Chapter 18

 

“‘My Dear Readers: It is with mixed emotions that I take pen in hand to write to you today.’”

“That’s a blatant lie,” Emily told herself, chewing on the end of her pen. “I don’t have mixed emotions at all. I’m absolutely the happiest woman in the whole, wide world.”

Pausing only to sigh and decide a little fib under the circumstances would not be too sinful, Emily continued.

“‘I shall be leaving San Francisco soon, as the bride of a wonderful man.’ Well, that’s the truth, at any rate. ‘And I hope you wish me well, as I do you. You might be pleased to learn that I met him through the agency of this column, as he wrote to me for advice. I must tell you that, although I did offer him one or two suggestions regarding his dilemma, he has given me, and continues to give me, ever so much more than I could ever give him.

“‘So let this be a lesson to you, dear readers. No matter how humble one believes oneself to be, one can always be of service to one’s fellow man. Let my own dear ‘Texas Lonesome’ shine as your example, as he is mine. My best thoughts and wishes go with you all. Love, Aunt Emily.’”

Emily scanned her missive thoughtfully, contemplating word order and phrasing, for a long time.

# # #

Uncle Ludwig was right. By the time of the wedding, planned for a sunny, mid-August day in Thomas Crandall’s beautiful garden on Nob Hill, Helga looked as though she had swallowed a balloon, and Ludwig was walking on air. They had been invited to the ceremony as had Fred, since they were the means by which Emily and Will met.

Ludwig decided he liked Fred all right, considering he wasn’t a dachshund. But to make his joy complete, he had just received word from Germany that four more dogs, two males and two females, were on the boat and headed for San Francisco.

Business was so good, Ludwig already had more than two hundred orders for his dogs. People were flocking from all over California and Nevada to buy the little creatures. They didn’t even seem to mind when told they might have to wait as long as a year or two to get their pets.

Before the ceremony, Ludwig cornered Will and emoted with such determination about dachshunds, he almost made Will late to his own wedding.

It was Thomas Crandall who finally pried Ludwig’s hand off of Will’s shoulder and made Ludwig go back to the gazebo, where Emily awaited him. Ludwig was going to escort her down the aisle and give her away.

The aisle had been fashioned from a bolt of white satin. It had taken a good deal of coaxing on Will’s part to make the thrifty Emily believe treading on such an expensive piece of goods wasn’t downright desecration.

“But Will, it’s so beautiful. And so expensive. I could make a million things with it. I can’t bear the thought of walking on it.”

“Emily, my darling, I can buy you a dozen bolts of white satin if you want them. This one is for you to walk on. Please? For me? I’ll never ask you to waste anything again, love, I promise. I just want to see you walking toward me on that shiny satin. Please?”

“Well—”

Emily, of course, could no more resist Will’s cajoling than she could stop the sun from rising. Besides, the white satin would be the same used to make her gown. Emily knew how pretty a picture she and the aisle would make together.

Thus it was, when the music of a melodious trio of musicians began that she stepped down the satin aisle, a shimmering angel on a cloud of gleaming white. Her gown was created in the very latest fashion, with a flared skirt, a draped bodice coming to a short point in front, a demure, pearl-encrusted, high collar, and huge corkscrew sleeves.

In a daring departure from the established mode, Emily wore large white hat atop her shimmering locks. The hat was liberally bedecked with clusters of tiny blooms from Will and Emily’s favorite rose, Cecile Brunner. The long tulle veil coming down from the hat’s brim was detachable, a feature Emily had insisted upon. She wasn’t about to lug an armful of crushed white tulle around with her during the reception.

To Will she looked like a delicate fairy princess as she came toward him, her tiny feet treading daintily on the satin aisle spread between the lustily blooming roses Will had forced Thomas to plant for the occasion. Apparently the guests agreed. They all sighed in unison at the vision Emily created.

She looked radiant, a fact that shouldn’t have surprised Will but did. He still had not become accustomed to the way she made his heart perform calisthenics in his chest, or the way his pride swelled every time he looked at her and knew she was his. As she stepped slowly toward him, she smiled shyly at him through her veil.

Will didn’t think he could be happier.

When Emily joined him at the altar Thomas had built for the purpose, his heart was full to overflowing. As they recited their vows, his voice shook with emotion, and so did hers.

So involved were they with each other, in fact, neither of them dreamed that anything could possibly be amiss. Then Reverend Mr. Phelps intoned the obligatory words, “If any man can show just cause why these two cannot be joined together in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold his peace,” and a loud voice slurred, “Me! I do.”

The ceremony came to a halt, and the Reverend Mr. Phelps muttered, “Well, I’ll be damned. This has never happened before.”

Will’s face lost its expression of unalloyed bliss, and he held Emily’s arm securely tucked into his when he turned to face his guests. He wasn’t about to let her get away from him now, no matter what this interruption turned out to be.

As for Emily, it took her a while to assimilate the surprising information that somebody was actually objecting to her marriage to Will. As she turned with him to peer over the crowd of well-wishers, she couldn’t help but recall the dreadful scene in her favorite novel, Jane Eyre, during which Mr. Rochester’s brother-in-law shows up to reveal the existence of Mr. Rochester’s mad wife. The perfectly awful thought that Will Tate might have another spouse tucked away in an attic somewhere flitted through her brain. She clutched his arm tightly.

What they saw made them both stare. There before them, staggering down the aisle—his broad Stetson hat atilt, his boots muddy, and his face florid with drink—was a man neither one of them had ever seen before.

Will eyed the big six-shooter perched ominously in a holster at the man’s hip with nervous foreboding. From long experience, he didn’t trust drunks and guns together in each other’s vicinity.

The intruder had now taken to slurring, over and over again, “I objec’. I objec’.”

Thomas Crandall finally gathered his scattered wits and accosted the stranger. “Who the devil are you, and what the devil are you doing here? This is a private ceremony!”

“Private cer’mony, my hind leg!” the stranger bellowed. “That there’s s’posed t’be my wife!”

“What?” Will stared at the interloper in astonishment. Then he shot a quick glance at Emily.

The obvious befuddlement in her expression reassured him she didn’t know this person, and he turned once more to the intruder.

“What are you talking about, cowboy?”

“Don’ call me no cowboy, you—you—you rustler! This here paper says Aun’ Em’ly is gonna marry me today. Me! I’m the one. I’m Texas Lon’some, dammit. I’m the one she’s marryin’.”

The stranger waved a crumpled copy of the San Francisco Call above his head and pointed to Aunt Emily’s column. Will realized it was the column imparting the news of her impending marriage to “Texas Lonesome.”

“Oh, hell,” he murmured.

“Damn,” said Thomas. He shot Will a disgruntled scowl. “You were supposed to tell her before now.”

Will shrugged. “I forgot,” was all he could think of to say because it was the truth.

“Tell me what, Will, darling?” came Emily’s startled whisper. “What is this man talking about? You’re Texas Lonesome. Aren’t you?”

“Oh, Lord, Emily, I meant to tell you. Honest, I did. But it slipped my mind, what with all the preparations and everything.”

“Tell me what, Will?” Emily asked again, a little perturbed now.

“It’s all right, Miss Emily. I’ll take care of everything.”

Thomas cast one more glare at Will and stepped forward to intercept the belligerent stranger reeling down the once-pristine white satin aisle. The glossy fabric was now stained with muddy boot prints.

“All right, pal, let’s just you and me go outside and talk about this for a minute.” Thomas tried to sound friendly, but the cowboy wasn’t buying it. Nor did he seem to notice the incongruity in Thomas’s words. After all, they already were, technically, outside.

“But Will,” Emily said, gazing into his eyes, her brain a whirl of confusion. “Why is that man saying he is Texas Lonesome?”

“Oh, God, Emily, I really did mean to tell you before this. I just completely forgot about it.”

The confrontation between Thomas and the authentic Texas Lonesome had by now degenerated into a shoving match. The drunken cowboy was trying to find his gun. Thomas kept knocking his hands out of the way of his hip holster and eventually took the gun himself. Will, unwilling to let what was supposed to be the happiest day of his life turn into a shoot-out, ran over to retrieve it from him. Then Thomas tried to guide Texas Lonesome away from the celebratory arena, but the recalcitrant cowboy dug in his heels.

Emily was horrified to see the pretty white satin aisle pleat up under his boot heels like a Gypsy’s concertina. Her hands flew to her veiled cheeks. “Oh, please, stop it! You’re ruining all that expensive satin!”

All at once a booming voice rang out from in back of the rows of guests. Will’s face paled and his mouth dropped open.

“I’ll take care of this little matter,” the voice said.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Will. Until this minute, he’d believed Texas Lonesome’s intrusion was to be the worst horror he would have to face today.

Emily still clutched his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh like a vise. “Who’s that, Will?”

Will’s mouth was so dry, he could barely form words as he stared at the one person on earth he’d hoped never to see again.

But, oddly enough, as he watched the old faker stride forward, the swagger Will remembered so well a little padded now with age and suet, the barricades that he’d erected around his heart years and years before began to melt. All the gruff, uneasy, but genuine tenderness he remembered from his childhood suddenly overwhelmed the miseries and embarrassments.

Will didn’t understand it, but the closer Melchior Tate strode toward Texas Lonesome, the more he felt like crying—and not from hurt or leftover anger, but from love.

Finally, he found a tattered shred of his voice. “That’s my uncle Mel, Emily,” he managed to force past the lump in his throat.

“Your uncle Mel?” Emily stared at the portly man who had by now taken custody of Texas Lonesome and begun to sweet-talk him out of the garden.

Will could only nod mutely. His heart was too full for words.

“Your uncle Mel and another Texas Lonesome?” Emily shook her head slowly. “I don’t think I quite understand it all, Will.”

Her own voice was very small but, Will noted with relief, not at all angry. At least she didn’t seem to be mad at him, even though she had every right to be. He stared after the retreating form of his uncle, one arm draped over Texas Lonesome’s shoulder, and was unable to speak.

It was the minister who called them all back to attention with a loud, “Ahem.”

Will felt numb as he and Emily finished reciting their vows. He meant it, though, with every fiber of his being, when he told Emily he was hers, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, ‘til death did them part.

So did Emily when she repeated the vows.

When Mr. Phelps finally pronounced them man and wife, a cheer went up from the assembled guests, composed in equal measure of delight and relief. When Will thrust Emily’s veil aside and kissed his brand-new wife, several elegant beaver hats were tossed into the air in celebration, and another hearty cheer accompanied the kiss.

The cheering kept on as the musical trio struck up a happy tune and Will and Emily walked arm in arm back down the aisle. They smiled, both feeling still confused, but blatantly delighted about becoming Mr. and Mrs. William Melchior Tate.

The reception was to be an al fresco affair, held on Thomas Crandall’s elaborately tented grounds and catered by Chef Levant from the Palace, who still remembered Will Tate fondly. When Will and Emily, arm in arm, preceded the wedding party into the area reserved for the reception, the only two people there besides the caterers were Texas Lonesome and Melchior Tate.

It appeared to Emily as though Uncle Mel were trying to console the sobbing cowboy. When he looked up from his task, Mel’s expression held a blend of good-humor and trepidation. Emily noticed he and Will held each other’s gazes for several long seconds.

Finally Uncle Mel cried, “Will, my lad!” His voice broke a little at the end.

“How—” Will broke off and cleared his throat. “How did you know I was getting married today?”

Uncle Mel licked his lips nervously. “Why, I read about it in the paper, dear boy.” he said. With a shrug toward Texas Lonesome, he said with a small grin, “Reckon this poor fellow did, too. Abe Warner told me the name of ‘Aunt Emily’s’ intended.”

“I’ll be damned,” Will whispered.

He stood as if rooted to the spot for a few more moments. Then, spurred on by a gentle nudge from his beautiful bride, he covered the distance between himself and his only living relative with two or three long strides. Mel met Will halfway, and the two men embraced in a hug that made every person in the wedding party discretely dab at moist eyes, if they weren’t bawling outright.

When they finally broke apart, Will took his uncle by the arm and fairly dragged him over to meet Emily. She waited for them with the sweetest expression on her face he had ever seen. Lord above, he loved her.

And polite? Will laughed out loud when he beheld his darling wife hold out a delicate, white-gloved hand, smile her charming smile, and say in all sincerity, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tate. Will has told me so much about you.”

That, at least, was the truth. Emily politely neglected to mention exactly what Will had said. After all, whatever his sins, Melchior Tate was her beloved Will’s only family. That was all Emily needed to know in order for her to accept him gladly.

Great God in heaven, his wife was a saint. Not for the first time, Will thanked whatever benevolent spirit had been hovering overhead that day in Golden Gate Park when they met. Because there was no doubt in his mind he didn’t deserve her.

“Uncle Mel, this is Emily, my wife.”

The last two words came out wobbly. It sounded as though he were trying to reassure himself of their validity. Emily glowed at him.

With a grand gesture only slightly hampered by his bulk, Melchior Tate swept a courtly bow, took Emily’s gloved hand in his, and kissed it. The brightness in his eyes when he peered at her afterwards might have been a twinkle, but Emily suspected tears.

“My dear, I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is.”

“I’m so happy you could join us, Mr. Tate.”

“You are?”

Uncle Mel was obviously astounded, and Emily’s tender heart squeezed for him. And for Will.

“Why, of course, I am. After all, you’re the only family my darling Will has, and I think it would be a shame if he had no family here today of all days.”

She gave Mel a smile so glorious it would have leveled a lesser man. He only gazed at her in blank astonishment for several seconds, overcome by her sweetness. Ultimately, Will had to jerk him out of his stupor.

“Well, come along, Uncle Mel. Come along and meet Emily’s family. And Thomas! Hell, you haven’t seen Thomas these last six years or more.”

Before Will could lead his uncle away, Emily tugged gently at his coat sleeve. When she had his attention, she gestured with her little chin towards Texas Lonesome, who was now propped under a spreading oak, sound asleep. Gustav had curled up at his side and snored peacefully. A rotund Helga had not yet finished with her inspection of the stranger. Her quivering snout now sniffed with grave suspicion at the poor man’s left boot.

“What do you suppose we should do with him, Will darling?”

Will took a look at the poor man under the tree and his conscience smote him mightily.

“Oh, Lord, Emily, I’m sorry. I meant to tell you weeks ago I wasn’t really Texas Lonesome, but I forgot. It’s just that I wanted to be with you so much, when you asked me if I was, I lied.” He gazed down into her sparkling blue eyes, as bright and beautiful as the summer sky, and asked meekly, “Can you ever forgive me?”

The only thing preventing Emily from melting into a puddle of love on the spot was her corset, which was laced up as tightly as her aunt Gertrude had been able to lace it. “Will, darling, of course I forgive you. What a sweet, wonderful little fib.”

A tear glistened on one perfect lash, and Will caught it with his finger.

“You mean it, Emily?” His heart was near to bursting with adoration.

“Of course, I mean it, Will.”

He hugged her close, defying proper etiquette entirely, and said, “Well, then, I opt for letting Texas Lonesome sleep it off and then giving him a big dinner and a bottle of champagne and our eternal thanks. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Emily’s giggle was muffled in the layers of his gloriously white stock as he crushed her body to his.

“I’ll go with you to introduce your uncle to Gertrude and Ludwig, Will. Sometimes my relatives require a little explaining.”

The laugh with which Will greeted her words was music to her ears. “Your relatives need explaining? Lord above, Emily, darlin’, haven’t I told you enough about my Uncle Mel to cure you of any embarrassment about your kin yet?”

Emily took his arm in her two hands, wondering if she’d ever tire of the feel of him. She gave one last look to the slumbering Texas Lonesome before she and Will left to introduce their relatives.

“You know, Will darling, when he wrote to me, he said he didn’t drink overmuch. I wonder if he could possibly have been prevaricating.”

Thomas Crandall, watching Will and Emily skip hand in hand toward a table laden with enough food for three wedding parties, decided he had never seen a more perfectly matched pair in his entire life.

 

 

Historical Note 
 

At the time this tale starts, 1895, Abe Warner’s Cobweb Palace was a drab remnant of its colorful self. Only popcorn and soda water were still served within its walls. It had in its prime, however, been much as described, with spider webs cascading from every surface and exotic animals in residence. It’s such a colorful piece of San Francisco, I couldn’t resist using it.