the woman was trying not to laugh. She also realized that this was exactly the result Cora had been expecting. Rose sat at the table, dressed in boys’s overalls, her hair barely brushed, eating a bowl of mush. She stared at Emily with her jaw agape, as if she’d never seen her before.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Hayward, there will be no eggs today.” Emily left the slime-covered basket on the kitchen table and walked toward the stairs, bent on reaching the privacy of her room to survey the damage done by the hen. In the stairwell, she heard muffled snorts that gave way to braying laughter coming from the kitchen. Oh, Cora had enjoyed a fine joke at her expense, hadn’t she? Though Emily had been the butt of people’s thoughtlessness and sniggering during her life, their cruelty never ceased to amaze her. Did they believe the victims of their pranks and comments had no feelings? Or did they simply not care?

  In her own room, Emily sat on the brocade-covered bench at the dressing table and looked into the foot-square mirror mounted over it. Oh, God, it was worse than she’d realized outside, and Luke had seen her like this. Her hair could be neatened and her face washed, but the damage to her dress was another matter. Smeared with chicken muck, dirt,
and feathers, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to get it clean. Crepe didn’t wash well. She had only one other black dress besides her traveling suit, and four more months of mourning to satisfy. She’d have to mix up a batch of Japanese cleaning cream and hope for the best.

  Going to the washstand, she washed her face, and once the blood had been rinsed off, she was glad to see that the scratches on her hands were only superficial. Then she noticed the pink ribbon.

  It lay on her bed as if thrown there, rejected and forlorn as Emily had sometimes felt. Crossing the floor, she reached out to pick it up. No note of explanation accompanied it, but there was no need, really. Its return spoke volumes. Emily swallowed hard against the knot in her throat, then gently folded the length of satin and put it away in her trunk. She wasn’t sure if Rose had returned the gift on her own or if Cora had made her do it.

  Cora is the only one who knows how to handle that mean old biddy.

  She’d probably trained the accursed thing herself—what a dreadful example to set for a child by playing that dirty trick on Emily.

  And that Luke Becker. When he’d stood over her, practically wagging his finger in her face about going into the henhouse, if she hadn’t been so rattled from the experience she’d have been sorely tempted to kick him in the shins. That very reaction frightened her. Passionate feelings were to be kept in check, she reminded herself. A lady did not lose her temper in polite company, raise her voice, or make physical demonstrations of her anger, no matter how she might long to. Of course, the term polite company barely fit these people. In civilized society, an uninvited stranger would receive better hospitality than she had so far. Luke had made her almost as angry as Cora had, first scolding her, and then dismissing her as if she were an errant child. He talked to Rose that way, when he bothered talking to her at all. God above, would Alyssa have been treated the same? No, she supposed, probably not.

  Beneath her fear and annoyance, though, had been a more subtle feeling that he’d stirred in Emily. When he’d leaned close, she caught a whiff of him, of newly-turned earth, hay, and soap. They were an altogether distracting combination that had been enough to make her look up into his eyes again. She lifted her gaze now and let it stray to the fields beyond her windows, to the furrows plowed in them. She could picture him behind the draft team that had brought her here yesterday, cleaving the soil for planting, his bare back muscled and straight under a clear April sky. The image in her mind was so vivid, when she glanced into the mirror she saw the color and heat it had brought to her face.