Chapter 2

 

Early the next morning, Emily smiled when she read, “Dear Aunt Emily: I took the advice you give me and called a liberry from the telephone in my hotel. I asked about decorum but the lady said they got books on Ettyket. What is Ettyket? Can I use it instead of decorum? She said so but I don’t trust her. I trust you. Thank you for your help, Texas Lonesome.”

After thinking for only a moment, Emily wrote, “Dear Texas Lonesome: Your Aunt Emily applauds you for the dedication you display toward the achievement of your goal. Yes, dear sir, ‘etiquette’ will set you on the proper path toward ‘decorum.’ The object of your affections will assuredly honor your attempts to better yourself. Aunt Emily knows full well she will.”

She stared at her response for a full minute before she heaved a sigh and set the letter aside, her heart strangely stirred.

Moments later, that same heart thumped a frantic tattoo against her ribs as she walked briskly to her editor’s office. She had hardly slept last night, but she was too nervous to be tired.

As usual, Emily was alone on her walk and, as usual, she held her chin high in the air, daring any villain to approach her. She hoped any nonvillainous persons who might spy her would chalk up her solo jaunt to her being a suffragist. She wasn’t. But more than anything, she didn’t want to advertise the fact that her solitary state was due to her inability to afford a servant to accompany her. If she had nothing else, Emily had her pride.

Mr. Kaplan, her editor, gave Emily a somewhat bloodshot smile when she sailed through his door.

“You’re here bright and early today, Miss von Plotz.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t sleep very well last night, so I got up early and wrote my column.” She handed Mr. Kaplan a hefty sheaf of papers.

“Oh, my, you’ve got a bundle for us today.”

“I guess I do at that.” Emily had been in such a nervous frenzy this morning, she had read and answered at least five more letters than she usually did. “Can you print them all?”

“Well, if we can’t print them today, we’ll be able to fit them in eventually. You do good work, Miss von Plotz. Aunt Emily’s column is one of our best-read features. The public really love you.”

Emily felt her cheeks get hot. “Thank you, Mr. Kaplan.”

“Thank you, Miss von Plotz.”

When she left Mr. Kaplan’s office and headed toward the park, Emily tugged at the corkscrew sleeves of her half-fitting sailor jacket with nervous fingers. She hoped she cut a fashionably jaunty picture. She also hoped Will Tate would be too innocent to recognize the somewhat faded blue fabric as having been made over from her aunt’s old draperies.

She had sewn the walking outfit from a pattern she copied from a Ladies Standard Magazine, and spiffed it up with striped edging purchased dirt cheap and after much haggling from a grimy shop in Chinatown. She knew she was taking a chance by wearing the same straw hat she had the day before, but perhaps Will wouldn’t recognize it. She had redecorated it with more of the same striped edging and a big, red, satin rose.

A huge sigh leaked from between Emily’s lips when she thought about the rose. Her dear aunt Gertrude believed she had cut a tremendous bargain when she bought the bushel of satin flowers from a street vendor. Poor Gertrude could never be brought to understand a bargain is only a bargain when one actually needs the goods purchased and has no other use for the funds expended. And, although she resisted the truth at every turn, Gertrude needed many things before she needed satin roses.

Well, if this plan worked, Aunt Gertrude could have all the satin flowers she wanted, Emily told herself stoutly in order to bolster her resolve.

She still felt more than a little bit guilty about her plot as her footsteps carried her toward Golden Gate Park. She hoped Will wouldn’t notice she carried no parasol or that, if he did, he would chalk the lack up to personal choice and not penury.

Will was sprawled on a park bench, enjoying the lovely summer weather when he espied Emily striding toward him purposefully. He decided that foregoing a night of gambling and rutting wasn’t really much of a sacrifice when one had such an enchanting companion to look forward to in the morning.

Forgetting his role as crude country lout, he stood up and ripped his wide-brimmed hat from his head. Then he remembered he was supposed to be socially inept and decided Texas Lonesome would probably fidget. So he fingered his hat and shuffled his feet.

Aunt Emily, darlin’, you’re pretty as a San Antonio summer sky, he thought.

When Emily reached him she held out her hand, trying her best to appear unruffled. “Good morning, Mr. Tate.” Saints on high, he was a handsome man.

“Good morning to you, Miss von Plotz,” Will said with considerable warmth as his big hand engulfed her much smaller one.

She was nervous, he noticed with some surprise. He was the one who was supposed to be nervous.

Emily cleared her throat. “Well, now, Mr. Tate, shall we have a seat on this bench and begin our lessons?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Will agreed, trying his best to sound meek.

Emily gazed at him pensively for a moment or two. She almost wished he weren’t such a handsome devil. She was sure she would feel less fluttery about her deception if he were a plain man.

“I believe we should start with manners, Mr. Tate. Or, as some might say, etiquette.” She gave him a prim, sideways smile, wondering if she would get a responsive twinkle.

But Will only nodded solemnly. “I reckon, ma’am.”

Stifling her sigh, Emily said, “Now, you were perfectly correct when you stood at my approach.”

Will tried to make the best of his regrettable lapse into manners.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he muttered with as sheepish an expression as he could muster. “My ma taught me that.”

“Well, your mother was absolutely correct, Mr. Tate. A gentleman should always rise when a lady enters a room or if he intends to greet her in a forum of public assembly, such as this park.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you did very well by removing your hat, too. It was a polite gesture and in the very best of manners. Did your mother teach you to do that as well?”

“Uh-huh.” Will figured it wasn’t too much of a fib. If he had ever known a mother, he was sure she would have at least tried to teach him that much.

Emily smiled kindly. “One minor point, Mr. Tate. A gentleman usually tries to refrain from grunting in a lady’s presence. A lady would generally prefer to hear a gentleman say ‘yes,’ rather than ‘uh-huh.’”

Will appeared suitably abashed. “Oh, gol’, I guess I never thought of that, ma’am.”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Tate. That’s what I’m here for.” She put a hand on his sleeve. “And please, Mr. Tate, don’t take anything I say as an affront. I mean only to help you.” As an experiment, she batted her eyes, and then felt silly.

Will noticed her fluttering lids and was amused. “You got something in your eye, ma’am?” he asked solicitously. Now why was Aunt Emily trying to flirt with him? he wondered.

Emily dropped her gaze and frowned. “No, Mr. Tate, but thank you for inquiring. It was very polite of you.” So much for flirting, she thought sourly. The man was even more innocent than she had suspected.

“Now, Mr. Tate, I believe it would be a good idea for us to take a small stroll around the park. Then I can point out to you various nuances of polite behavior which are better demonstrated than imparted verbally.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

Will stood up. Then he sat down. Then he tried his best to blush, failed, and decided to stutter instead. “D-do I g-get up first, ma’am?” he asked in what he hoped was a shy, tentative voice.

Emily smiled at him with genuine tenderness, thereby very nearly causing him to forget himself entirely, grab her, and kiss her.

“It is proper for a gentleman to stand first and extend a hand to help the lady rise, Mr. Tate.”

Will promptly surged to his feet and stuck out his hand. When Emily held up a limp wrist, he grabbed her by her fingers and hauled her to her feet with such gusto, her made-over hat almost toppled from her head. Emily clamped a quick hand on it to steady it.

“When I said a gentleman helps a lady to rise, Mr. Tate, my words were not to be taken quite so literally,” she gasped.

“Oh.” Will adopted a crestfallen expression.

“Oh, dear, Mr. Tate, I’m not scolding. You did nothing wrong. You were merely following my instructions. I should have explained to you that your hand is merely for support. Unless the lady in question is very old or infirm, you needn’t actually use force to help her to rise.”

“Oh.” Will still looked rather hang-dog. “I’m sorry, Miss von Plotz.”

Emily honored him with smile. “It’s quite all right, Mr. Tate. As long as you learn from your mistakes, all will be well.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Emily felt a quick stab of guilt for deceiving this perfect country innocent and then stamped it down with vigor. If she didn’t do something soon, she reminded herself, her entire family would be out on the street without a penny to their name. She had to deceive this poor fellow. It was for her family’s good. She held the knowledge close to her heart and swallowed the scruples that had suddenly lumped together in her throat.

“Do I hold your hand when we’re walkin’ ma’am?” Will asked, trying hard to look innocent.

Emily blessed him with an indulgent laugh. “No, Mr. Tate. You would never hold a lady’s hand unless the two of you are so well acquainted as to have become engaged. And then you would never do so in public. Such an intimate display of affection is offensive to the public’s eye and best kept to the privacy of one’s own home. Of course, you must always ask the young lady’s parents before you assume such a liberty, as well.”

Will nodded, sober as a judge. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You may, however, crook your elbow just so.” Emily demonstrated by lifting her arm as described “Then the lady will place her hand on your forearm as you walk.”

“Like this, ma’am?” Will crooked his elbow.

Emily placed her hand on his arm and smiled. “Very well done, Mr. Tate.”

Will grinned back at her. Saints and angels, this woman was the most adorable little thing he’d ever seen.

Emily felt her insides flutter when his gaze seemed to caress her in the most intimate way. She had to clear her throat before she could speak again.

“You—you are very quick to learn, Mr. Tate.”

“Shucks, ma’am,” Will mumbled. “You’re awful kind to teach me.”

“Well, shall we take our little walk, Mr. Tate??

“Yes, ma’am.”

Will expected to have to slow his long stride a good deal to accommodate his partner. He wasn’t prepared for Emily’s firm gait.

The park was a delightful place. Emily liked to come here on fine days to write her column even before she met Will Tate. Today, in his company, the park grounds seemed more beautiful than usual. The summer sky smiled down upon them and the sun’s rays picked out every leaf and petal as though to emphasize each one individually. The paths were raked to perfection and the shrubbery was pruned into tidy borders.

If she weren’t so acutely aware of her purpose, Emily might have taken great pleasure in their walk together. She was aware of her purpose, however, and didn’t dare let down her guard; not for a single instant.

“Now, Mr. Tate, when a gentleman walks out of doors with a lady, he always walks on the outside, if there is an outside. Here in the park, we shall follow the paths, so there is no particular side to consider, but on a street with traffic you would take care to stay on the street side closest to the traffic. The lady would walk next to the buildings.”

“Why is that, ma’am?”

“Well, Mr. Tate, it’s an old custom and one relating to matters of chivalry. A gentleman would place himself closer to the source of any danger in order to protect the lady. Also, if the streets are muddy, any mud or water thrown up by a passing carriage would hit the gentleman and not the lady. Ladies, as you know, are more delicate than gentlemen, and more apt to succumb to the ill effects of dampness. And their garments are more easily damaged, as well.”

A sudden image of Flaming Polly—smoking an enormous black cigar, her ample bosom spilling out over her red harlot’s corset, cursing like a sailor and pointing a silver derringer at a drunk—flashed through Will’s mind and he had to stifle a guffaw. He peered down at Emily, discovered her gazing at him with an expression of absolute sincerity. Apparently, Miss Emily von Plotz actually believed that folderol about women being more delicate than men.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly.

Will and Emily strolled through the park, delighting in the occasional, pretty floral displays blossoming in discreet beds here and there. Pansies, even in their ungainly early-summer sprawl, seemed to be particular favorites of Emily’s, Will noticed. He tucked the information away, thinking it might prove useful one day.

They meandered through the new Japanese Tea Garden and Will exclaimed at its exotic beauty. They both enjoyed the majesty of the Huntington Falls as their waters splashed and tumbled down Strawberry Hill. Will itched to take Emily to the new rose garden but held his tongue since it was she, after all, who was supposed to be showing him around.

They were at surprising ease with each other, and walked along for several minutes without speaking. When Will heard Emily’s gusty sigh, he hoped it was one of pleasure.

It was. Emily was very happy with the way things were going. Will Tate was an apt student. Although in his letters he portrayed himself as a shy country lad, he seemed to have a natural gift for the social graces. The unexpected attribute pleased her. Although she would have married him anyway, the thought of spending the rest of her life attached to a rude bumpkin, even for the sake of her beloved family, did not appeal very much.

Also, he seemed to be responding to her even though she had not been flirting—not since the aborted attempt at batting her eyes. Emily considered flirting a demeaning, embarrassing activity indulged in only by females of a certain sort. Even so, she was willing to thrust her compunction aside for the sake of winning “Texas Lonesome.” Now she prayed she would be able to accomplish her goal with at least some of her dignity intact.

Will gazed down at her reworked straw hat and noticed a couple of places where the straw weave had been repaired. It had not escaped his attention, either, that Emily’s costume had a look about it with which he was all too familiar: the look of made-over goods. He also acknowledged whoever had made it over was very skilled at her craft. If he were not exquisitely aware of all the tricks a person will use to try to disguise poverty he would never have guessed. However, Uncle Mel, the shrewdest confidence man Will ever met in his life, had taught him well.

Emily’s lack of a parasol, that absolutely necessary accoutrement to a lady’s toilette, had not gone without his notice, either. And today he recalled, as well, that young ladies of social standing did not traipse around town unaccompanied. He wondered what game Aunt Emily was up to. His interest, which was already piqued, surged.

“Would you care to look in at the flower gardens, Mr. Tate?” Emily inquired politely. “I believe if you were to escort a young lady on a stroll through the park, it would elevate you in her esteem if you were to exhibit an interest in flowers.

“Not,” she added primly, “that I advocate your professing an interest you do not possess, for that would be a falsehood, and a falsehood is never to be tolerated. But, if only for the young lady’s sake, I believe it would behoove you to cultivate an interest in—oh—roses, for example.”

Since Will Tate was about the only rosarian extant in the State of Texas at the moment, he nearly laughed out loud. He blinked back the sparkle threatening to give him away and nodded as though she had just uttered the One Universal Truth.

“Good idea, Miss von Plotz.” He hoped Charley Wong, the gardener with whom he had conferred yesterday, wouldn’t be working in the rose garden today.

Emily loved roses. She walked through the rose beds in Golden Gate Park at every opportunity. Today, for some reason, she thought the blossoms looked particularly beautiful.

“Someday I hope to have a rose garden of my own, Mr. Tate.”

The simple confession sounded oddly sad to Will. He subtly steered Emily over to inspect the new polyantha he had taken such a shine to the day before. “What do you think of this one, Miss von Plotz?”

“Oh, Mr. Tate, it’s just lovely.” She leaned over to sniff the perfectly shaped, tiny, soft pink buds, and their powerfully sweet fragrance surprised her. “They smell so wonderful. Yet they’re so small.”

Will had to hold back the information that polyanthas were noted for their heady rose fragrance and clusters of tiny blooms. Instead, he made a show of sniffing at the blossoms, too.

“Well, I’ll be hornswoggled,” he said in an attempt to sound countrified.

“‘Cecile Brunner.’ What a lovely name.” Emily wished she could have a Cecile Brunner rosebush in her own garden. But, of course, she had no garden now that her uncle Ludwig had turned Aunt Gertrude’s back yard into a breeding kennel for dachshunds. Every now and then Emily couldn’t help but wish her relatives were just a wee bit less eccentric.

Will noticed her wistful expression and wondered if it would be polite to ask what he wanted to know. He decided Texas Lonesome would probably take the risk. “Can’t you have a rosebush at your home, Miss von Plotz?”

Emily gave a little start. She hadn’t meant to demonstrate such a transparently hopeful interest in these roses. “Oh, well, you see, Mr. Tate,” she stammered, “it’s—it’s that I live with my aunt and uncle, and—and, well, the yard is being used for other purposes.”

“Oh.” Will thought for a minute. Then he drawled tentatively, “Miss von Plotz, would it be rude for a feller to ask what that purpose is? If a feller wanted to get to know a lady better?” He hoped he sounded sufficiently naive.

But Emily only smiled at him. Her expression was darling, and Will’s heart gave an uncharacteristic leap so strong it startled him.

“Oh, Mr. Tate, of course it wouldn’t be rude. It is always polite to exhibit concern for a lady’s interests and family, as long as you are well enough acquainted to make such an inquiry seem natural.”

Merciful heavens. Aunt Emily was about the most fetching work of nature Will had ever seen in his life. He had to clear his throat before he could speak again.

“Well, then, ma’am, if we’re well enough acquainted, maybe you wouldn’t mind tellin’ me what is your yard being used for, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

Immediately, Emily realized she had talked herself into a tight spot. Then she guessed it didn’t matter much. He’d have to find out about her lunatic relatives sooner or later if her plan were to succeed.

“Well, you met Helga and Gustav yesterday, of course.”

“Yes, ma’am. Couldn’t hardly forget that.” Will smiled.

Emily felt mortified all over again about her uncle’s dogs’ unruly behavior, but she forged ahead. “Yes. Well, you see, Mr. Tate, my uncle, Ludwig von Plotz, believes dachshunds are the coming thing in the dog world.”

Will had no trouble at all in looking astonished at her words. “The coming thing, ma’am?”

Embarrassed, Emily murmured, “I’m afraid so, Mr. Tate. He’s certain he will be able to create a market for dachshunds here in America, since they’re such wonderfully brave dogs. Even though they’re small. In fact, Uncle Ludwig believes their size will be a selling point. People won’t expect such a little animal to be so ferocious, and they’ll also be cheap to feed. He has the idea that dachshunds will soon be used for all sorts of helpful purposes, from protecting banks to herding sheep. He even envisions them guarding strongboxes transported on railway carriages.”

“Oh.” Amazed, Will couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You see, Uncle Ludwig has spent most of his life in Europe. He lived in Germany as a young boy, and then Austria until four years ago. The death of the Archduke and Crown Prince Rudolf affected him quite deeply, however, and he decided to move to the United States. My aunt Gertrude is his sister. Since she is a widow, she was very pleased that he wanted to join us here.”

“I see.” Will nodded with what he hoped looked like sympathy, wondering who in hell the Crown Prince and Archduke Rudolf was. He decided to pose the question at a later date. “Well, I think that’s just—just fine, ma’am.”

Emily thought it would be a good deal finer if Uncle Ludwig had any concept of the cost of establishing and maintaining a breeding kennel. Or a knack for raising money instead of spending it. Unfortunately, the entire von Plotz family, with the possible exception of Emily herself, seemed to have been born without a single shred of fiscal cunning.

Will noticed her retreat into reticence as they strolled through the rest of the rose beds. He figured she was embarrassed by her uncle’s bizarre interests and had a sudden urge to tell her about his own Uncle Mel. He had the feeling that he and Emily could spend a year or more swapping tales about their respective eccentric uncles, but he held his tongue. It wasn’t time for such disclosures yet.

It was getting on toward mid-day, and all at once Will’s stomach took the opportunity to growl. The fact didn’t bother him, but he decided to use it to his advantage. Maybe he could remain in Miss Emily’s company a while longer if he played his cards right.

He tried to look ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said.

Emily looked up at him, surprised. “You’re sorry??

“Yeah. My belly just grumbled, ‘cause I’m hungry. I ‘spect a real gentleman’s belly don’t never do that.” Will was proud of that sentence.

Emily laughed. She had a sweet laugh, and Will liked it a lot.

“Oh, my, Mr. Tate, I don’t suppose a gentleman has any more control over his stomach than any of the rest of us do. He would, however,” she added in her teacher’s voice, “call it his stomach, and not his belly if he referred to it at all, which he probably wouldn’t. It is considered indiscreet to refer to one’s organs in polite company.”

Will gazed at her in honest appreciation. She had a very kind way of imparting these improving lectures of hers.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Well, ma’am, since my—my organ is empty and we’re here together, would it be proper for me to invite you somewheres to eat? Then you can teach me how to use them forks and knives and such.”

Emily was hungry, too. She usually had bread and butter and water at mid-day because she didn’t want to waste her family’s rapidly dwindling resources. The thought of eating a real luncheon was quite appealing, especially if she could do it in Will Tate’s company and at his expense.

The fact that dining in a restaurant alone, just the two of them, was decidedly improper caused her a stab or two of unease. She also had to suppress a substantial twinge of guilt about the cost by reminding herself he had described himself as a wealthy man. She didn’t suppose buying her lunch would be much of a burden for him.

“Why, I think that’s a marvelous idea, Mr. Tate. Thank you very much for the invitation. And you extended it very prettily.” She didn’t suppose she should quibble about his grammar at the moment. There were too many other things to teach him first.

Will seemed pleased and that made her happy.

“Do you know a place close by to eat at, ma’am?”

“I believe there’s a small chop house on Montgomery Street where one can have quite a nice luncheon at a reasonable price, Mr. Tate.”

Will felt vaguely troubled. He wanted to take her someplace nice to eat, not some dumpy chop house. “Isn’t—” he almost corrected himself and said “ain’t,” but decided it would be too obvious— “Isn’t there someplace a little bit finer, Miss von Plotz? I’m real rich, and I ‘spect I’ll be takin’ my wife to real nice places, if I ever get me one. A wife. Not an eatin’ place.”

Emily looked up at him quickly. The thought of dining at a fine restaurant was so appealing, she nearly succumbed to the evil gremlin tempting her, but her nobler nature won the day.

“I think perhaps we should start on a small scale, Mr. Tate. That way, when you do take your lady to a fine restaurant, you won’t have any reason to be uncomfortable “

Will was a little disgruntled at having his plot foiled so neatly, but he didn’t dare show it. “All right, Miss von Plotz. That’s probably a smart idea. But you have to promise me you’ll let me practice in a fancy place when I get the hang of it.”

Emily had seldom met such a nice man. It seemed almost a shame to trick him. Nevertheless, she needed him—her family needed him—too much to allow her conscience to smite her. If she had to harden her heart and play the coy seductress, so be it. Resolute, she trod beside him to Mrs. Flanagan’s Kitchen.

During their luncheon, Will discovered he enjoyed Emily’s little lessons. He tried very hard give her plenty of material to work on.

He tucked his napkin into his shirt front and adopted an expression of chagrin at Emily’s kind suggestion that he place it on his lap instead.

He fumbled with the silverware and ate with his knife and was suitably embarrassed when Emily pointed out to him the reason civilized man had invented forks.

He slurped his soup and dipped his spoon the wrong way, then ducked his head in shame when she taught him the proper way to drink soup.

He reached clear across the table to fetch the salt cellar and recoiled like a scolded puppy when Emily imparted the socially accepted way to ask for salt.

He buttered an entire piece of bread and appeared terribly abashed when Emily told him it was polite to break off little pieces of bread and butter them individually, one at a time, before he popped them into his mouth.

“Why, shucks, ma’am. Ain’t that a lot of effort to go to when you can just butter the whole thing once and be done with it?”

Emily’s laugh tinkled out of her rosy lips. “I suppose it does seem so, Mr. Tate. But you see, polite manners are often hold-overs from earlier days when there were good reasons for them and they really did make sense. The fact that the absolute necessity for such customs may have passed does not absolve one from following the accepted mode.”

Will contemplated his companion for a moment. Aunt Emily sure had a way with words, all right.

“I guess that’s so, ma’am,” he said with what he hoped sounded like uncertainty. When he saw Emily’s eyes brighten with pleasure, he knew his answer was appropriate.

Emily couldn’t remember ever having had such a wonderful time in a gentleman’s company. Of course, the only gentlemen she’d been in company with lately were her uncle and Clarence Pickering, her aunt’s financial advisor. And, while her uncle was at least a kind man, Pickering was enough to make a saint curse. Suddenly recalling that he was coming to dine at her aunt’s home the following evening, Emily made yet another impetuous decision.

“Mr. Tate, how would you like to come to my aunt’s house for dinner tomorrow night? You can practice your new table manners there, out of the view of the public. If you make any little mistakes at my aunt’s table, it won’t matter, and you needn’t be embarrassed.”

Will stared into Emily’s sparkling blue eyes and lost his concentration for a minute. Fortunately he collected himself in time to answer in character. Instead of telling her exactly how charmed he would be to accept such a kind invitation, he made a clumsy show of clearing his throat and then said, “Well, er, gol’, ma’am. I ain’t never been to no lady’s house for dinner before.”

Emily put her hand over his as he gripped the edge of the table.

“Please don’t be nervous, Mr. Tate. You’re a wonderful student. I’m sure you’ll do just fine. My aunt and uncle are—are—well, they’re not at all stuffy.”

In fact, this was quite an understatement. An image of her Uncle Ludwig singing merrily along with “General Knickerbocker” from his seat in the balcony at the opera house nearly made her blush. No. Her relatives were certainly not stuffy.

“You really think I’m a good learner, Miss von Plotz?” Will wished she would leave her little warm hand on his, but she withdrew it and tucked it demurely back into her lap.

“You’re an excellent learner, Mr. Tate.”

“Well, then, ma’am, if you truly wouldn’t mind a big galoot like me invadin’ your home, I’d be proud to take supper with you tomorrow.”

The smile with which Emily greeted his words almost made him fall off his chair. Lord above, Aunt Emily was some piece of work.

Emily gave him her aunt’s address, told him to be at the house at seven the following evening, and they parted company. Both left feeling the day had been well spent.

# # #

Later on in the evening, Will had a grand time imparting Emily’s lessons in deportment to Thomas Crandall.

“My God, Will, I can’t believe you actually made her believe you’re a country boy.” Thomas laughed so hard and so long, he had to mop tears from his face with his handkerchief.

“If my Uncle Mel taught me anything at all, Thomas Crandall, it was how to dissimulate effectively.” Will said solemnly. “Besides, Miss Emily is up to something. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I know she’s up to something.”

“Something devious? You mean she’s scheming?”

“Yup.”

Thomas frowned. “Well, I guess if anybody could recognize a cheat, it’s you, Will. God knows, you cheat better than anybody I’ve ever met.”

Will frowned and thanked Thomas sarcastically for his kind words.

# # #

Emily was alternately elated and depressed as she made her way home from the park. On the one hand, her plot seemed to be working even better than she could have hoped. She had noticed the unmistakable signs of interest in Will Tate’s eyes during their walk in the park and at luncheon. On the other hand, the better she got to know this big, delightful, lonely Texan, the worse she felt about deceiving him.

“He’s such a sweet, simple man,” she murmured as she walked along Grant Avenue. The street had been renamed recently in honor of the former President, and Emily sometimes had trouble remembering it was no longer Dupont. She turned up Hayes and frowned when she recognized Clarence Pickering’s carriage standing in front of her aunt’s house.

Pickering’s henchman, Bill Skates, lounged against the carriage and leered at her when she approached. Skates reminded Emily of the villain in a play she had seen at the California Theater. A tall, reed-thin, almost cadaverous man, he had a long, black mustache which he apparently took great pains to wax and wrap into tight curlicues at the ends. The unpleasant fellow sported a hideous red-and-green plaid cutaway suit. Emily wanted to squeeze her eyes shut against it as she walked past him.

“‘Lo, Emily, darlin’,” Skates greeted her snidely.

Emily chose to ignore him as she marched up to her aunt’s front door. With luck, she wouldn’t have to talk to Skates’ employer.

She opened the front door slowly, and cringed at the loud, grating creak its hinges made. She’d meant to soap those hinges. But it was too late now.

“Emily, my love, come here and say hello to Mr. Pickering,” Aunt Gertrude called from the parlor before the door even stopped screeching. At that point, Emily knew luck was visiting elsewhere today.