Territory (39 page)

Mildred looked from Mattie to Allie, who quirked her mouth in a mirthless smile. “The Earps are powerful concerned about respect for their women,” she said. Beside her, Lou’s face was stony.

Mattie had only repeated the polite fiction that kept the Earp women isolated from their neighbors. A fiction, because isolation didn’t protect their reputations. The less the town knew of them, the more it would imagine and spread reasons why three supposedly respectable married ladies didn’t join in the social life of Tombstone.

Mildred’s presence among them, from her first visit, had destroyed that fiction. Allie, Mattie, and Lou had only to look at Mildred, both respectable and free, to know it was a lie. But of course, they’d always known. Mildred just made the truth harder to ignore.

Some of her knowledge must have showed on her face, because Allie gripped her arm and smiled. “Lord, can you imagine a big pine tree like Virgil tryin’ to waltz with a little acorn like me? No, hon, you dance with your horse tamer and tell us all about it afterward.”

“I will, if you want me to.” Mildred laid her hand over Allie’s and squeezed.

“But just one glass of champagne,” Lou warned.

“And if they have tea sandwiches, don’t eat any with onions,” Mattie added. “In case he kisses you.” The Earp women giggled like girls.

“He only asked me because he doesn’t know many ladies in town,” Mildred said desperately.

Her companions looked at her as if she’d just assured them her mother had found her in an eggshell. “You bet he did,” Allie replied. “Now, let’s get you out of that so we can sew it up. You come by tomorrow morning, and we’ll have it ready.”

“Addie Bourland charges ten dollars for altering a gown.”

“Well, good for her,” Lou said brightly, sliding the skirt down over Mildred’s petticoat. “Ouch! Allie, did you put this pin in wrong-way up?”

Which disposed of the question of payment, since Mildred didn’t have the courage to raise it again. But she resolved to do ten dollars’ worth of favors for the three Mrs. Earp.

The parade, which should have been silly and provincial, caused her to have to pretend she’d gotten dust in her eye. The new company of firemen, with their bright wagon and its shining hose and brass fittings, marched through the streets of Tombstone, accompanied by the almost-as-new town band and representatives of every fraternal order and church group in town. All along the route, the citizens of Tombstone cheered the fire company like war heroes. Which they would be, Mildred reflected—they just hadn’t gone into battle yet. Less than two weeks ago the town had experienced firsthand what these men would face. It loved them for stepping forward to carry the burden. Mildred found herself more moved than she ever had been by the larger, finer parades of Philadelphia.

Even Tom Fitch’s oration was a splendid event. The subject (the vision of the Founding Fathers) was familiar, but he spoke in an excellent, heartfelt style. And through the day’s activities ran a thread of hope. In Washington, the president still fought for his life, and the people around her spoke of him with cautious optimism.

She hadn’t seen Jesse Fox at either the parade or the speech, but there was no surprise in that; the population of Tombstone was plenty of haystack to hide a needle in. Her stomach fluttered a little when she thought of evening, of the dance, of being in company. There was nothing to be nervous about. She would be nicely dressed, she knew the steps, her manners were sufficiently good that she wasn’t likely to do something disgraceful by accident, and if she
sat out a few dances, it would be only a chance to rest her feet. Still, she found she had to reassure herself more than once.

A cooler wind gusted suddenly down the street, flapping ribbons and lace on parasols, lifting swags of tricolored bunting like sails, and tossing several straw hats off heads and over the crowd. Mildred looked up to see clouds piling high over the Dragoons. The rainy season had arrived.

As she made herself an early dinner in Miss Gilchrist’s kitchen, she heard thunder mutter in the distance. The air through the open window was sharp and promising.

She imagined picking her way through muddy streets in several pounds of taffeta skirt and petticoat and her dancing slippers, and her heart sank for an instant. But she took another breath of wind with rain in it and changed her mind. The first storm of the summer was a happy madness, a reckless joy, that infected anyone it fell on. Even the skies had chosen to celebrate the Fourth. She would dance wet and muddy, if it came to that.

She put her hair up in a twist at the back, and held it with a pair of ebony combs she’d got at Austerberg’s. Then the slippers with their little heels—she’d been lucky to find a pair to fit ready-made—her gown, long gloves, and a black lace fan to hang on her wrist. Her pearl necklet had been lost in the fire, but it would have been too plain, anyway. She fastened a black velvet ribbon around her throat, and pinned the rhinestone brooch Lucy had lent her to it.

There, she was ready. And terrified. Suddenly she was certain that Fox wouldn’t come, that something had happened.
Stop it,
she scolded.
You’ve used up all the bad luck in your lifetime. From now on, you’re safe.

She heard a horse’s hooves and the rattle of wheels, and heard them stop outside the house. She peeked out the curtains to see Jesse Fox step down from a covered buggy. His bucskin horse was between the shafts, and the boy, Chu, stood at the horse’s head.

She opened the door before he could knock. “It’s going to rain,” he said, in answer to her look past him at the buggy.

“That’s true,” Mildred admitted, and let him into the parlor.

He was neatly clad in formal black and white. He held out a gloved hand that for an instant appeared to be on fire. But it was a silk tiger lily blossom in his palm.

“There are no fresh flowers in Cochise County in early July. I admit, I didn’t search the whole of it, but I have it on good authority.”

“That’s also true. Wait ’til the middle of the rains, though, and you’ll be shocked at what blooms.”

“Shocked?”

“Impressed, at least. I was downright stunned when I first saw it happen.” She took a pin from Miss Gilchrist’s store on the hall table and pinned the silk lily high on her right shoulder. The fierce red-orange made her skin look like porcelain.

In the mirror she caught Fox’s eyes. He was smiling a little, in a strange, private way that was almost sad. Images flooded her mind: a fire in a fireplace, leaves rustling overhead in summer, sunlight on snow. She felt, not perfect happiness, but the memory of it. Why would Jesse Fox remind her of past joys, when he hadn’t provided her with any present ones? Not yet, anyway.

She turned briskly from the mirror. “Look all right?”

“Perfect.” He held out his hand, and she laid hers on it.

It was raining, light, pattering drops, by the time Jesse drew Sam up in front of Schieffelin Hall. He pulled an umbrella from under the seat, climbed out, and handed Mrs. Benjamin—Mildred—out of the buggy under its shelter. He walked her inside and to the door of the ladies’ retiring room, then came back. Chu had hopped down from the back and onto the bench, and had the reins in his hand.

“Thank you, Chu. Bring the rig back around midnight, all right?”

“Huh. Be raining like horse piss then.”

“I expect. There’s a slicker folded up in back if you need it. And thunder and lightning don’t trouble Sam.”

Chu looked toward the hall, where the new windows sparkled with gaslight, and the ladies and gentlemen inside passed before them, bright-colored and black. Jesse would have sworn his expression was wistful. “Huh,” he said, and clucked to Sam. The buggy rolled away.

Mildred had disposed of her wrap and was waiting for him outside the retiring room. The foyer was full of women who had gone to every length possible to look their best, but not one of them made his heart feel tight and his lungs empty the way Mildred Benjamin did. Funny that such an unpleasant sensation should be so welcome. She seemed to stand in a better-lit room than the rest of the company. He wondered why everyone there hadn’t turned to stare at her by now.

As he came up she grinned like a schoolboy, which contrasted wildly with her gown and hair. Jesse was glad she couldn’t see it; she’d probably try not to do it again.

“This has all the signs of being a bang-up party. Wait ’til you get a squint at the ballroom.”

“Mrs. Benjamin, such vulgar expressions!”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Yoiks. I’ll stop, then. Did you give her much reason to sound like that?”

“Now and then. I decided that a bit of tasteful disregard for convention would set me apart from the other debs.”

“Dear heaven,” Jesse said. “You’re a society girl?”

She lifted her lovely head and drooped her eyelids, like an actress playing Queen Elizabeth. “My papa is a very
warm
man.”

Laughter burst out of him. He hoped she wouldn’t make him laugh like that on the dance floor. “Let’s get you a dance card. I need to put my name down before the fortune-hunters get to you.”

He exchanged his ticket for dance cards, and opened them immediately.

“Here, you, one of those is mine,” Mildred protested.

He’d remembered to bring a pencil, which impressed even him. It had been a while since he’d been to an event that involved dance cards. He wrote his name down for the grand march and quadrille, the Lancers, a waltz contredanse, a mazourka, and the last waltz. Then he handed one card to Mildred with a little bow.

She looked at it and shook her head. “You can’t have five. If you dance more than four dances with the same lady, people will talk.”

Jesse knew that, but he didn’t plan to let it weigh with him. “Remember, I know so few ladies in town. And it’s such a long program of dances. Won’t you feel cold-hearted when you see me standing against the wall, watching all those happier gentlemen whose partners aren’t so cruel?”

She blushed. “I think I’m being hoisted on my own petard. All right, but if the Methodist ladies cut me on the street tomorrow, I’ll sue you for loss of character. Come see the ballroom.”

He held out his arm, and she laid her hand on it. Looking at her profile, he wondered if anything short of loss of character would convince her to think of him as more than a friend. No, that was ridiculous—Mildred Benjamin was not the sort of woman whose reputation demanded a husband to prop it up.

Then he realized the madness of the thought. He was no fit suitor, and a barely acceptable friend, for anyone. His friendship had been no protection for Lung, and Lung had been better able to defend himself than Mildred was. He tried to imagine telling Mildred Benjamin, “I can light candles with my thoughts and bury myself alive. My friend Chow Lung was a Chinese sorcerer.
And somewhere in Tombstone, there’s another sorcerer who’ll probably kill me if he finds me.”

He almost wished he were a cattle rustler. It would be just as dangerous, but easier to explain.

The band was tuning up. He led Mildred into the stream of good citizens of Tombstone, and they flowed through the big doors into the ballroom.

In the east there were grand theaters with three balconies that held a thousand people, ornamented with gold leaf and velvet and crystal. There were ballrooms two full stories high, with allegorical murals on the ceilings, a dozen French doors hung with silk, and more gas lighting than the entire Arizona Territory could boast. But since he’d passed St. Louis, Jesse had found that elegance was a thing hung on context. Here in the heart of Apache country, Schieffelin Hall was a marvel.

Some of the effect, he supposed, was the company. But the many bright brass chandeliers shone down on elaborate ornamental paintwork, a wide, deep stage curtained with purple velvet and gold fringe and tassels, and a floor that shone like glass. The walls were swagged with red, white, and blue bunting, held up by the claws of gold-painted plaster eagles.

Two large framed prints hung above the proscenium arch of the stage. One was a portrait of George Washington, a reproduction of the Stuart painting. The other was of President Garfield, a tinted engraving from his inauguration photograph. Beside the print of Washington it looked faded and ghostly. Jesse hoped it wasn’t an omen.