Harmony (50 page)

Riding things out didn't make him feel any more comfortable about the entire affair. With Rutledge here . . .
and that Abbie . . . what if Edwina wanted to go back to Chicago? What if that son of a bitch asked her to marry him again and really meant it this time? Would Edwina have him?

Tom damned himself for not being able to tell Edwina how he felt about her before Rutledge came to town. Doing so now would seem almost . . . desperate—as if he didn't want another man to have her, so he'd declare his own love to keep her for himself.

The timing of everything couldn't have been worse. Just when Tom had been able to secure a house for Edwina—for them. Not exactly the kind he would have liked to buy for her, but a decent three-bedroom plan—and even with a bathroom on the second floor, the total cost, including a cellar under the whole house and two attic rooms, was two thousand. It was sturdy, from the looks of the architectural drawings that Healy had shown him.

A few days ago, Healy had come and told him about a lot off of Hackberry Way, somewhat out of town—a half mile. But it was north of the tracks. Tom had put in for the loan after riding out to see it, and had been approved—which made him want to run and tell Edwina, but he'd kept his silence. He'd wanted to show her the title as a surprise. It was one hell of a thing that Healy had brought the papers by and handed them to Edwina, but she didn't suspect a thing.

If only he could tell her. But until Edwina came to him and told him what Rutledge was doing in town and if his visit affected them, Tom wasn't going to go chasing after things he might not be able to have.

Reaching the town square, he sought Healy's real estate office and let himself inside after pitching his cigarette into the street. Melodic ladies' voices drifted from the agent's office, most of them recognizable, but one was not.

“Well,” said one after a breathy sigh, “I didn't think you'd have anything to my liking, but I thought since
we were in town for a few days, I might as well get some ideas for our house.”

“I imagine what you're looking for will be better presented in Chicago,” Healy replied.

“Oh, Chicago,” came Mrs. Plunkett's lament. “It's so wicked, but such a place as I'll never see—but I do so want to one day. I wouldn't tell my Hy—Heavens, no. He'd think the hoi polloi of this town wasn't good enough anymore. He'd want to move there, I'm certain.”

Tom held back and pretended to be interested in the architectural drawings on the wall. What a liar that Plunkett lady was. She talked down big cities every chance she got.

“Well, my dears.” Mrs. Treber's nasal tone was distinctive. “Since we don't have anything nearly as grand as Chicago, we'll have to take Mrs. Rutledge to our fair ladies' boutique. Not as elegant or regal as I'm sure you're used to, but the proprietress does stock some very high-quality gloves.”

Mrs. Rutledge?

“Please, ladies, call me Abigail. I'm not of the old school.”

Feminine giggles abounded.

“Well, you're certainly younger than us.” Mrs. Calhoon remarked.

Mrs. Elward chimed in. “Nineteen would be my guess.”

“Ladies, you're too kind!” That unfamiliar voice again. “I'm twenty-three, but not a minute older.”

The chatter came close and Tom tucked himself behind a gallery wall as the ladies entered the foyer to the office. They began talking once more, rapidly, without giving Mrs. Rutledge time to reply.

“Your husband is such a dashing young man.”

“So very handsome.”

“Oh, quite.”

“A college professor.”

“How noble a profession.”

“Very. Educating young people with eager minds.”

“Miss Huntington operates our finishing school and does so splendidly—oh, but you must know that.”

“My, yes, Miss Huntington brought Crescencia Stykem out of her shyness. She's to be married Christmas Eve.”

“You'd have to know Miss Stykem, Mrs. R—Abigail. Quite a timid creature. But she's blossomed.”

“Yes! Like a rose.”

“Because of Miss Huntington.”

“Charming woman.”

“Pretty, too.”

Amidst the praise came Abigail Rutledge's huff of indignance. Tom tried to get a look at her without being seen. All he could catch was a glimpse of a hat and a shoulder.
Abigail Rutledge
. So she was married to the bastard.

“I certainly don't like to be the one to tell you. It's horrid to be put in a position of having to say this about . . . about Miss Huntington.”

“What?”

“Tell!”

“Do!”

“Please!”

Drawing out the suspense before spilling her dirty news, she primped, straightening her collar and delicately patting her coiffure where it swept up beneath a garish hat. “As you know, she stayed in my home while going to Gillette's. I was raised with the values that a girl doesn't . . .”

Hat-covered heads came in closer so their owners wouldn't miss a word.

“. . . a good girl doesn't go out on her own and make a . . . well . . .” She brought a lacy handkerchief to her nose. Tom could make out only her profile.

“What?!”
the ladies cried together.

Abigail took the cue and stated bluntly, “A good girl doesn't go out and make a spectacle of herself dancing in clubs to—ragtime!”

There were loud gasps, hands on bosoms, furtive glances.

“Mind you, I went once only because she begged me to. It was awful. They served alcoholic refreshments and men held women too closely and they smoked. The women, that is. Of course, I was scandalized and told her I wanted to leave immediately, but she refused.”

“Why . . . this doesn't sound like Edwina.” Grayce Kennison had spoken up for the first time.

“No, it doesn't . . .” mumbled Mrs. Plunkett. “Dancing . . . to ragtime.” She shook her head, then locked eyes with Mrs. Treber.

Abigail dabbed the underside of her nose with her hankie before replacing it in the pocket of her coat. “I didn't like having to tell you, but I felt it my duty to let you know. Your daughters are in her care, after all. A woman of her reckless and abandoned nature can be a bad influence on their tender minds.”

With a smarmy little smile, she straightened her shoulders as if what she had just disclosed was nothing at all. But Tom knew that in the close-knit world of these women, it was a hell of a big deal. He could have come to Edwina's aid and told them all the woman was a hypocrite, that she had wanted to go to the dancing clubs just as much as Edwina—and that going to them had been her idea to begin with.

But to do so would reveal that he and Edwina were on confidential grounds. What reason would Miss Edwina Huntington have for telling Tom Wolcott of her college escapades? His speaking up would definitely fuel more questions. Saving her reputation would only damage it more.

The women, deep in thought, left the office. The frigid cold they'd let in on their departure remained with Tom as he stepped out of the gallery.

•  •  •

Edwina strode purposefully through the foyer, buttoning her day gloves as she went toward the front door. Passing the mirror, she didn't bother to check if her hat
was still straight or her hair in neat order. She had to find Tom. But she barely had touched the doorknob when the bell cranked and a group of shadows loomed at the other side of the stained-glass oval.

Dread worked its way up Edwina's spine. The last thing she needed was company.

Drawing in a breath, she opened the door to find her students' mothers on the stoop. All six of them.

“My dear,” Mrs. Brooks began, “you shouldn't be dressed and out of bed. We were told you were ill today.”

Edwina worried the inside of her bottom lip. “Just this morning. A terrible headache. I lay down for a while and now I feel much better.” In a rush, she added, “As a matter of fact, I have an errand that I can't be detained from. So if it's nothing pressing, can we arrange another meeting?”

Mrs. Plunkett forged her way to the front of the ranks. “Miss Huntington, we do indeed have something quite urgent that we need to take up with you.”

Mrs. Elward seconded her companion. “Yes, quite.”

Deflated, Edwina stepped aside and bade them enter. She had no clue as to what had brought them here—together—seemingly very intent on discussing a topic of urgency.
Oh, help.
What had she done that she didn't know about?

Ushering them into the parlor, Edwina waited for them to be seated, then she sat on the organ bench facing them. After enduring a few seconds of contemplative gazes at her person and noting that the women's eyes frequently met in some unspoken conversation, she became resigned to the fact she would be there a while. She removed her gloves and set them on her lap.

Marvel-Anne, who must have heard the ladies' entrance as they filed in, came from the kitchen through the dining room, wrung her hands dry on her apron, and asked if anything was to be served. Edwina asked for tea—and the rest of the macaroons, which brought an anticipatory smile to Mrs. Plunkett's face.

“Ladies,” Edwina hesitantly began, “is there something wrong?” She looked to Grayce Kennison, who could always be counted on for her forthrightness and decent candor.

Grayce, subtly beautiful in a Brussels lace waist and nine-gore skirt, sat up a little taller. “We've spent the morning with Mrs. Rutledge.”

Edwina's courage in the face of opposition slipped just a notch. Abbie could divulge things about Edwina. But would she? Could she be that . . . that cold and unfeeling?

“Yes, Mrs. Rutledge,” Mrs. Treber crooned. “From Chicago, you know. Quite the posh-posh.”

“Definitely,” agreed Mrs. Calhoon.

Mrs. Brooks took over. “We were extolling your accolades as a teacher, Miss Huntington, and she . . . well, she informed us of something about your . . .”

“. . . about your days in college,” Mrs. Treber finished, gazing dead on at Edwina.

Edwina wanted to squirm out of her seat and take her leave, but Marvel-Anne came in with the tray of cookies and as soon as they were taken politely by the guests, she left and returned with the tea. She filled all the cups, then took a moment to add sugar and cream. The effort bought Edwina time, time she needed to think. Whatever it was, could she talk her way out of it? Could she still sound respectable? What could Abbie have said? There were so many things she'd done that could be deemed disgraceful . . . but the worst, Abbie didn't know about. And even if she did, these ladies would not be sitting here sipping patiently on tea and nibbling macaroons if they'd found out about her relationship with Ludlow Rutledge. They would have taken her to task right there on the stoop.

“Miss Huntington,” Mrs. Kennison said in a soft tone. “When they are young and impetuous, both boys and girls can do things of a nature that might not be found agreeable by those with more mature and wiser minds.”

“Well said, Grayce.” Mrs. Plunkett nodded after thoughtfully swilling down a sip of tea.

Mrs. Elward took over. “As Grayce said, both boys and girls. But as you know, it is a girl who is least forgiven for her behavior.”

Edwina's stomach twisted in a knot. She pulled on the fingers of her gloves, needing to spend her energies or else she'd bolt from the bench and right out that front door.

“I never had the opportunity to go to college,” Mrs. Brooks said, placing her half-eaten cookie back on her tea dish. “Had I, I'm certain I'd be the better for it. I don't begrudge those girls who can go. Why, I'd like for my Margaret, but she'd such a willful thing . . . I'd be afraid . . .” She let the thought trail off. “Well, never mind about that. What I'm trying to say—what we're all trying to say—is what Mrs. Rutledge told us was a great surprise.”

Lulu Calhoon nodded. “A great surprise.”

“Imagine, all this time, and we didn't know.” Mrs. Treber set her saucer aside. “We could have been taking advantage of the situation.”

“Very much so.” Grayce's posture was flawless as she knit her thin fingers and laid them on her lap. “We want to make it clear we hold you in no ill regard. A young girl can get carried away.”

Edwina was going to scream if they didn't tell her what she'd done! “Ladies, you have me quaking inside,” she confessed, then immediately wished she hadn't been so open with her feelings. Never let your opponent know your true feelings—or so her father had told her when he'd taught her to play checkers.

“We don't mean to upset you, dear,” Grayce said soothingly.

Mrs. Brooks shook her head. “Not at all.”

“On the contrary.” Mrs. Plunkett took a bite of her macaroon. “We have just reconciled ourselves to the news and don't know how to proceed. Right, ladies?”

“Just ask her,” Grayce said to Prudence.

“We should.” Mrs. Calhoon looked to Mrs. Elward. “Fanny, you say it.”

Fanny Elward, nervous by nature to begin with, set her teacup on the side table. Its base clattered against the saucer as she did so. Then she stared so long at Edwina that Edwina began to feel dizzy and lightheaded. She might have dropped into a supreme faint had it not been for Fanny's finally speaking up in that next second. “Miss Huntington, is it true you know how to dance to ragtime music?”

Edwina felt as if the breath had been punched from her lungs. The shock left her immobile.
Oh, Abbie, you told them! That!
She foundered for a reply, sensing the maelstrom of trouble that Abbie had released with that confession. And how had Abbie managed to tell them without implicating herself? None of the ladies had mentioned that Abigail Crane had been a ragger herself.

What to say? What to do? How to recover?

Expectant faces waited. When she tried to speak, her voice wavered. “I . . . in my defense . . . I . . .” There was no way to lie. She couldn't get out of it. Reduced to a quiet defeat, she could at least hold her chin high when confessing. “Yes, I did dance to ragtime when I was in college.”