The Bridal Veil Read online

  She felt Rose’s eyes on her, big and disbelieving. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “That’s enough for you to know now.” She gestured at her with the paring knife. “You just remember, Rose—no one in this house loves you as much as I do. No one.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next several days were filled with tension in the Becker household. Emily loathed the hours when Rose was gone to school and Luke worked in the fields. That left her in the house with Cora, a woman plainly determined not to accept Emily’s presence as anything other than that of an unwelcome guest. At least there had been no more ghastly scenes like the one on Sunday after church. But that was probably because Cora had simply stopped speaking to her.

  Although Emily should be the lady of the house, she knew she wasn’t. Her position was such an uncomfortable one. She had no right to rearrange the parlor furniture, or plan meals, or do any of the things other wives did. Since she didn’t know which items around the house had belonged to Belinda, she was afraid to touch anything outside of her own room. And even there, the dead woman had left her mark.

  One morning following breakfast, while Cora was in the yard beating the dust out of the hall runner and Luke worked in the front yard mending a section of fence, Emily climbed the stairs to get her sewing basket. Her hem had come loose in one spot and she knew if she didn’t fix it right away, the rest of it would soon follow. As she walked toward her room, she passed her husband’s closed bedroom door. She had never seen the room and she let her curiosity get the better of her manners. Of course, such snooping was an intolerable breach of etiquette. She supposed. Was it really so bad to investigate the home that was now hers? As she gripped the knob, her heart climbed to her throat and she glanced up and down the hall, feeling like a thief. From outside, she heard the steady thump-thump-thump of Cora’s rug beater, reassuring her that she was alone in the house. Quickly, she opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it again. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she waited for her hammering pulse to slow. At last she turned to look around.

  The room was not as bright nor as large as hers. In fact, it seemed as spare as the plain cells that Mrs. Wheaton had let to her boarding students, and the furniture was almost as simple. The view from the single window overlooked the front yard where she saw Luke. As if feeling her eyes on him, he looked up at the same time. She jumped behind the curtain, her heart bumping around inside her chest again, like a bee trapped in a jar. God, what would he think, what would he do if he knew she’d trespassed on this sanctum? Peering at him from the curtain, watching as he worked—he pulled the wire fencing so tight that the muscles in his arms stood out in sharp relief—she at last felt satisfied that he hadn’t really seen her in the window. The voice of common sense, the one she’d always listened to, told her that she ought to just leave now, while her crime was still undiscovered and her sin not yet too bad. But the curiosity that had led her here in the first place silenced the voice and she remained.

  It seemed odd that hers, a seldom-used guest room, would be nicer than that of the master of the house. The bed was big, though, and took up most of the floor space. In the corner stood a straight-backed chair with a dirty pair of coveralls and a shirt thrown over it. She stepped deeper into the room and stretched a tentative hand toward the quilt.

  Luke slept here. This was where he lay at night. What sweet memories and private demons visited his dreams? Did she, Emily, ever cross his mind? No, of course, she wouldn’t—it was foolish of her to even ponder the question. Her fingers trailed up to the pillow, where his head would rest. Did he lie sleepless and watch a shaft of moonlight cross the wall, as she sometimes did, reviewing the regrets of his past and fearing the uncertainty of the future? Were there nights that seemed to have no end, nights when he longed for love as she did? Or was he content to live with the memory of what had once been? She smoothed the fabric with her hand, then leaned over and inhaled the scent of him on the pillow. It was clean and male and familiar. Now she would think of him, just one door away from her, with only a single wall separating them in the darkness . . .

  The depth of intimacy this image evoked scalded her cheeks, and she snatched her hand away as if she’d stroked his brow in his sleep instead of merely touched the pillowcase.

  Turning from the bed, she faced the dresser, a simple oak piece upon which stood some personal items—an alarm clock, a razor, a woman’s vanity set consisting of a carved cherry hairbrush and a hand mirror, and a small, silver-framed photograph. Emily picked it up. She recognized the handsome, unsmiling young man in the picture as Luke. Next to him stood a wedding-gowned girl. So this was Belinda, the woman who had such a grip on the hearts of those under this roof. In the photo, they both looked stiff and fixed. Still, there was a gleam of joy and hope that shone in Luke’s eyes that even the requirements of photographic portraiture could not dim. Emily’s heart contracted a bit—she had never seen that look in his eyes. Life, it seemed, had washed away those emotions and left behind the man she knew now. But plainly, the dark-haired beauty who’d stood beside him that day—and Belinda had been lovely, there was no doubt—had given him a spark of inner fire that Emily wondered if she would ever see.

  Downstairs she heard the back door open and slam and she jumped, feeling as guilty and dishonorable as she had when she’d read Luke’s last letter to Alyssa. Footsteps on the kitchen floor, accompanied by her husband’s tuneless whistling, paralyzed her momentarily. Quickly, she replaced the photograph on the dresser and eased open the door, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Then she stepped into the hall and closed it with a quiet click, feeling downhearted and wicked rather than enlightened by her exploration.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  That afternoon, Emily dressed as carefully as she would have for a shopping excursion in Chicago and set out for town with her small market basket. She needed to buy ammonia and castile soap to make the cleaning cream for her dress. She was surprised that Cora had neither in the house—how did she clean spots from the family’s clothes? Of course, it was possible that Cora had simply denied having the supplies on hand. Emily knew it was an unworthy thought, but considering the strain between them she couldn’t stop the notion from creeping into her mind. Anyway, it would be good to get away from the stifling atmosphere.

  She hoped the druggist carried what she needed, and that she could avoid going into the general store.

  The mile walk into Fairdale gave Emily a different perspective of the countryside than she got while riding in the farm wagon. The mild spring day was filled with the scents of freshly-turned earth, new greenness, and the air was clear and full of the tang of spring. The sun cast short shadows on the road, and along the way she paused to watch lambs capering among a herd of fleecy sheep.

  Life here moved at a much slower pace than she was accustomed to. In Chicago, housewives with busy households kept strict schedules. They had at-home days when they entertained visitors with teas and luncheons, and those days when they themselves called on others and attended the sick. Many were involved in church and social-welfare activities, and still had the responsibility of raising their children and maintaining their most important domain, the home, as a sanctuary for their world-weary husbands. Here, though everyone worked and was busy from dawn to dark, the rhythm of days and seasons seemed to govern life more than did the clock or social status. On the one hand, she found her surroundings as alien as if she’d been dropped into a foreign country; nothing in her training had prepared her for this. And yet . . . yet there was something appealing about living closer to the land, where putting on different clothes for morning and afternoon was never thought of. But twenty-eight years of ingrained social habits were as much a part of her as her eye color or the cowlick she struggled to tame every day—she wasn’t likely to change now. Regardless of those rebellious, risqué thoughts she sometimes entertained.

  Just as the road began its last descent into town, a cemetery came into her view. Emily wondered why she hadn’t noticed i
t before. Perhaps because it sat on a gently sloping hillside, and spread out below was a breathtaking vista of the river that eclipsed the burying ground. Only two or three trees interrupted the view. Too, compared to the imposing granite angels and large family tombs in Chicago’s cemeteries, these grave markers were modest. It was a well-tended place, though, and she supposed it would only be proper to go inside the low iron fence to find and pay her respects to the grave of the woman whose spirit lived on in the Becker house. She lingered at the gate, her gloved hands gripping two of the iron pickets. Somewhere in the breeze-blown trees a finch twittered a plaintive song. Emily hesitated. She’d spent years in the shadow of the paragon that had been her sister, but she had loved Alyssa with all her heart. The woman she now apparently did not measure up to she would never know, yet Belinda was honored like a saint. She closed her left hand into a fist to feel her wedding band press against the flesh of her little finger.

  Perhaps she was being small, Emily thought, but she turned away from the graveyard and kept walking.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  “Clara, what do you think of Luke Becker marrying that beanpole of a woman?”

  Emily halted outside the open door to Fran Eakins’s general store, riveted to a spot beside a barrel that held a bouquet of corn brooms. To her distress, the druggist’s shop had been closed and now she was forced to come to one of the last places in town where she wanted to be. Based on what she’d just heard, her trepidation was not unfounded. Her heart sank. She didn’t want to go into the store—the memory of Franny Eakins’s angry display in the sandwich shop was fresh in Emily’s mind. But Fairdale was small and there weren’t a lot of merchants to choose from. Her dress needed cleaning and there was no other way she knew of to get the job done. She’d have to deal with Fran again. She’d recognized the shopkeeper’s voice within and waited to hear a response.

  “I was shocked, just shocked. God in heaven, however did Luke choose such a gangling bluestocking? And when did he meet her? I never saw her in town before last Sunday.”

  “I did,” Fran answered with a vinegary voice. “I saw her the day she came in on the boat from The Dalles. I knew Luke was up to something months ago. He’d been getting letters from some female in Chicago. They smelled of rosewater and were written in a fancy hand on fancy paper. I guess they were from her. She’s pretty full of herself, from what I could tell, with her yapping about manners and all.”

  “If he wanted a mother for Rose, he should have chosen a woman here in Fairdale. One who knows how to take care of a man.”

  “You, for instance?” Emily heard an unmistakable bristling tone.

  “Why not? Luke and I knew each other before he ever married Belinda. And we were more than just polite friends, I can tell you. If ever there was a man who knew exactly how and where to pleasure a woman—well, Luke didn’t get his reputation as a ladies’ man for nothing. Those big hands of his can be very gentle— For all his wild ways, I could have had him in a minute if Belinda hadn’t gotten into trouble first.” Clara Thurmon sounded both confident and annoyed. “So he had to marry her instead.”

  This bit of information surprised Emily, if it was true, she thought. She remembered the woman hanging on Luke after church, her manner far too familiar for Emily’s liking.

  “Well, if I were his wife,” Fran said, “I’d keep him on a short chain and make sure he didn’t go around pleasuring anyone but me. And I’d take that little brat Rose in hand mighty quick. A few nights locked in her room without supper would teach her not to steal and pull pranks.”

  That was as much as Emily could listen to. Was everyone in this benighted town rude and snide? she wondered. Or perhaps it was just the women. Never in her life had she heard such a crude discussion between two females.

  She strode into the store with her shoulders back and her head high, the same posture she’d used on the first day of classes every year at Miss Wheaton’s. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  Clara Thurmon flushed scarlet, emphasizing her mustache, and she exchanged guilty looks with Fran Eakins. Emily knew they were wondering how much she’d overheard, and she got frank enjoyment from watching Clara squirm. Fran, however, stuck out her chin, a clearly belligerent stance.

  “Mrs. Becker,” Fran acknowledged in much the same tone that Cora used. “What a surprise.”

  “A rather unpleasant one I gather, Miss Eakins, from what I heard outside.” Emily’s heart thundered in her chest and she kept her hands at her sides because she knew they were shaking. She could feel her market basket trembling against her leg. She hated confrontations and usually did her best to avoid them. But just because she had to put up with Cora Hayward’s rudeness didn’t mean she had to accept it from strangers. Her marriage to Luke was none of their business.

  Now Fran blushed as well and one of her caterpillar brows began to twitch. Clara, wall-eyed behind her spectacles, stood rooted to the floor like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights and chewed her lower lip.

  Emily forged ahead, her tone businesslike and no-nonsense. Regardless of what Fran Eakins thought of her, she suspected the woman would not pass up the opportunity to make money. “I need a bottle of ammonia and some castile soap, if you please.” The air was electric with mutual disapproval, and Emily thought she could actually smell Clara Thurmon beginning to sweat through her clothes.

  “I can’t add anything more to Luke’s account until he comes in to settle up,” Fran announced, her nose rising a notch.

  Emily had spent most of her years unnoticed, moving across the backdrop of others’s lives, and she had never been the object of such overt hostility. Thank God what little money she had she carried with her now. “I am paying for my purchases today.”

  Outflanked, Fran folded her mouth into a flat line but said nothing more. She turned to the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the counter that held jars, boxes, bottles, and packages of all sizes, types, and colors. When she put a pint of ammonia and the soap on the counter, she said, “That’ll be sixteen cents.”

  Emily glanced at the jar of hard candy sitting on the counter, priced at five for a penny. “I’ll take five of the strawberry drops, too.” She searched her coin purse and counted out three nickels and two pennies. Then she put her purchases into her basket and started to leave. Hesitating a moment, she turned and faced the two women again.

  “When you two return to your kennels this evening, I hope you’ll reflect on your appalling rudeness while you’re gnawing on your dinner bones and baying at the moon.”

  Clara released the grip her teeth held on her lip when her jaw fell open. Fran looked as surprised as if Emily had rapped her knuckles with a ruler.

  Emily sailed to the door, certain that her face was as red as the other women’s. It was the worst thing she had ever said to anyone in her life.

  And for the moment, it felt wonderful.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  The energy that Emily’s anger generated carried her out of town and up the hill toward the farm at such a fast clip that she began to grow breathless. She’d even overtaken some children who laughed and ran with the joy of being released from the confines of school on such a fine spring afternoon. By the time she neared the cemetery again, she was gasping for air and had to stop. While she agreed with physicians that a corset laced too tightly was dangerous to a woman’s health, fashion and modesty required that she wear one. She wore hers more loosely than some women did, but it didn’t permit a lot of physical exertion. She sat down on a boulder beside the road and concentrated on taking even breaths. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a black-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her damp temples and upper lip.

  Now that she’d walked off some of her temper, she couldn’t believe she’d said that terrible thing to Fran Eakins and Clara Thurmon. After tiptoeing around Cora Hayward and pretending to ignore her sarcasm, Emily supposed her ladylike fuse had burned down to a nubbin. But a true lady was supposed to ignore gossip and rise above insults. Indeed, she was not even supposed
to acknowledge that she’d heard them. Still, a private smile turned up the corners of her mouth when she remembered the looks on their faces, and in her heart she was glad that she’d rebuked those two harridans. Why should they care that Luke had married her?

  Gangling bluestocking.

  Beanpole.

  Neither Fran nor Clara were great beauties. Fran’s brows were so dark and heavy they almost joined over the bridge of her nose to create one long horizontal line. And if Emily had the kind of facial hair that Clara did, she’d seriously consider learning to use a razor. But both women were small and fine-boned, advantages that Emily did not have.

  So far, her impression of Fairdale’s citizens was rather negative, although she’d met a couple of nice women at church, despite Cora’s deliberate attempt to mislead them about her status with the Becker family. Would she ever be able to make friends here? she wondered. Were people everywhere so shallow that they judged a person’s worth solely on their appearance? God above, one would think she had a hump on her back and a sign hanging from her neck that read, Too ugly to live.

  Once more, unbidden, the image of her grandmother’s bridal veil rose in her mind. Although she knew it was silly, she still harbored the childlike dream that the veil possessed magical powers that would transform her, plain and gawky Emily Cannon, into a graceful and lovely woman. Even though she’d hoped to wear it at her wedding, she had feared trying it on in case it might not be true. Since she was already married, in name anyway, she’d never really know. She sighed—perhaps it was just as well. Her heart might not withstand the disappointment.