Love on the Line (20 page)

A yelp of fright escaped Georgie as a booming cannon awoke her.

Mrs. Patrick hurried into her bedroom. “It’s all right, little one. That’s just the Brenham Field Artillery announcing the opening of Maifest.”

The events of the night filled her again as thoroughly as sunlight filled her bedroom. She placed an arm over her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine. Luke’s been by once already with the float. I told him to take it to my house so Jay could hitch it up to our horse. But he’ll be back for you right soon. So get on up now and I’ll help you with your toilette.”

Pushing herself to a sitting position, Georgie immediately noted the empty hatboxes had been removed. On the door of her wardrobe hung Luke’s favorite gown of maroon with the epaulets and beaded fringe.

“Come on.” Mrs. Patrick helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you dressed.”

At some point, the woman had found time to change into a gold silk festival gown and to adorn her dark red hair with a stunning hat of tulle.

“You look gorgeous,” Georgie said, admiring the hat’s beaded net overlay with intricate embroidery.

“Thank you, dear.”

For the next forty minutes, Mrs. Patrick fussed over Georgie, helping her remove her wrinkled linsey-woolsey and underclothes, then replace them with fresh underpinnings before changing her bandages.

“Luke specifically requested you wear this.” Mrs. Patrick shook out the gown’s freshly brushed skirt. “It’s just the thing, I think. Its long sleeves and lace trim will keep your bandages well hidden.”

Without protest, Georgie allowed herself to be dressed, then guided to a chair Mrs. Patrick had brought in from the kitchen.

Laying her hands in her lap, Georgie closed her eyes, relishing the feel of having someone comb out her hair. She felt like a princess with a lady-in-waiting.

Humming a soft tune, Mrs. Patrick clamped some celluloid pins in her mouth. “What hat do you usually wear with this dress?”

Moisture filled her eyes. “They burned it.”

Mrs. Patrick paused, her gaze meeting Georgie’s in the mirror. “They burned it?”

“Yes. Every hat in the room was thrown into the fire.”

Sorrow tugged at her lips. “Well, I’ll fix your hair especially nice, then.”

She was as good as her word, arranging Georgie’s hair in an artful profusion of tucked-in curls. Stepping back, she admired her work. “Lovely. Now come outside. I have something to show you.”

Georgie assumed she wanted her to see the Mai tree, but Mrs. Patrick led her to the back porch instead of the front. The unmistakable chirping of baby birds pulled Georgie’s gaze to the starch box. Mr. Bluebird slipped inside just as the missus slipped out.

Euphoria filled her. The second set of eggs had hatched. She scanned the trees. The cardinals had yet to build their nest, but they were never very far. She could hear their vibrant, musical voices, but could only spot a flycatcher and two thrushes. A monarch butterfly lifted from the yellow buds of her sumac bush. It flitted to the side yard, passing an old farmer’s wagon, its bed filled with hatboxes.

She slipped her hand into Mrs. Patrick’s and squeezed. “You didn’t have to have a wagon brought around. I would’ve found some way to dispose of the boxes.”

A smile played at Mrs. Patrick’s lips. “Go look inside them.”

“What?”

“Go on.” She shooed Georgie with her hands. “Open them.”

She hesitated. Truth was, she didn’t want to. She had no desire to touch anything those men had. But after everything Mrs. Patrick had done, she wasn’t about to refuse her request.

Weaving around Turk’s cap and coneflower, images of the night before replayed themselves in her mind. The man at the fireplace rumbling orders. The skinny man crashing into the boxes and scattering them to all corners. Mr. Comer tearing lids from boxes and tossing hat after hat into the blaze.

She clenched her teeth and stopped at the back of the wagon, glancing toward Mrs. Patrick.

The woman nodded her encouragement. “Go ahead.”

Georgie reached for a round white box with thin golden stripes, her hand trembling. A ropey handle lay across its gold-colored lid. Tucking the handle to the side, she removed the top.

A high, curved hat decorated with lush mauve silk and velvet roses sat amidst tissues. She looked at Mrs. Patrick. “They missed some?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Those boxes were empty when I carted them out here. Look in another one.”

Sliding the gold-striped box aside, she reached for an octagonal one the color of robins’ eggs. A sapphire blue hat with a dipping brim, net veil, and frothy bows filled its interior. Picking up speed, she threw open box after box like a child on Christmas morning. Each contained a hat, some extravagant, some wonderfully simple.

After the seventh or eighth box, she stopped. “I don’t understand. Where did these come from?”

Mrs. Patrick joined her and began to replace the lids. “Some are from members of the Plumage League. But the majority are from the women of Washington County.”

Georgie restacked each box, trying to assimilate what Mrs. Patrick was saying.

“But how?” she asked. “When would they have had time to make these, much less deliver them?”

“I made a general call.”

“A general call?” She looked toward the window where her switchboard sat. “To everyone?”

“To everyone.”

“When?”

“As soon as you fell asleep.”

“I didn’t fall asleep until almost three in the morning.”

Mrs. Patrick said nothing.

Georgie surveyed the turrets of boxes. “But I still don’t . . .”

“They signed our pledge, too. Counting the signatures we had before, we now have a hundred six women who have vowed not to wear or purchase hats with bird parts.”

“One hundred six,” Georgie breathed, unable to fathom such a number.

Mrs. Patrick gestured toward the boxes. “Many of these are hats the ladies already had. They just removed the bird parts and rearranged the trim.”

Her lips parted. “They donated hats from their personal collections?”

“They did.” Pausing, Mrs. Patrick smoothed a hand across the top of a box. “For some, I’d say it was the only hat they owned.”

She touched the brooch at her collar. “Why? Why would they do that?”

Capturing Georgie’s gaze, Mrs. Patrick tilted her head. “Because there isn’t a woman in this county who doesn’t admire and respect you for supporting yourself and having your own place.” A soft breeze picked up a dark red curl, fanning it along her neck. “We may not be able to vote. We may not be able to hold office. We may not be able to wear trousers. But make no mistake, we’re not powerless.”

Emotion clogged Georgie’s throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

She sighed. “Well, it won’t all be smooth going. There’ll be some who’ll whisper behind their fans. But don’t you give them a thought. You just hold your head high and meet every gaze square on. Remember: you’re only a victim if you choose to be a victim.”

Such simple words, yet it had never occurred to her she had a choice. The more she thought about it, the more emboldened she felt.

Those men might have overpowered her and burned up all the hats, but it didn’t mean she had to cower or be ashamed or cry defeat. Quite the contrary.

A huge weight lifted. She surveyed her garden. The starch box housing precious new chicks. Bumblebees sipping nectar from pink columbine. Chickadees rejoicing over the buds on her Virginia creeper.

It was May first. A day set aside to celebrate a new season. New life. New beginnings.

Stretching onto tiptoes, she wrapped her arms about Mrs. Patrick’s neck and hugged her. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Mrs. Patrick returned the embrace. “No need to thank me, dear. Now look smart. I think your man’s coming up the street.”

Letting go, she whirled around and bit her cheeks. He was wearing overalls, but they were starched and shiny, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders underneath.

She touched a hand to the back of her hair, thankful she wasn’t wearing a hat after all. Next to his overalls, it would have been out of place.

The closer he came, the more handsome he looked. His tenderness and his proposal of the night before filled her, tugging at her heart. Thinking of his touches made her body respond as if they had just occurred. Still, his defense of last night’s kissing had been imprudent.

She lifted her chin. In the future, she’d be extremely careful not to betray the trust the women had placed in her. Mrs. Patrick was right. Her position was unique and with it came a responsibility. A responsibility to prove a woman could be independent without falling victim to questionable behavior.

He reached the corner of her property and looked up. It was then she saw the fistful of red roses he carried at his side.

She took an involuntary step forward. Every bone in her body wanted to run to him and pitch herself into his arms, drown herself in his kisses. She took a tumultuous breath.

Lord, help me.
For though her intentions were good, she’d need His very strength if she were to stick to them.

He stepped inside the gate, absorbing the sight of Georgie lifting her skirts and rushing toward him in a skip-hop-scurry combination. She’d piled her hair in a mess of curls atop her head, her spectacular smile giving no indication of the trauma she’d suffered just a few hours earlier.

She skidded to a halt in front of him, her eyes lit from within. She pressed her hands against her waist. “Good morning.”

A wealth of feelings for this woman assaulted him, leaving him tongue-tied and off-balance.

Her gaze moved to the flowers he held at his side. “Are those for me?”

He looked at them as if he couldn’t quite remember where they’d come from, then handed them to her. She scooped them up, gently hugging them to her breast, and buried her nose against the soft red petals.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled their potent perfume. He marveled at the extraordinary length of her lashes as they rested against flawless white cheeks. How could something so simple cause such a ruckus within his chest?

“They’re lovely, Luke. Thank you.” Opening her eyes, she tilted her head. “Everything all right?”

“Can I kiss you?”

A spark of fire touched her eyes before she immediately squelched it. “I think it’s a little early for kissing, Mr. Palmer.” But her whisper was more flirty than admonishing.

He zeroed in on the mole beneath her lips. “When, then?”

Pink touched her cheeks. “I’d best go put these in some water.” She turned around, then froze. “Oh. Oh my. Would you look at that?”

He followed her gaze to the Mai tree he’d left her. In the light of day it looked even more pitiful than he’d imagined it would. Mrs. Sealsfield had left a large bowl of crepe decorations in the boardinghouse parlor. By the time he got to them, though, only the dregs were left.

After walking through town this morning and seeing the trees other fellows had left their lady-loves, embarrassment crept up his neck. His birch was shorter than most and had but a handful of limp yellow streamers.

“You’re just now seeing it for the first time?” he asked.

With slow, tentative steps she moved toward it as if she were approaching the Holy Grail. “I fell asleep. Mrs. Patrick just woke me.”

She didn’t look as if she’d just woken. She looked fresh and pretty as a basket of daises.

“It’s not as grand as most of the others,” he said.

“I love it.” She studied its branches, her chin raised, her jaw exposed. “Thank you.”

At his lack of response, she peeked at him over her shoulder. “Flowers, Mai tree, rescuing me in my hour of need. You certainly know how to sweep a lady off her feet, don’t you?”

Guilt pressed against his conscience. He shoved it away. He’d been doing his job. Had he not been there to intervene, no telling what Duane would have done.

Her gaze lowered to his lips. She unconsciously brushed hers against the soft petals of the blooms in her arms.

“Good morning, Luke.” Mrs. Patrick rounded the corner, causing them both to jump.

With gloves and fan in hand, she looked as pretty as one of Georgie’s songbirds in her golden gown, striking red hair, and elaborate hat.

“Good morning, Mrs. Patrick. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“I’m just finishing up.” Clipping the fan in her hand to Georgie’s chatelaine, she exuded an aura of pride. “Isn’t our girl just about the sweetest thing you ever did see?”

“Breathtaking,” he answered.

The woman’s smile widened, her attention still on Georgie. “Here, let me have those flowers, dear. I’ll take care of them and the hats while you two run on.”

“Are you sure?” But even as Georgie asked, she relinquished the bouquet to Mrs. Patrick in exchange for her gloves.

“Of course. Go on, now. You’re going to have to hurry if you want a good spot for the parade.”

Georgie shook out a glove, but Luke stalled her. “Wait. Not yet.” Capturing her fingers, he tucked them into the crook of his elbow. “Thank you, Mrs. Patrick. We’ll see you there.”

He took a step toward the gate, but Georgie gently broke free, retracing her steps to give the woman a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”