Harmony (40 page)

She didn't have to say it. He knew who she was thinking about.

“What was his name?”

Not looking up, she murmured, “Why do you want to know?”

“So I can quit calling him bastard.”

Her smile had little humor in it when she gazed at him. “Ludlow. Ludlow Ogden Rutledge.”

“Hell's aces,” Tom swore. “He was a pompous blood.”

“No. He was my college professor.”

“Oh, Jesus. Even worse.”

Tom lost any appetite he had. Gone was the care he'd taken in the past not to pressure Edwina to tell him
anything about—Ludlow.
Ludlow Ogden Rutledge.
The name sounded like it belonged to a man in a book shelved on a dusty bookcase. A swell who wrote miserable novels of pain and suffering, yet hadn't a clue as to what pain and suffering was.

“How old was he?”

Edwina sighed, sat a little straighter, then gazed directly at him. “Twenty-six.”

Tom took a lengthy drink of his beer, uncertain he wanted to know anything more, yet unable to quit when she was apparently willing to talk about it. “How did you meet?”

“I would think that's obvious.” Leaning to her left, she tossed the cheese wax into the fireplace. The curls of red smoked and sizzled, their consumption by flames a statement about the room's change in atmosphere—from warm to heated, hot with tension, sparked.

“Yeah, I guess it would be.” Jealousy overtook him, thorough and devouring. He had never felt it before. He didn't like being in its clutches now. It meant he was one step closer to falling completely in love with her.

Edwina grew mesmerized by the fire, her words faint and distant. “I never thought I'd want to talk about it. But I believe I want to tell you. Everything. So you won't judge me poorly.”

Guilt fanned across him. “I never judged you wrong, Edwina.”

“Perhaps not, but I think you've wondered. And not knowing has made you dream up what you can't imagine. Better that you know what happened so you can forget about it . . . like I have.”

He didn't think she had forgotten about it. She never would. Maybe in time the memories would fade. But they would always be there.

“I did meet Ludlow in one of my classes. He taught advanced accounting and mathematics. Abbie took the class with me. I convinced her to in my third year, for her own benefit. She hadn't gone to Gillette's with me when I entered. Her social calendar had been more
important. But when the parties began to dull for her, she agreed spending time on a college campus would be far more preferable than doing nothing at all.

“When Ludlow came in dressed in a long black gown, all the girls were agog over him. He was young, handsome, and available.”

Tom took another pull of O'Linn, letting the beer slide down his throat slowly in an effort to keep his pulse even.

“We soon found out Professor Rutledge was easygoing and not at all as severe as our other professors. He took an interest in Abbie first. She was—is—very lovely and charming. He asked her to go to the Peacherine, and she told him she wouldn't go unless I went with them. So I did. That was the beginning. I had no idea that he would like me better. Or that I . . . would like him.”

Edwina moved her gaze from the flames and leveled it on Tom. “Ludie did ask me to marry him, and I'd accepted before we . . . before anything . . .” She licked her lips. “We were to be married. I never would have if that promise hadn't been between us.”

“Why didn't you marry?”

“His family didn't approve of me. Ludie didn't need the money from teaching. The Rutledges were quite well off. His father threatened to cut him off financially if he married me. Ludie had to choose between me and his family.”

Tom's voice was cold when he ground out through clenched teeth, “More like between you and money, the greedy son of a bitch.”

“Yes. That is the truth.” Swallowing a small sip of beer, she said, “For a long time after I came home, I denied that truth. Nothing between Ludie and me was ever really resolved. He broke off the engagement the same week I received a letter from my mother telling me I had to come home and take care of her. I tried to rationalize what had happened and blamed myself for not being . . . better. For not being more like Abigail.
When I pressed Ludie for details, he conceded that his family thought me unsuitable because I didn't have connections or a social name.”

“Who the hell cares about that?”

“Apparently, the Rutledges.”

“Then they missed out. They could have had you for their daughter-in-law.”

The snaps and pops from the fire, sending sparks up the flue, filled the void in their conversation as Tom digested all she'd told him. Things fell into place. Now he knew the reasons why Edwina tamped down her lighter emotions and whimsical feelings, why she didn't like to show her fun side unless goaded into surrendering her mask of propriety. That fun side had been hurt. Better to lock it up and forget it existed, show only the buttoned-up version—the façade that couldn't be cracked to allow the slight chance of being abused once more.

No wonder she'd fallen into an affair with him rather than holding out for a proposal. Edwina considered herself a fallen woman, unworthy of love because she was, in her mind, flawed from a past relationship. Her way of thinking was foolish. Maybe it would matter to some men—more than a few—but it didn't matter to Tom.

Before, he'd thought that it did . . . a little. The uncompromising male in him had been acting like an imbecile, as was his way every once in a while. But now that he knew the entire story, he felt ashamed for ever thinking, even for a moment, that it bothered him.

“If you don't marry, Ed,” Tom said, “then you've let him win.”

Taking a nibble of cheese, she waved her hand. “This isn't a game. Nobody wins. Nobody loses. It's my choice not to marry and I've told you why.”

“I think this thing about aspirations is a front. First off, few women have them. Prune-faced schoolmarms, maybe—and they've got no choice because they aren't marriage material.”

“It's not a front.” Indignance filtered through her
voice. “I really would like to do something that counts. I've found that I like teaching school more than I ever thought I would. If I can't get a job using my accounting certificate, I'll continue to teach. You don't think what I do is admirable?”

“I never said that. What you do is all right for a woman of your status. Okay, I'll admit you should be proud of yourself. Should I concede it's of benefit to the girls to teach them how to land men when the teacher herself isn't ever going to?”

“Well, thank you for that little piece of cheese, Mr. Cat.”

“If you had a husband, you wouldn't have to work. He'd take care of you.”

“I don't want a husband.”

“All women do.”

“I'm not all women.”

“Damned if you're not.”

They stared off at each other in charged silence; then Tom reached inside his shirt pocket for his pack of Richmonds. Not in a mood to ask if she minded, he fumbled for a matchstick and lit one. But he did exhale smoke toward the fireplace so as not to offend her. Rather than letting up, he ran head on into the subjects. “You've got a lot to offer a man. You're superior in the brain department, which is more than can be said about a lot of girls. I'm thinking of that Hildegarde Plunkett. Saw her walk into a tree trunk once while she was gawking at Calhoon's daughter and that Addison kid who works at the feed and seed.

“You're pretty.” He held hands up to show unbiasedness. “Not that a man looks only at a face. Or figure,” he added with a lopsided smile. “You've done well, judging by the way you live—you've got a nice house and stuff inside it. I noticed all that china and delicate-looking glass junk in that curio cabinet. You must have a level head on your shoulders about money, because you do well financially, from the looks of things. The only fault I can find is your compulsion to buy fad cures—I
couldn't help reading the return addresses on your mail one time. Okay, a couple of times.” Taking a draw on his smoke, he said after exhaling, “You've never seemed sickly to me—so what the hell do I know? Maybe that crap works.”

Her melodious laughter filled the room, her eyes bright as new leaves. “Oh, Tom. I never thought I'd confess this. Least of all to you.” Forcing an expression of seriousness, she conceded, “I'm dead broke.”

Gazing through narrowed eyes, he balked. “No.”

With a sigh, she said, “Deplorably and miserably and always a step away from giving over my house to the mortgage company. That's why I'm teaching finishing school. At least it's one of the reasons. The others are legitimate. I do believe my girls should better their lives and be taught everything they can about being self-supporting.”

“What happened to all your money? If you don't mind my asking. I mean, well, damn . . . you live in the north-end of town.”

“So? That has nothing to do with anything.” She rearranged her legs so that she sat like him: Indian style. Black-stockinged toes peeked from the edges of the garnet silk. “I inherited a lot of bills from my parents. They bought all the elixirs, the fad cures, and books on home therapy. My father had a small life insurance policy, but my mother went through the money in less than three years and didn't think about what she was going to do when it ran out. With the bills coming in—and I'm still uncertain how they managed to buy all of this on credit—she put a second mortgage on the house. I have two monthly payments to make. And believe me, it isn't easy.”

Tom was momentarily speechless with surprise. When the severity of what she'd just said sunk in, he whispered in amazement, “Jesus . . . I should have paid you more than the five bucks I did for doing my books.”

“You paid me just fine. I told you I charged fifty cents an hour, which was a very high-end rate—certainly not
what I'd make working for someone else. The five dollars just about covered Marvel-Anne's wages for the month.” She took a bite of cracker. After chewing, she added, “A teacher makes only about twenty-five cents an hour. I know it for a fact that Miss Gimble at the normal school is on a salary of thirty dollars a month, eight months of every year. Quite sufficient money for a woman in this day and age.”

“I had no idea women got stuck like that. I don't keep up with that kind of stuff.” He flicked his cigarette butt into the fire and picked up a cracker for himself. “I made fifty dollars last week when I took those six Connecticut lawyers out for the day. I'm not telling you to brag about it—just telling you so you'll know you're not charging enough for your services. I should have known that.”

“No one is going to pay me more than fifty cents an hour. To think otherwise is an absurdity.”

Eating the cracker, then washing it down with a swill of beer, Tom observed, “Well, it stinks.”

“Oh, you should talk. You're the biggest disbeliever of all. You think women are inferior to men. Don't deny it.”

He swelled his chest and showed his brawn, proving her point. “Sort of. But I think you could make me come around—only because I like your logic. And your mouth.” Leaning forward, he gave her a kiss.

She tasted like buttery crumbs. He lightly traced the corners of her lips with his tongue, then met her mouth solidly once more. Nowhere did they touch but their lips. Harmoniously. Her part moan, part sigh, part laugh made him smile through the kiss.

“What?” he murmured.

“You.”

Disengaging from her mouth and pulling slightly back, he said, “What about me?”

“Only you can discuss women's equality and their body parts in the same breath and get away with it. You're a toad.”

He gave her a quick kiss, then straightened. “But you like me anyway.”

“Too much for my own good.”

Grinning, he declared, “I grow on people.”

“So do warts.”

“Then maybe I am a toad.”

Their laughter mingled while they ate the crackers and cheese, then opened two more beers. Tom unscrewed the pickle and olive jars, taking pleasure in feeding food to Edwina, his belly knotting when she wrapped her lips about his fingertip. She spoke about a variety of things while she sometimes lifted a pickle to his mouth or a slice of cheese. He listened, but not really, instead watching her facial features as she changed them, depending on what she said. He took in her gestures, the way she said certain words, and how she absently stroked the fur on the rug. For every minute that went by, he grew more and more enamored of her.

“Oh! I didn't tell you.” Her hand reached out to rest intimately on his wrist as she declared enthusiastically, “We're getting our own dentist! Dr. Teeter. He's moving his practice to Harmony.”

She went on, babbling in a way that he thought cute, while rearranging the cheese cubes into a perfect pyramid. “I found out he's been writing to Johannah Treber, not Hildegarde Plunkett, whom he seemed interested in after he rescued her from the apple—or rather, Mrs. Plunkett was interested in
him.
Even though the outcome of the whole thing has benefitted us, the ladies are still blaming Mrs. Brooks for the mix-up because she told them doctors had made the reservations. But how was she to know they were dentists?

“We all should have known. Thirteen. It's an unlucky number. Especially on Halloween.” Her fingers stopped their fiddling and she locked her gaze with his. He had been intently observing her every move. “What?” Her baffled grin brought out the beauty in her face. “You're staring at me.”

He shook his head with a partial smile. “God, Edwina . . . I love you.” Though he'd spoken it lightly and with amusement, he feared he really meant it.

•  •  •

Edwina laid contentedly on her side with her cheek on Tom's bare chest and her hand resting lightly over the thrum of his heartbeat. They had remained on the bearskin rug and, after finishing their picnic dinner, had made love—slow and mesmerizing and new, as if they'd never been together at her house. He'd done things to her body she'd never imagined, kissed her in places that were shocking. But she was shameless in wanting him to . . . and she in turn had touched him, explored him—everywhere. The experience had been draining, utterly satisfying, like no other pleasure she had known. The bed's counterpane now covered them with its warmth as they cuddled, legs still entwined.