Millie looked into the bottomless blue eyes of Mr. H. J. Wesley Jr. She forced herself to look away, lest she seem too interested. In spite of his impressive-sounding name, his roughened red skin and hometown of Abilene suggested he probably was a cowboy after all.
Mother would be disappointed, but both Millie and Ellen would remind her to open her mind. A rough exterior didn’t mean a bad person.
Before Millie asked a question, Mr. Wesley initiated the conversation. “Will we have the pleasure of hearing you sing during the classes?”
The lessons drilled into Millie—if asked, agree, regardless of her talent—sprang into her mind. But music wasn’t included in the week’s lessons.
“Oh, what a lovely idea. Millie has the most wonderful voice,” her friend Ruthie Hasselblad said.
Stop hesitating. “We’ll look for a place to add it in a future lesson. That is, if Miss Hasselblad agrees to accompany me. She is a skilled pianist.”
Did this cowboy know that music was a skill most young ladies were expected to acquire? Is that why he asked?
“I look forward to it. Anyone who speaks as well as you do must sing beautifully as well.”
In one short conversation, Mr. Wesley had already intrigued Millie. She reminded herself that she mustn’t spend her time with only one student. “Thank you, Mr. Wesley. But we should begin our introductions to conclude class on time before noon.”
As Mr. Wesley and Ruthie returned to their seats, she saw Mr. Wesley bow to Ruthie. “It will be my honor to introduce you to one of my drovers. We’re tenth in line.” He pronounced Ruthie’s name perfectly. Appreciating his skill, she allowed herself a brief smile.
After she returned to the podium, she clapped her hands together and the ladies stopped talking, bringing conversation to a halt across the room. “Everyone, please return to your seats. Mr. Brown, Mr. Mulrooney, and Miss Snowden, please join me in front of the podium.”
Nerves might have exaggerated Mr. Brown’s deep Texas drawl, but he used the proper language in the correct order. Sheila Snowden, the pastor’s daughter, asked him polite questions about his life in Wichita Falls, commenting on the similarity between the names of their towns.
Millie complimented the introduction. When the next cowboy had a similar drawl, Millie thought of her New England accent. To these folks, she used strange speech. What would Mother say if Millie voiced that thought? Scoff, and reply in the accent made famous by Boston Brahmins. The rest of the country probably agreed with the doggerel that said, “And this is good old Boston / The home of the bean and the cod / Where the Lowells talk only to Cabots / And the Cabots talk only to God.”
God didn’t speak English with a Boston accent. As much as Millie loved her Bible, Jesus didn’t speak in King James English. If He lived on earth today, He’d sound like everyone around Him.
Her thoughts had taken her far away from the subject of the class. Mr. Martin was looking at her for approval, and Christy Barrett was talking quietly with Mr. Mulrooney, showing the possibilities of making conversation from a short introduction. She excelled at the practice, and Millie hoped she would help the others play their roles.
Millie recalled the introduction. “Well done, Mr. Martin. Mr. Logan, your turn next.”
As Mr. Logan, followed by Mr. Johnson and others, took their turns, Millie wondered why given names weren’t included in proper introductions. She had their names on the applications, of course—except for Mr. Wesley. What did H. J. stand for? Henry James? Homer Jeffrey? Hamilton John? Was there any chance he was related to Charles and John Wesley? Doubtful. If she was assigned to make small talk, she could think of a dozen questions to ask.
Mr. Brown came eighth in line, and Mr. Wesley joined him with Gracie Louise Yost. Gracie had a quiet spirit that many men found attractive, but she might find it difficult to initiate a conversation. Millie listened with curiosity.
“Miss Yost.”
Millie quelled the shudder at the mispronounced name. It should be y-OH-st, not y—short o—st. Gracie’s smile didn’t falter. Well done. Mr. Brown hadn’t bothered to learn the correct pronunciation like Mr. Wesley had.
“Miss Yost, let me introduce you to Wes—Mr. Wesley,” Mr. Brown said.
His stumble made Millie wonder if Wes was Mr. Wesley’s nickname. He tipped his head to Gracie. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Yost.” He managed to get the name right.
Mr. Brown had done poorly. Millie pointed out the importance of mastering the correct names before introductions and offered Mr. Brown a second opportunity. The second time, he improved greatly.
Next up, she motioned for Mr. Wesley, Ruthie, and Mr. Robinson to come forward. Mr. Wesley did a good job, and Ruthie was a natural. In the past, Ruthie’s plain exterior had discouraged a potential suitor or two. In this class, she shone like the star pupil.
“T-Bone—Mr. Robinson, I mean, and Miss Hasselblad. Perhaps we should return to our seats?” As they walked away, Mr. Wesley thanked them for helping him make the introductions. He was kindhearted, even if he should have called his friend Mr. Robinson.
When the final introductions were made, Millie encouraged the men and women to converse and walked among them to identify what lessons were most needed. Would the room feel more or less comfortable after their lesson on proper conversation?
At one point, Mr. Wesley headed in Millie’s direction. Her heart beat more quickly, although she didn’t know why. His looks were average, his beard not quite right, except for those eyes that reminded her of Boston Harbor. They hadn’t exchanged more than a half a dozen sentences, but the way he asked her to sing made her feel like he saw into her soul.
“I learned a lot from today’s lessons.” From the way his eyes crinkled in humor, she doubted he would introduce one of his trail mates using the formula. Maybe if they asked him to, of course.
“I can tell you have questions you want to ask me.” Mr. Wesley’s face gave way to the grin. “Go ahead and ask.”
Her conversation skills fled, and she blurted out the first question that came to mind. “Why does Mr. Brown call you Wes?”
She knows. Wes almost regretted the ruse. “It’s short for Wesley,” he said and waited for her reaction.
“I see. Wes makes me think of someone’s given name.”
Worry flew through his mind, but Millie didn’t seem to have anything more on her mind than conversation. If anything, she seemed a bit nervous. “Does my nickname make a difference in etiquette between friends?” Turn the question back on her.
“No, although in public gatherings such as this, ‘Mr. Robinson’ is preferred.” She answered with more confidence. “I heard you call Mr. Brown ‘Tex.’ Is that where you met?”
“Not all Texans have met. It takes weeks to ride across the state.” Not like those tiny states in New England that would fit in a corner of the Lone Star state. “Tex and I ran into each other five years ago, when we started work at the Bar B Ranch. We may not have made each other into gentlemen, but he’s a good friend and Christian.”
Millie’s eyes narrowed.
Don’t ruin it.
She relaxed her face before she answered. “Before they came to know Christ, Paul was a scholar and a gentleman. Peter fished for a living. A man’s past or occupation doesn’t matter to God.”
“Amen.” Wes grinned.
Millie opened her mouth to continue. “However, as Paul mentions in First Corinthians, being a slave was no shame, but if a slave had a chance to gain his freedom, he should do so. Improving your situation in life honors God.”
“I would hardly compare working as a cowboy with being a slave. I’ve worked with men who used to be slaves. They’re mighty proud of getting paid for their work around the ranch.” Millie sounded like a Yankee who had never met a Negro in her life but thought she knew everything about slavery. Even though Wes was only a child when the War Between the States ended, the scars ran deep. God had taught him a thing or two about slavery through his first foreman, Hank White.
She looked suitably chastened. “My remark was thoughtless. Will you forgive me?”
Their conversation had strayed past formal etiquette into the kind of dialogue he had enjoyed with Millie in their letters. For the first time since he signed up for the class, he hoped they could find a way past her strict Eastern upbringing.
When Wes bid Millie good-bye and left for the day, he mused about the day. East and west, north and south. God must have laughed when He brought Millie and Wes together. Or maybe the joke’s on me, if I think I have any chance with a woman like her.
“Wes, wait up.” Tex ran after him. “How did things go with Miss Millie the Magnificent?”
Wes raised his eyebrows.
“Ruthie let the nickname slip.” He grinned. “Ruthie’s one sweet lady. None of the starch Miss Cain appears to have instead of an ordinary backbone.” He got serious. “How did you guess about her voice? Ruthie says she sings all these special songs in church.” He slapped his Stetson on his head with a thump. “Of course. She must have told you in one of those letters you sent that kept the post office so busy.”
“No.” Wes drew the word out. Their letters were full of many things. Poetry, and yes, songs, songs as poetry. He spoke of the plains, starlit nights, horses running across open plains. His Millie wrote beautifully of the rhythm of the waves on the rocks, of lighthouse beams, of the patriotic history that echoed on the streets of Boston, and how she missed her home. She never mentioned her musical talents.
Tex wanted another day with Ruthie; and Wes wanted to talk with Millie some more. Perhaps today’s topic would open the doors to learning more about Millie: the art of conversation.
Would she want to learn more about him? Ordinary cowboy H. J. Wesley Jr. from Wichita Falls, Texas?
“Say, is something wrong with you, Wes? You look rattlesnake bit.” Hank ordered a sarsaparilla, something Wes was glad to see. When they first met, the man he loved and admired had one major fault. He drank way too much, and it affected his work. “A girl, I bet.”
“His Millie,” Tex said.
Hank let loose a belly laugh. “I was right.”
Tex snickered. “She’s not the Millie he thought she was. She’s teaching this class to make cowboys into gentlemen. If we’re good enough, we get to escort one of their young ladies to a dance. I sure hope everybody gets a free pass.”
“Is it too late for me to sign up? I want to see this Millie for myself.”
Wes and Tex looked at each other and shook heads. “There were no ladies of color there yesterday. I’m not sure…”
“All the more reason why I should come. I’d like to see if the fine Christian women of Wichita believe a Negro can be a gentleman.” Hank’s eyes twinkled, but Wes knew the stories behind his demeanor. Among them, he spoke of his first employer, an English gentleman, and how he mimicked his speech.
“It might depend on the first test.” Tex waved a stack of plain stock cards. “Some of the students will have trouble with this assignment. They may stay away to avoid embarrassment.”
Hank raised his eyebrows.
“We’re supposed to write calling cards in our best penmanship. We are going to exchange cards and carry on polite conversations with the ladies,” Tex said.
Wes nodded at Hank. “Hank knows how to write, but Tex is right. A lot of the cowboys can barely scrawl their names. If you are interested and brave enough, I’d love to have you come with me. A real lady will treat you as the man you are.”
“And you want to know if your Millie is that lady.” Hank nodded. “I will come with you for that reason. And maybe to learn a thing or two.”
Suddenly Tuesday’s class held a lot more interest. How would Millie respond to Hank’s presence?