Deep in the Heart of Trouble (16 page)

Tony straightened his spine. “Are you comparing me to Mr. Flexmore?”

“No, no,” she said, waving her hand in the air and making her way back to her chair. “I’m simply suggesting Essie might have.”

“Essie’s read
Repented at Leisure
?” he asked, appalled.

Mrs. Lockhart lowered herself into the chair, her bustle keeping her from sitting very far back on the cushion. “I’m afraid not.” She shook her head with regret. “I lend my books to her all the time, but she never reads them. Prefers highfalutin authors like Mr. Dumas and Mr. Twain—though they obviously haven’t taught her a thing about the human heart, or she’d have long since been married.”

She poured Tony a fresh cup of coffee. “No, my books are the ticket. And since Essie won’t listen to these authorities, you must. Otherwise, all hope for her is lost.”

He sat down, the books once again drawing his attention. Hundreds. There were hundreds of them.

“I think what you need to do, Mr. Mor—Bryant, is to ask Essie’s father for permission to court her.”

Having just accepted the cup of coffee, he’d been taking a swallow and ended up singeing his tongue. “Court her?”

“Like in
The Squire’s Darling
,” she continued. “The squire falls in love with Lady Carline—only he isn’t a squire at all. Ends up, he was in reality of noble birth, only he wanted to be loved for himself, not his position or title. So he disguised himself as a squire. Like you.”

“Like me?” He was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation.

“That’s kind of what you are doing, isn’t it? You being a Morgan, yet pretending to be a boomer.” She nodded, satisfied with her conclusion. “Yes. It’s perfect. You must ask Sullivan for permission as soon as possible.”

He had no notion of what to say. She was citing her romance novels the way a Latin tutor invoked Cicero. Yet he had to admit, asking Essie’s father for permission to court her was something he’d already considered.

The fact that he could achieve his goals much more quickly by marrying into his empire instead of building it was not lost on him, though that wasn’t his motivation. But if Essie were to learn of his identity, she might mistake his intentions completely. And it was for precisely that reason that he should suppress his interest in her.

“I’m afraid this match won’t work, Mrs. Lockhart,” he said. “I can’t afford to pay court to Essie anyway. As I said before, my father disinherited me.”

She reached over and patted his knee. “I am sorry about that, Mr. Bryant. It must be extremely difficult to go from being heir apparent one day to a nobody the next.”

He raised a brow. “I’m not sure I consider myself a ‘nobody’ just yet.”

“That’s because deep down you are still a Morgan. In the meanwhile, there are many ways to court a young lady without spending money. Why, Mr. Kent courted Miss Awdrey with long walks in the park, quiet moments on the porch, and Sunday dinners with her family.”

“Are they married now?”

“Oh my, yes. And very happily, I might add.”

“Do they live here in Corsicana?”

“No, no. They were the two in Mrs. Barrie’s
When a Man’s Single.

”

He cleared his throat. “I see.” Finishing his drink, he stood.

“Thank you for the refreshments and the … enlightening conversation, ma’am. I’m afraid, however, I must take my leave now.”

He assisted her up. Before she walked him to the door, she moved to the bookcase and pulled out a novel.

“Essie will be extremely easy to court without money.” She made her way to the entry hall and handed him his hat. “All you need do is ask her to go fishing, and you’ll win her heart for certain. Meanwhile,” she said, tucking the novel into his hand, “it would profit you to study Mr. Chester’s speech in chapter five and meditate on his words.”

Out of politeness, he accepted the volume. Once he made it down her sidewalk and onto the street, he glanced at the title.

When False Tongues Speak.

chapter FOURTEEN

PAPA BLESSED the food, served himself up a portion of mashed potatoes, then passed them across the kitchen table to Essie.

“Tony Bryant asked if he could court you,” he said.

Essie plunked the bowl of potatoes on the table. Papa paid her no attention, just kept piling his dinner plate with food as if he’d merely mentioned what the phase of tonight’s moon would be.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“And how did you respond?”

He sawed a piece of roast beef on his plate, jabbed it with his fork and stuck it in his mouth. “Said it was up to you.”

“Well, then.” She took a sip of ice tea. “You can tell him I’m not interested.”

“You’ll have to tell him yourself.” He dunked his bread in his gravy.

She looked up. “What do you mean?”

“You’re old enough now to make up your own mind about such things,” he said around his mouthful. “No need for the fellas to be coming to me anymore. And that’s exactly what I told Bryant. So I guess it’s you he’ll be asking permission from next. You can tell him your decision then.”

“He’s our employee.”

“Yep.”

She set down her glass. “Papa, you know how I feel about this subject.”

He met her gaze for the first time. “What’s past is past, Essie. Let it go. And in the meanwhile, I’m getting too old and soft to keep breaking these boys’ hearts. You can just do it yourself if you’re so bent on it.”

“I hardly think anyone’s heart has been broken on my account.”

“Just the same, I’ve made my decision.”

She crinkled the napkin in her lap. “But don’t you see? By giving no answer at all, you are in essence giving your permission.”

“If you tell him no, I’ll stand behind you.”

“I don’t want you to stand behind me, I want you to stand
in front
of me. It’s the father’s job to refuse suits of this sort, not the daughter’s.”

He shook his head. “If you want to get particular, the father’s job is to decide what’s best for his daughter. So if you want me to do the answering, you’ll have to let me do the deciding, too. And you may not like my decision.”

“That’s blackmail.”

A shadow from the oil rig in the backyard moved across the room as the sun began to set, casting her father in momentary darkness as he softly burped into his napkin, then continued to eat.

“Papa, I’m too old. If I step out with a young, handsome man like Mr. Bryant, the whole town will laugh.”

“Yep.”

Her jaw slackened, stung that he hadn’t contradicted her. “Don’t you care?”

“Nope. And you don’t, either, when it suits you. If you want to wear bloomers or ride a train to New York City by yourself, you don’t seem bothered by what the townsfolk have to say about it. So don’t go picking a fight with me just because you’re scared of anything that wears trousers.”

She shoved back her chair. “I’m not scared.”

“No? Then where are you running off to?”

Her stomach tightened. “All this talk has made me lose my appetite, is all.”

“You needn’t eat if you don’t want to, but I’d like you to stay and keep me company. I get lonesome when I have to eat by myself.”

She forced herself to take a deep breath. Wearing bloomers and going to New York City were nothing like being courted by a man.

Papa was comparing apples to oranges. But she would not disrespect him by running to her room like a spoiled child. She scooted her chair back up, picked up her fork and glanced across the table.

He smiled politely. There would be no changing his mind. He really was going to make her be the one to turn Tony down.

Tony looked up from the grindstone and saw that work all around him had stopped. Up in the derrick, the men stood still, shielding their eyes from the sun to glance off to the west, and on the ground they left what they were doing to wander in that direction. Tony stepped back, placed his hands on his head and twisted from side to side before jogging over to see what the fuss was about.

“What is it?” he asked a man in back.

“They’re saying somebody fell from the Tarrant Street rig.”

“Is he all right?” Tony asked, but no one seemed to know.

He pushed his way through to where Grandpa stood wiping his brow with a soiled handkerchief.

“Who was it?” Tony asked him.

Grandpa frowned. “Sharpley,” he said, “the derrickman over on Tarrant Street. Lost his footing and plunged from the double board to the ground.”

Just then Jeremy came running from the direction of Sharpley’s rig. He pulled up next to Grandpa out of breath.

“Is he dead?” Grandpa asked.

“Naw,” Jeremy said with a shake of his head. “But the ones who seen him land said his leg was all stuck out like this.” He laid his arm over his leg, forming a hideous contortion. “They stopped the work and Moss is bringing him this way in the wagon.”

A few moments later, the wagon creaked by with the company’s tool pusher on the buckboard and the pitiful Sharpley laid out back.

Tony couldn’t get a good look at him, but he could hear the boy’s moans, then an outright shriek when Moss hit a rut in the road. The same rut that had caused Essie to lose her balance before and thus reinforce the nickname the men had long since given to her: Errant Essie.

A few minutes later, Essie herself zoomed by on her bike. She stood in the stirrups of her machine, her skirt and petticoats flapping as she pumped the pedals.

The men stopped again, but she paid them no mind. Her straw hat bounced against her back, held on by the ribbons straining at her neck. Snippets of long blond hair slapped her shoulder as she circumvented the pothole.

Tony remembered her racing to Brianna’s rescue and doing everything she could to keep the girl alive. He knew she’d do no less for Sharpley.

Tony tracked Essie’s progress down the road until she was swallowed by dust and the other traffic.

“He’ll be all right,” Grandpa said, squeezing Tony’s shoulder.

Tony roused himself, realizing the driller was referring to Sharpley. But Tony was every bit as worried about Essie as he was the derrickman. She’d take the boy’s injury hard and it didn’t set well with Tony that Moss would be the one at her side.

“Does Sharpley have family here?” Tony asked.

“Not that I know of,” Grandpa answered. “But the Spreckelmeyers take care of their own. He’ll be in good hands.”

Tony strengthened his resolve to win a higher position in Sullivan Oil. If he were tool pusher, it would be him driving that wagon, him making sure that boy was all right, and him comforting Essie in her distress.

Essie pounded on the lectern with her gavel, calling the emergency meeting of the Velocipede Club to order. Townsfolk had turned out in grand numbers, forcing most of the gentlemen to stand at the rear due to lack of seating.

Only Mrs. Lockhart had taken time to dress for the meeting. Most of the women wore their linsey-woolsies along with simple straw hats. The men wore their denims. Essie had done no more than splash water on her face and re-twist her hair. All were frantically conferring with one another, bringing the volume to horrendous heights.

The one person whose attention she held was the one whose she didn’t want—Mr. Tony Bryant. He stood in the back, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hat in hand, his eyes on her. This was her first sight of him since the Fourth of July celebration three days earlier.

She looked away and rapped again on the wooden lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please.”

They shushed each other, which ended up being even louder than their talking. Finally they began to settle.

“As you know,” Essie began, speaking over them, “we have convened this evening to discuss what action to take concerning our entry in the Corsicana Oil & Gas Bicycle Invitational. It is but one month away, and as a club we voted to sponsor the Sullivan Oil rider, Mr. Lucas Sharpley.”

Murmurs of agreement filtered throughout the room.

“This morning Mr. Sharpley fell from the double board of his rig, snapped his leg in two and broke three ribs. The Benevolent Society has set up a schedule for visitations with Mr. Sharpley as he recovers in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Blanchard. Ladies, if you haven’t had a chance to sign up, please see Mrs. Whiteselle after our meeting.”

Essie tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “Sullivan Oil has asked the Velocipede Club to find a replacement for their bicycle race. And though we mean no disrespect to Mr. Sharpley’s circumstances, we dare not delay our decision for even a day or our team will be in jeopardy of forfeiting.”

Old Widow Yarbrough raised her hand. “My son, Finis, could stand in for Mr. Sharpley.”

“Finis Yarbrough is sixty years old if he’s a day,” one of the men from the back yelled. “He’d be no match for those young fellas the other oil companies have.”

Barks of agreement followed.

Essie banged on the lectern. “Thank you for that nomination, Mrs. Yarbrough. And may I remind the gallery that comments are restricted to Velocipede Club members only.” She wrote Finis’s name on a piece of octavo amidst the grumbling of the townsfolk who’d yet to join the club. “Does anyone else have a name they’d like for us to consider?”

Victoria Davis stood up—young, fresh, and pretty as spring. “What about Preacher Wortham?”

Victoria had been sweet on Ewing for two summers now, and though many of the men her own age had expressed interest in her, she’d set her sights on the preacher.

Mrs. Bogart struggled to her feet, her skin drooping in folds about her eyes, cheeks, and neck. “Impossible,” she said, out of breath from either the effort of standing or from outrage. “Neither the elders nor the congregation will stand for it. I insist Preacher Wortham’s name be stricken from the list.”

Ewing, having taken the pulpit from the retired Mr. Bogart, stepped forward. “Though I appreciate the nomination, I’m afraid any free time I have will need to be used for more charitable pursuits.”

Essie scratched Ewing’s name from the list. Victoria sent him a smile, then resumed her seat.

Several more names were offered up, but the members found fault with every recommendation. The man in question was either too old, too young, too unfit, too reckless, too lazy, too unfamiliar, too free with his liquor consumption, or too something.

Essie had just about given up when Mrs. Lockhart stood. “What about Mr. Bryant?”

The crowd twisted around to look at him.

He was clearly stunned.

“He ain’t even from Corsicana,” someone yelled.

“Neither is Mr. Sharpley,” Mrs. Lockhart said. “But Mr. Bryant lives here now, he is an employee of Sullivan Oil, he is in excellent physical condition and, from what I understand, handles himself very well on a bicycle.”

One by one, the members—particularly the women members— began endorsing the nomination. They praised Mrs. Lockhart for seeing what was right before their noses and encouraged Tony to step up for the good of the club.

Essie began to panic. True, he was the best candidate so far, but if the club elected him as their racer, they’d expect her to train him. Five evenings a week. More if she were to get him ready in time.

Mrs. Lockhart smiled. The proverbial cat who got the cream. Essie tamped down a groan. The old biddy was nothing more than a frustrated romantic who didn’t have enough sense to fill a salt spoon.

Essie frantically searched her mind for another, more suitable candidate. None came to mind.

A speculative gleam entered Tony’s eye. Had he, too, realized he’d be forced to spend most every minute of his time off with her?

The men around him pushed him toward the bandstand, encouraging him to accept the nomination. He circled around and made his way to the front.

Stepping up onto the platform, he addressed the crowd. “I would be most honored to represent the Corsicana Velocipede Club and Sullivan Oil in the Corsicana Oil & Gas Bicycle Invitational. That is, unless there is some objection?”

He directed this last question at Essie. And what could she say? That he was an employee? Well, so was Sharpley. That he didn’t have the physical stamina? Anyone with eyes could see he did. That she wanted a chaperone during their training sessions? They’d think she was a delusional old maid and laugh behind their hands.