Through Rushing Water (39 page)
“Perhaps Will might be working here?”
“Heavens, no. Didn't he tell you? Harrison has several jobs already lined up for him.” Tilly gave her a puzzled look, then changed the subject. “This spring's polonaises are longer, showing merely a line of the underskirt.”
Sophia would prefer to discuss Will but could not think how to bring the conversation back to him without raising unwarranted speculation. “What fabric is preferred?” She feigned interest in the answer.
“They're made of thin lawn or organdy over black silk or velvet.”
“Black for summer?” Already the morning sun heated the May air to a degree uncomfortable for her bombazine dress.
“Yes, and the new bodices have five seams in back instead of three.”
Five seams or three, what did it matter? Unless all the out-of-fashion bodices might be sent to the Poncas.
Sophia paused at a window display of children's shoes, enough to outfit the entire tribe. Should she tell Tilly about the miracle of receiving enough shoes to fit all the students in her school? No. Either she would not believe it or she would not think it sufficient to merit the title of miracle.
Sophia blinked back tears. Tilly patted her hand. “I cannot imagine . . .”
No, she could not. No one could. No one would believe what the Poncas had suffered. Sophia blotted her eyes. “Please forgive me.”
“You . . . don't like to shop?” Tilly asked with incredulity.
“I have not thought much about clothes this past year.”
Not true. Sophia had spent a lot of time worrying about clothing, although not for herself.
She swallowed and mustered a smile at the well-dressed woman in front of her. “This morning, though, as I was introduced to the other teachers, my wardrobe deficiencies became readily apparent. Tilly, I would be ever so grateful if you would help rectify my situation.”
Tilly's eyes brightened and her cheeks pinked. She towed Sophia into Welf and McDonald's and sorted through prêt-à -porter dresses with a frightful amount of shirring, ruching, and pleating. She held up a visiting costume of strawberry satin with black velvet bands. “Will's right about sackcloth and ashes. After the somber shades you've been wearing, perhaps something bright? What colors do you wear best?”
What color did Will like best?
The choices were overwhelming. The most restrained choice was a polonaise in golden brown with a dark-brown underskirt, complete with silk cords, tassels, and fringe. Second best was a violet basque and overskirt with a black walking skirt with draping, pleats, and enormous buttons. Both had a pocket for her pistol.
The dressmaker measured her for suits in light blue, spring green, and medium green.
As if her choices were not equipped with sufficient frills, Will's sister-in-law picked out an assortment of jabots as ruffled as those worn in the Elizabethan era, cut steel ornaments in various shapes, and kid gloves in greenish-blue and deep pink with embroidered flowers. New handkerchiefs, stockings, and petticoats joined the pile.
If only she could have outfitted her students in such splendor.
The store's dressmaker agreed to make the necessary alterations to the two ensembles and send them to school that afternoon. The rest would be sent during the week.
“You're so fortunate you're slender,” Tilly said as they left the store. “The cuirass bodice is perfect for you.”
Will's comment about the lack of food had stopped conversation, so Sophia limited herself to a simple, “Thank you.”
“Tilly!” A young woman hailed her outside the music store, moving fast enough to launch the bird on her hat into flight. “Did you hear? They were digging for the new school on Eleventh and Dodge and found two Indian skeletons!”
Tilly attempted to make introductions.
“With relics and scalp rings!” The woman's handkerchief fluttered.
“Who were they?” Sophia asked.
“Who?” The florid woman stepped back. “They were
Indians
.”
“Louisa, you'll have to excuse us.” Tilly linked arms with Sophia and hurried down the street. “And
you
will have to excuse us. Not everyone will understand your work with the Indians.”
Not understanding, and apparently not interested in understanding.
Sophia patted her hand. “I do not want to cause problems for you. Your husband has a business here.”
“Bosh,” Tilly said. “When Louisa wants her house built, she won't care if we're holding powwows and calling ourselves squaws.”
Before Sophia could unscramble Tilly's comment, they passed a gun shop. Perhaps she should replenish her supply of bullets? A trio of rough characters emerged, equipped for mining and carrying new Sharps breech-loaders. Tilly tightened her grip, held her breath, and hurried Sophia past. Perhaps another day.
“Will said you're quite the letter writer.” Tilly led her into a bookstore. “Do you need more stationery?”
Newspapers covered the counter of R. & J. Wilbur's. “Russo-Turkish War” blazed from one headline. Without reading any further Sophia followed Tilly down the aisle. Even if the war ended tomorrow, Russia no longer called to her. Will lived here, in this rough crossroads. All her curiosity, all her interest, focused on him. Did she have a future with him?
While Tilly cooed over pastel pages with flowers and ribbons, Sophia debated between plain white and ivory. Should she write any more letters about the Poncas? Had her feeble efforts damaged their cause? Will said they had not. She chose ivory.
“Tilly, my word.” A stern-looking woman entered as the clerk waited on them. “You're the first person I've recognized today. Have you ever seen the like?” She nodded toward a large company of German farmers in the street, stocking their wagons for homesteading. “The Metropolitan hired a horde of Chinese, and the Grand Central has a pack of Africans. Omaha has hardly any Americans anymore!”
“How wonderful to see our city growing.” Tilly completed her purchase.
The woman sniffed. “You would say that, all those houses your husband built for those Italians.”
“So much for good behavior,” Tilly muttered as they left the store, skirting a drunk man who snored in a doorway. “Don't worry. I'll introduce you to some good people tomorrow at church.”
“Tilly, please do not fret. Omaha is no worse than anywhere else.”
A loud
thunk
echoed from an alley. Four dogs raced out, carrying large bones. A man in an apron yelled, “Away with you!”
Ah, an opening. “How did Goldie do last night?”
“I don't know. She stayed with Will. Look, shoes!” Tilly scrutinized the stock of W. B. Loring, Henry Dohle, and S. P. Morse's stores, passing over numerous pairs of perfectly acceptable boots, before finding some she would permit Sophia to try on.
Tilly ushered her into a hat shop, confiding, “Mrs. Atkinson just returned from the east.” Apparently this journey gave the milliner permission to bedeck bonnets with ribbons, bows shaped like the Maltese cross, and rosettes in impossible colors. Tilly's friend Fannie arrived. The ladies coerced Sophia into selecting two new hats, neither of which had a wide enough brim to be any protection at all from the sun. Sophia consoled herself with the thought that a few snips of her embroidery scissors would bring these confections back to a tasteful amount of adornment.
Back on the sidewalk Tilly grabbed Sophia's elbow and pulled her into a doorway. A strong west wind swirled dust and debris down the street. At the center of the whirlwind, a pair of boys engaged in fisticuffs. Blood sprayed from the melee.
When no one seemed inclined to intervene, Sophia pulled away from Tilly and said in her most authoritative teacher voice, “Boys! For shame!” A loud clap had no impact upon their brawl. “Stop this immediately! Have you no sense of propriety?”
Somehow the pistol came out of her pocket and pointed overhead. Oh dear. Being arrested for the discharge of a firearm would undoubtedly prove detrimental to her teaching career at Brownell Hall.
“No dessert for you!”
Heads turned and jaws dropped along Farnam Street.
“Dessert?” The two, who appeared twenty years older than their behavior led her to expect, stopped pounding each other and stared. “What kind of dessert?”
A man in a blue uniform raced down from the police headquarters on Sixteenth Street, blowing his whistle. The officer scowled at the pair, then turned to Sophia. “Did you shoot them?”
“No, sir.” Sophia returned her pistol to her pocket.
The men helped each other stand. The one with the thick black hair provided a neckerchief for the other's nasal hemorrhage.
“Madam, in the future, please aim and fire.” The officer shook his finger at the pair. “These are
newspaper
editors.” He stomped back to his station.
The black-haired one whipped out paper and pencil. “Tom Tibbles, the Omaha
Herald
. And this is what's-his-name from one of the other rags in town. I'm sorry about disrupting your shopping trip. Perhaps I might compensate you with a free month subscription?”
The second editor waved from the dust, where he endeavored to stop bleeding. “Don't give it to him. He's always asking pretty girls for their addresses.”
“I should think not. I know his wife, Amelia. Good day, Mr. Tibbles.” Tilly recovered from her shock and towed Sophia down the street.
“Mrs. Dunn.” He tried to tip his hat, then realized he was not wearing one.
Sophia started to apologize for creating a scene, but Tilly ushered her toward New York Dry Goods. “Look! We even have clothing from New York!”
The signboard over the business opposite read Julius Meyer's Indian Wigwam. Two Indian men in citizens' clothes and braids sat outside. What tribe did they belong to? Had they heard from the Poncas?
Tilly steered her into the dry goods emporium. “Sophia, no. They're not anyone you'd know. They've been hanging around for years.”
Perhaps she could ask Will to talk to them. By the time they left the store, the Indians were gone. In their place a barker called out, trying to interest passersby in a faro game.
Tilly opened the door of M. Hellman and Company, Merchant Tailors. “Now let's shop for Will.”
Sophia summoned a bit more interest. She found a canvas raincoat similar to the one he had given away. “Perhapsâ?”
“Heavens, no. He might be mistaken for a carpenter.”
“Will is not a carpenter?”
Tilly picked out an expensive rubberized slicker similar to the one Henry had given White Swan. “Will's a house builder.”
M
r. O'Reilly!” Will jumped down from the surrey. “So good to see you.”
“And you also, lad.” The older man's face had as many wrinkles as Lone Chief's. He seemed to have shrunk a couple inches since Will left. He set his hoe against the carriage house and grabbed the curb chain on Traveler's harness.
Will shook his free hand. “If you're here, then Mrs. O'Reilly's still in the kitchen.”
“That she is. And you'd best get in there quick, lest your nephews eat your share.”
A white dog with brown ears galloped in from the vacant lot next door. He circled three times, tail wagging and tongue flapping, before he slowed enough for Will to sink his fingers into the curly fur.
“Buddy! You remember me!” In no time, Will had the dog rolling over for a belly rub. “You'll have to come over and meet Goldie. I hope you'll be friends.”
Harrison headed inside and Will followed. “Hey, Mrs. O'Reilly!”
“I thought I heard your stomach rumbling.” Fingers strong from kneading bread had no trouble pinching his waist. “Belly button's scraping your backbone. I've got the remedy for you.”
“Don't fatten him up too quick,” Tilly called from the dining room. “I just bought him new clothes.”
“Thanks, sis.”
“Uncle Will!” The nephews pounded down the back stairs. They'd grown so much, Will wouldn't have recognized them on the street.
Leo's solid-muscle hug almost landed him on the floor. Lafayette hung back until Will grabbed him. “I've missed you two scamps!”
“Hurry, Uncle Will.” Lafayette, the spitting image of Harrison, dragged him to the dining room. “I'm starving.”
“You don't know what starving is, I'm glad to say.” He sent up a quick prayer for those who were all too familiar with starvation.
Two large brown eyes peeked from behind the parlor organ. Will studied the ceiling. The plasterwork was holding up nicely. “I wonder where my niece is. Last time I saw her, she was wearing a diaper and crying all the time.”
“I don't wear a diaper.” Josie inched out from hiding.
“But she still cries all the time,” Leo said.