Deep in the Heart of Trouble (15 page)

chapter THIRTEEN

SNAPPING THE blanket in the air, Essie shook loose the dirt and debris. She should never have shared her lunch with Tony. She loved spending this time with the Lord and had no desire to replace it with a man simply because he couldn’t afford a decent meal.

Folding the blanket in half and then fourths, she glanced at Tony’s retreating figure. He’d reached the bottom of the hill and was making his way toward a game of horseshoes. Even from here the expensive cut of his clothes struck her.

His was no new outfit purchased for the holiday. The jacket, though brushed and well taken care of, draped his shoulders like a dear old friend. Only a man accustomed to wearing costly clothes could move in them with such ease.

She recalled Mr. Zimpelman attending his daughter’s wedding in a suit clear from New York City, his work boots peeking out from the wool trousers puddling at his feet. His jacket had ridden too low, his vest too high. He’d tugged on his collar, tripped on his pant legs and soiled his ascot.

She smoothed the creases along the folds of her blanket. Tony didn’t even seem to notice his fine clothes. He wore them with casual indifference, as if he were born to them.

Not for the first time, she wondered who his kin were and why he wasn’t with them. She sighed. Whomever he was, he’d obviously come down in the world.

Perhaps she should have been a bit more sensitive to his plight, though she didn’t regret sending him on his way. She’d celebrated her thirty-fourth birthday with her father, aunt, and uncle just last week. She had no interest in romantic pursuits.

Tony handed his jacket to another man, rolled up his sleeves and pitched a horseshoe. From where she was, she couldn’t see how close he’d come to the stake, but judging by the amount of backslapping the other men gave him, he’d come mighty close.

She studied him for a moment more. The townsfolk were usually very reticent about accepting newcomers into the fold. Even with the boom, there was a clear delineation between the boomers and the native Corsicanans. Yet Tony had won over Mrs. Lockhart, the women of the Velocipede Club, and, if the game of horseshoes was any indication, several of the old-timers, as well.

Picking up her basket, she shook Tony from her thoughts, turned her mind to the many tasks awaiting her in her father’s study, and made her way toward the sanctuary of home.

Darkness ushered in the much-anticipated Fourth of July dance. Crowds began drifting in the direction of the pavilion around dusk, but Tony hung back until the sound of fiddlers sawing on their instruments to foot-stomping music became irresistible.

He ducked inside. Strings of Japanese lanterns lined the covered area, splashing light on the festivities and attracting every bug in Corsicana. Tony tapped his toe, unused to attending a dance where he didn’t know most everyone present.

He tried to stick to the sidelines, but no place was safe from the dancers. He jumped out of the way as an enthusiastic couple whirled by.

In their wake, a grandfatherly man glided with smooth finesse around the floor, his arm unable to reach around his partner—a large, elderly woman as wide as she was tall. A father stood in the center of the dancers, swaying to the music, his baby daughter in his arms. And a young man with a day’s worth of beer in his belly coaxed a flushed young lady into an intimate embrace as he spun her across the floor.

The novelty of being just another oilman, as opposed to a “mighty Morgan,” was both refreshing and disconcerting. Tony’s anonymity provided him with a viewpoint he’d never experienced before. Still, he missed his family and the camaraderie of friends and neighbors who had known him for years.

“Good evening, Mr. Bryant.”

Tony smiled at Mrs. Lockhart’s greeting, tugged on his hat, and made room for her beside him. “Ma’am.”

“I saw you shared a supper with Miss Spreckelmeyer.”

His jovial mood dimmed a bit. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How did it go?”

“Not too well. She ran me out on a rail, then left the celebration by herself and never came back.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” He scratched the back of his head. “One minute we were carrying on a conversation, the next she was as sore as a frog on a hot skillet.”

“Tell me exactly what you said.”

“I can’t really remember.” He watched the dancers without seeing them, trying to recall what had caused Essie to ignite. “I just wanted my half of the fig tart and she started screeching at me.”

Mrs. Lockhart tapped her finger against her cane, deep in thought. “Come by my house tomorrow night after dinner. I’ll serve you up some coffee and sweets and we’ll see if we can piece together where you went wrong.”

“Sweets? Well, ma’am, you have yourself a date.” He removed his hat and bowed. “Until then, may I have this dance?”

Hooking her cane on her elbow, she stepped into his arms and looked at him over her glasses. “Just try to keep up.”

With that, she attempted to lead him around the floor, but he admonished her with a stern look and stiff arms, until, laughing, she acquiesced and followed his lead.

“Please come in,” Mrs. Lockhart said, pulling the door open.

She smiled, causing the rice powder frescoing her face to congregate in the hollows of her wrinkles. A cameo brooch decorated her throat. The pearl gray gown she wore was dated but very finely made with gold-embroidered trim. Long, tight sleeves covered her arms, bracelets jangling against one wrist. No cane in sight.

Swiping his hat from his head, Tony offered up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that he’d “dressed” for the occasion. On a hunch that Mrs. Lockhart would entertain in high style, he’d taken special care with his toilette. Then he’d thoroughly brushed his clothes, blackened his shoes, and attached spotless cuffs, collar, and handkerchief.

Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “How enchanting you look this evening, ma’am.”

She took his hat and hooked it on an ornate hall tree, then beckoned him inside. When she turned, he was surprised to find a bustle swinging from side to side. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone wear one.

Entering the drawing room, he took note of the ornaments, bric-a-brac, and gadgets covering every inch of available space. Framed photographs lined the walls as thickly as wallpaper. A piano sat at the far end of the room, bookcases on either side.

She led him to two upholstered easy chairs with fringe skirting their arms and feet. A tray with china cups and a sterling coffeepot graced the table next to her chair, along with two small plates of fancy cake. She poured him a cup and he settled in across from her.

“Do you play, Mrs. Lockhart?” he asked, indicating the piano.

“Certainly. But I won’t be persuaded to do so this evening. We’ve much more serious pursuits planned.” Picking up a tiny pair of silver tongs, she looked at him. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Sugar, please,” he answered, willing to let her lead the conversation. She obviously knew who he was, and his main purpose for the visit was to ensure no one else did. If he had to endure her instruction on how to woo Essie in exchange for silence about his identity, he could think of worse prices to pay.

“First,” she said, “I think it’s time you come clean.”

Leaning forward, he accepted the cup and plate of fancy cake she offered. “I’m Tony Bryant Morgan. Son of Blake and Leah Morgan.”

Her facial features relaxed, losing some of their sternness. “And why are you pretending to be otherwise?”

“My father disinherited me, so I have dropped his name and carry my mother’s instead. I’m not pretending to be anything other than who I am.”

“Dropping your father’s name does not make you any less a Morgan than you were before.”

The tick in his jaw began to pulse. “It does to me.”

She poured a dollop of cream into her coffee. “Who all knows?”

“About my being here? My mother, my sister, and my best friend in Beaumont.”

“No one here in town?”

“No, ma’am. Not unless you’ve told them.”

She shook her head. “No, no. I haven’t said a word.”

Relieved, he began to relax. “I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re going to be found out.”

“Eventually, perhaps. For now, though, I’d like to remain anonymous.”

Picking up a spoon, she swished it in her drink, then tapped it against the edge of her cup. “Very well. We’ll talk about that later. Tell me, instead, exactly what happened yesterday with Essie.”

He hesitated. “The whole thing was a mistake, actually. I’d really rather not talk about it.”

“Nonsense. What happened?”

He took a deep breath. “Do you know who Essie usually shares her box supper with?”

“Yes, of course. The whole town knows. And though no one would say anything to her face, plenty is said behind her back.”

Mrs. Lockhart’s words evoked an unexpected surge of protectiveness in Tony. It was one thing for him to think of Essie’s picnic with the Lord as a bit unconventional. It was another thing for the townsfolk to make fun of her over it.

“The fact that she shared her supper with you did not go unnoticed, though,” Mrs. Lockhart added.

“How long has it been since she put her box up for auction?”

“Three—no, four years now. But that’s neither here nor there.

I want to know why she chased you off.”

“Like I told you last night, I’m not really sure. And it doesn’t really matter anyway.” He took a bite of cake.

“You had to have said or done something.”

He shrugged. “I teased her a little bit about eating most of the dessert, then asked her what the last fig tart was worth to her. That’s all I can remember.”

“Ahhhh. You hinted that you’d let her have the last tart if she were to pay some kind of forfeit?”

“I never said that at all.”

“No. Of course you didn’t. But games of forfeit are a risky gambit.

Take, for example,
Repented at Leisure,
where Mr. Flexmore robbed Miss Kite of her innocence through clever games. Perhaps Essie was simply being cautious.”

Tony blinked. “I beg your pardon? Mr. Who did
what
?”

“Mr. Flexmore. According to Mrs. Bertha Clay, he has a face no one can look into without admiration, one that irresistibly attracts man, woman, and child alike, and he uses it shamelessly.”

Tony set down his empty plate, cake crumbs decorating its surface. “And who is Mr. Flexmore?”

“He’s head of one of the oldest families in England.”

“And he did something to Essie?”

Mrs. Lockhart rolled her eyes. “No. For heaven’s sake, he’s a fictional character.”

Tony rubbed his forehead. “What exactly are you talking about, ma’am?”

The elderly woman began to rise. Tony jumped up and assisted her to her feet.

“Come,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

She led him to the bookshelves on the far wall and began running her finger along the spines of books, her bracelets tinkling as she searched for one volume in particular. He scanned several of the titles.
Lady Damer’s Secret. Foiled by Love. A Fiery Ordeal.

Incredulous, he could only stare. The entire bookcase was filled with romance novels, rows and rows of them. He quickly looked for just one classic or tome of learning or even a dialogue or recitation. Instead, he found
Evelyn’s Folly, A Crooked Path, A Pair of Blue Eyes.

“Ah,” she said, pulling a volume from the shelf. “Here we are.
Repented at Leisure.
” She thumbed through the book, stopped about a third of the way through and held it up to him. “There. You see?”

Looking over her shoulder, he glanced at the chapter heading.
Weaving the Spell.

“This is where Mr. Flexmore uses his charm to engage Miss Kite’s affections.” She flipped to the next chapter.

Deeper and Deeper Still.

“Here he convinces her that her parents’ motives for keeping them apart are self-serving.” She turns to yet another chapter, sighs and shakes her head. “This is where Miss Kite’s downfall occurs.”

How the Plot Succeeded.

She snapped the book closed. “So you see? In order for a young lady to guard herself from such things, she must be always on the alert.” She pushed the novel back onto the shelf. “Essie is a smart girl. Very conscientious. At the first hint of such shenanigans, I’ve no doubt she would squash the man’s pursuit immediately.”