Vows (15 page)

 
"Well, I don't think so. I think he's smart to think of it, and Tom says as soon as it's in Earl and me can ride on it."

 
Emily jumped to her feet. "Tom says! Tom says!" She reached for two empty serving bowls and plucked them off the table. "Honestly, Frank, I get so tired of you talking about that man. Surely there are other things happening around this town besides that infernal building of his!"

 
Fannie's speculative gaze followed Emily as the younger woman whisked to the granite sink, clunked down the bowls, and began agitatedly pumping water. Fannie calmly rested her spoon in her sauce dish and remarked, "He sounds enterprising."

 
"He's rude and outspoken!" Emily exclaimed, pumping harder.

 
"He is not!" Frankie retorted. "He's just as nice as Charles, and Charles likes him, too. Ask him if he don't!"

 
"I'll ask nothing about him!" shot back Emily, glaring over her shoulder at her brother. "Not when he's competing with Papa!"

 
Fannie chose the moment to inform her niece, "Charles has invited him to your party tomorrow night."

 
Emily spun around so fast water sprayed from her fingertips. "He what!"

 
"He invited Mr. Jeffcoat to your betrothal party tomorrow night. And Mr. Jeffcoat accepted."

 
"Why didn't you tell me?"

 
Fannie ate a spoonful of applesauce and replied negligently. "Oh, I thought I did."

 
"I won't have him here!"

 
"Now, Emily—" put in Edwin.

 
"I won't, Papa! Not when he's down there at this very minute, building a … a
livery stable!
"

 
"But Charles has invited him, and it's Charles's party, too. The two of them seem to have become quite good friends already."

 
Emily appealed to her cousin. "Do something, Fannie."

 
"Very well." Fannie arose calmly, carrying her dirty dishes to the sink. "I'll ride my bicycle down there tomorrow and tell him he's not invited to the party after all. I'll explain that there simply isn't room in the parlor for the number who've accepted so we'll have to cut it down. I'm sure he'll understand. Charles will, too. Shall we draw straws now to see who helps with dishes?"

 
"Fannie, wait."

 
Fannie paused in mid-motion, lifting innocent eyes to her young cousin. "Is there something else you want me to tell him?"

 
Emily wilted onto a chair and sat sulkily, her hands dangling between her knees.

 
"Let him come," she grumbled bad-naturedly.

 
Fannie stepped before Emily and straightened several strands of her black hair, stretching them back from her forehead as if measuring out embroidery skeins. When she spoke her voice held a quiet note of reasonableness. "He plans to live here for a good long time. You'll be—shall we say—contemporaries. The two of you will be thrown together on both social and business occasions many times in the years to come. You're very young, dearling. Young and stubborn. You haven't learned yet that life necessitates many compromises. But believe me, you'll feel better if you make up your mind to greet him civilly and make him feel welcome. If your father can, and Charles can, you can, too. Now what do you say?"

 
Emily lifted indignant eyes. "He called me a tomboy."

 
Fannie cupped the younger woman's chin in her palm. "Ah, so that's the reason for this stubborn lip. Well, we shall just have to show him that you're not won't we?"

 
Emily stared at Fannie, her chin still stubborn. "I don't want to show him anything."

 
"Not even that a tomboy can magically be transformed into a lady?"

 
Fannie could see she had fired Emily's interest. Before losing it, she swung on Frankie. "And you, young man…" She leveled him with a warning stare. "Not one word about this conversation to anyone, do you hear?"

 
Everyone in the room knew Frankie wanted to run down to Grinnell Street and spout what he'd heard. But nobody crossed Fannie.

 
"Yes, ma'am," Frankie mumbled, disappointed.

* * *

Fannie's curiosity had been understandably piqued. What was he like, this man who raised Emily's ire so? Fannie had watched her young cousin all week long, and every time Tom Jeffcoat's name was mentioned she grew irascible. But her cheeks also got pink and she refused to meet anybody's eyes. Such a reaction for a man she hated?

 
On Saturday morning when the breakfast oatmeal had been set to simmer, Fannie wheeled her bicycle from the backyard shed and took a ride. It was early—6:30. Behind, she left a sleeping house, but from somewhere across town came the sound of hammering. Sheridan was small and Edwin lived a mere five blocks from Main Street and only six from his livery stable on Grinnell. As she turned down Grinnell the sun roosted on the brim of the eastern plain like a flaming orange. Against it loomed the outline of the new livery building, with its roof already enclosed. She passed Edwin's place on her left. One of his horses whickered a soft greeting. Her bicycle wheels grated softly on the sandy street while the breeze unfurled strands of her loosely upswept hair and ruffled the folds of her scratchy woolen knickers against her legs. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, and the sound of Jeffcoat's hammer cracked like an oxwhip as it reverberated off the valley walls.

 
She was happy as she'd never been in her life. She was living in Edwin's house, sharing his life, growing acquainted with his children, passing his stable and greeting his horses. She was cooking his meals and pouring his morning coffee and rolling the used napkin that had brushed his lips, and washing and ironing the clothes that had touched his skin. If there was the slightest chance that Emily was planning to do these things for a man named Bliss when she ought to be doing them for one named Jeffcoat, Fannie was making it her business to find out before it was too late.

 
She pulled up beside the livery barn, sat astraddle the bicycle, shaded her eyes, and peered at the figure high above, nailing shingles in place.

 
"Mr. Jeffcoat?"

 
The hammering ceased and he turned to look over his shoulder. "Well … good morning!"

 
She liked how he said it, with a half turn and a nudge of his hat, setting it farther back on his head. The roof was steep; he had a rope tied about his waist, threaded over the ridgepole to the opposite side. He balanced, hunkered, with his boot caught on a temporary rung he'd nailed to the sharp slant below him.

 
"I'm Fannie Cooper!"

 
"I thought so. Wait a minute." He descended the roof like a mountain climber, kicking into thin air, falling in breathtaking sweeps, slipping down the rope until he reached the ladder leaning against the building. Down it he came, agilely, while she watched and admired his grace and form and his outlandish mode of dress—the britches too tight, the suspenders red, and the shirt devoid of sleeves. Before he reached her he'd pulled off a leather glove and extended a hand.

 
"Hello, Fannie, I'm Tom Jeffcoat."

 
"I know."

 
"You're Emily Walcott's cousin."

 
"Yes, after a fashion. Second cousin, to be exact. And you're Edwin's competition."

 
He smiled. "I didn't mean to be."

 
She liked his answer. She liked his dimple. She liked him. Fannie Cooper was not a typical Victorian woman who postured and pretended indifference to men. When she met one of whom she approved she felt justified in manifesting that approval in whatever way struck her fancy. Sometimes by flirting, sometimes by complimenting, often by parrying words as she did now.

 
"Yet you seem to be an early bird … out after the worm perhaps?"

 
Again he laughed—a masculine motion—tipping back from the waist and releasing his enjoyment to the morning sky. "Shouldn't you be making comfits and straining fruit juices for tonight?"

 
"I'm not serving comfits, I'm serving finger sandwiches. And for a betrothal party it's entirely proper to serve spiked punch so don't get cheeky with me Mr. Jeffcoat."

 
"I didn't mean to get cheeky." Drawing the glove back on he made a shallow, flirtatious bow. "I apologize."

 
She perused him. She perused the great roof, half-shingled, "The barn is coming along nicely. You've ordered bricks for the floor."

 
"Yes."

 
"And you've brought twenty-four windows."

 
"My goodness, word spreads."

 
"Frankie spreads it quite effectively."

 
"Ah, Frankie. I like that boy."

 
"Your livery barn is going to be quite something. Emily is jealous."

 
His face gave no clue to his feelings. It contained an easy smile that changed not in the least as he divulged, "Emily wishes I were on a windjammer with a broken mainmast, rounding Cape Horn. I try not to aggravate her."

 
"You've also brought a turntable for the carriages, I hear."

 
"Yes."

 
"Why?"

 
"A curiosity, nothing more. A whim. As a boy, I liked the train yards—the turntables in particular. An engineer once gave me a ride on one. I've wanted to own one ever since."

 
"Are you an impetuous man, then, Mr. Jeffcoat?"

 
"I don't know. I never thought about it one way or the other. Are you an impetuous woman, Miss Cooper?"

 
"Most assuredly."

 
"I thought so by your bicycle and your…" He leaned back from the waist and scanned her legs. "What are they called?"

 
"Knickerbockers. Do you like them? Don't answer that! They're convenient in any case, and there are women who wear what suits them whether the men like it or not."

 
"So I've learned since I got to Sheridan."

 
She gave a smile with an abrupt start and finish, then mercurially shifted subjects. "Do you dance, Mr. Jeffcoat?"

 
"As little as possible."

 
She laughed and advised, "Well, get ready. There will be dancing tonight, among other distractions. We're all happy you're coming. Now, I must get back for breakfast. Observe my technique in getting this contraption rolling, and don't take it lightly. Starting and stopping are the hardest parts. It took me three weeks to learn how to start without falling on my face and I'm rather proud of it." She gave the bicycle a push and hopped on with perfect balance. Pedaling away, she called without turning back, "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Jeffcoat."

 
"And I you, Miss Cooper."

 
"Then call me Fannie!"

 
"Then call me Tom!" He smiled, watching her roll up the street.

* * *

It was a hectic day but Fannie had things under control. She spoke with Josephine about the parlor and its overcrowded condition and suggested that they place the piano against the wall and clear out some of the clutter to give the young people space for dancing. Josephine agreed. But she would have agreed to anything; she was happier than she'd been in months, for she, too, had been put to work and it felt so refreshing to be useful again. She sat on a chair in the sun on the upper veranda, polishing silver.

 
Downstairs, dust flew. Tarsy had come to help, as promised. She made sandwich filling while Frankie polished the stair rungs, carried the ferns into the yard, and beat the rugs. Emily packed away bric-a-brac and Fannie found places to hide the heavy furniture draperies, scarves, Turkish tidies, peacock feathers, and plaster busts. They washed the windows and lamp chimneys and pushed the piano's sounding board against the wall where it belonged. They mopped the floor, left it bare, and relegated the offensive pieces of furniture to the porch, returning to the room only enough chairs and tables to give it balance and grace. An excess of chairs, claimed Fanny, only encouraged guests to sit on their duffs instead of dancing and making merry. The fewer chairs, the better!

 
Frankie washed the piano keys, Tarsy polished the punch bowl, Emily hung the clean lace curtains (leaving the heavy, tassled draperies folded away), and Fannie selectively chose small items to be scattered sparsely about the room.

 
When it was finished the four of them stood staring at it in its fresh, bright state, and Fannie clapped once, declaring, "This calls for a celebration. A musical celebration!" Abruptly she plunked onto the claw-foot piano stool, swiveled to face the keys, and performed a rousing rendition of "The Blue-Tailed Fly."