5

Augusta’s house

SATURDAY, JULY 22, 1899

Hattie ripped the big bow from her hair. “I look ridiculous!”

She had been unnaturally subdued the past few days, but it wasn’t until this moment that Augusta realized why. In all honesty, Augusta hadn’t questioned the reasons at first. She had simply given thanks for the respite.

Hattie was imbued with excessive energy that at times plumb wore Augusta out. It reminded her of Jacob as a boy, only somehow worse, for she supposed she’d never questioned the bromide decreeing it acceptable, even expected, for a boy to be rambunctious. Girls were supposed to be quieter and easier to raise.

Not to mention Luke was alive when Jacob was a young, energetic scamp hell-bent on driving her crazy. Her husband had possessed an uncanny knack for sensing when she’d reached her limit. He’d take Jacob with him to some far-flung corner of the ranch so she could catch her breath. And of course, she’d been a decade-plus younger then.

So instead of looking for reasons why Hattie was uncharacteristically subdued the past few days, Augusta had merely said, “Thank you, Lord,” and put her feet up for a spell.

But it was a funny thing. Once she’d had a day’s rest, it began worrying her when Hattie remained quiet and withdrawn. Augusta was sometimes wearied by the child’s antics, but more often they amused her. In the handful of weeks since Hattie had come to live with them, Augusta had grown extremely fond of her. It disturbed her to realize that Hattie wasn’t comfortable enough in return to share her troubles. And now, like a thunderbolt, as she watched the girl in the cheval glass fussing unhappily with her attire, comprehension struck.

Today was Hattie’s official coming out, her introduction to society. A dinner party had been planned for weeks, and as parties went, it would be a small affair. Only Jacob, Hattie, and herself, plus Dr. Fielding and Jane-Ellen, Hattie’s tutor, John Fiske, and the family lawyer, Roger Lord. And, clearly, Hattie feared the impression she’d make.

Augusta chastised herself for not realizing sooner. But Hattie always appeared so fearless it simply hadn’t occurred to her. Augusta crossed to stand behind Hattie at the mirror. She straightened the skirt of the eleven-year-old’s dress and fluffed the sleeves. Then she picked up the brush and restored order to the riotous mass of copper curls. As she retied the bow holding Hattie’s hair back, their eyes met in the mirror. “I think you look perfectly sweet,” she whispered. “Our guests are going to be very impressed.”

Hattie studied her own reflection in the mirror, then raised her gaze to meet Augusta’s. “I don’t see how,” she said in a surprisingly adult tone. “You tell me you like me just the way I am. But you’re always instructing me on ways to change.” She turned to face Augusta, her expression uncertain. “What will strangers who don’t know me at all think?”

“Oh, my dear.” Augusta bridged the distance between them, reaching out to hug her ward. As always, when a glimmer of vulnerability broke through Hattie’s tough little exterior, Augusta’s heart melted. Leading her to the bed, where they both sat, she picked up and held one of Hattie’s hands in both of hers. “Sometimes your perception is frighteningly mature. It’s not always easy to remember you’re not even twelve years old yet.”

“I will be in January.”

“Yes, I know.” Augusta took a deep breath. “Hattie, I truly do like you just the way you are, and I’m certain others will, too. But there are a great many rules that govern the behavior of young ladies in our society, dear, and females of good family are expected to adhere to them faithfully. Some are fairly basic: such as good table manners. Others are subtler, and I suspect you’ll have to learn a few of those by trial and error. But I wanted to instruct you on as many as I possibly could before you went out into society. You’re expected to observe the proprieties, but unfortunately you don’t even know what many of them are.” She freed a hand to gently brush an unruly curl away from Hattie’s eyes. “That’s why I’ve been stuffing you full of rules and regulations. Folks can be mighty quick to judge, darling. I don’t want them judging you so quickly by your mistakes that they don’t give themselves a chance to become acquainted with the real Hattie Taylor. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“I think so. Mirabel says I’m barely housebroken.”

“Oh dear. Did that hurt your feelings?”

Hattie flashed a smile. “Nah. Mirabel likes me, so I expect she’s sorta saying what you just said. Like, if I were a puppy and I piddled on the parlor floor, people might be so shocked at my behavior they’d never realize I was actually a right fine house pet.”

“Exactly.” Augusta hid a smile. What an apt analogy.

Hattie studied the room for a moment. Then she looked up at her guardian. “Aunt Augusta? Did you know my mama?”

“Not very well, dear. That branch of the Witherspoons lived in California. I’ve spent the majority of the past twenty-four years here in Oregon. But I did meet her on a few occasions, and I remember her as a warm and gentle woman.”

“I can’t recollect what she looked like anymore. But I remember I loved her. And she was a lady, wasn’t she? A real lady, I mean, like you?”

“She was, dear. In every sense of the word.”

“Then, I ’spect I’ll try to be a lady, too. Like she was, and you are.”

Augusta squeezed Hattie’s hand. “I can’t think of a nicer way to keep your mama’s memory alive,” she said and rose from the bed, pulling Hattie up with her. “Come, dear. It’s time to go downstairs. Our guests will be arriving any moment.”

Hattie had been dreading this day far longer than anyone knew. For the first hour, she sat stiffly on the edge of her seat, ankles primly crossed and hands tightly clasped in her lap, her stomach fluttering uncomfortably as she willed herself not to say or do anything stupid. She even declined the hot spiced cider, which she dearly loved, for fear she would slurp, spill, or otherwise embarrass herself or Aunt Augusta.

That earned her sharp scrutiny from Mirabel, who was passing the tray around, and a surreptitious laying-on of cool, bony fingers to her forehead. Hattie grinned and accepted a cup after all. Listening to the conversations around her, she gradually relaxed and conceded that perhaps this wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d feared. Covertly, she studied their guests.

Her tutor, John Fiske, she already knew, of course. He was a mild man who wore steel-bowed spectacles and was so quiet and self-effacing it was easy to overlook him. She did so now in favor of more interesting viewing.

She had been curious about Jane-Ellen Fielding for some time, wondering about the woman Jake was so besotted with. Jake was Hattie’s favorite person in the whole world. She’d already decided she was going to marry him when she grew up. A tiny bit jealous his affectionate attention was not exclusively hers, she had been prepared to dislike Jane-Ellen Fielding on sight.

She could not. Jane-Ellen was pretty and soft-spoken and sweet. She smiled at Hattie and engaged her in conversation, listening to Hattie with patently genuine interest.

Roger Lord, on the other hand, disregarded her utterly. Oh, upon being introduced, he spent a moment exchanging polite pleasantries; then he turned away and ignored her. He was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Hattie was awed by his golden hair and pale blue eyes and the romantic cleft in his chin. But pretty is as pretty does, Mirabel said, and Hattie found it kinda difficult to like a person for whom she clearly didn’t exist. Scrutinizing him unobtrusively, she noted that even with the adults he didn’t appear particularly warm.

Doc Fielding was warm. A short, stocky man with thinning hair of indeterminate color, he laughed, talked, and cussed a blue streak, suffixing his swearing with a “Pardon me, ladies.”

It made Hattie uncomfortable. She kept glancing at Mirabel, as the housekeeper moved about the room with trays of refreshments, expecting at any moment she’d grab the doctor by his ear and drag him off to wash his mouth out with soap. She liked Doc Fielding, and she wanted to spare him from what she knew was a heinous ordeal. Finally, on pins and needles each time he opened his mouth, she placed a hand upon his sleeve to detain him as the group was called to dinner. When he turned to her, she raised on tiptoe and whispered in his ear.

Fielding’s laughter drew unwelcome attention. Hattie turned her back on the speculative glances and scowled up at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Sorry.” Doc stifled his amusement. He reached out to touch Hattie’s cheek. “Thank you for the warning. It was da . . . uh, right neighborly of you.” He escorted her to dinner.

During the meal, Doc struggled to curb his cussing. At one point Hattie caught Jake regarding her speculatively and she grinned at him, proud of her accomplishment. Although she’d heard Jake swear many times, she noticed he didn’t around company. His manners and speech were very correct and she suddenly understood what Augusta had told her earlier about observing the proprieties. Hattie decided to follow his example.

Half an hour later she nearly forgot her new resolution. When they repaired to the parlor after dinner, Augusta requested she play a piece on the piano for their company. Hattie hated the piano. She liked to be proficient at things she tried, yet she hated the practice necessary to attain that proficiency. Playing the piano wasn’t like learning to ride a horse, where the learning was almost as much fun as mastering the skill.

Piano was boring, and she hadn’t progressed very far. Still. Augusta asked very little of her. So, as much as she dreaded displaying her lack of ability, she decided to give it her best effort. With as much grace as she could muster, she launched into “Long, Long Ago.”

Midway through the piece, she hit a sour note. She resisted the temptation to pound the keyboard in frustration, but she did automatically mutter, “Oh sonova—”

Immediately tasting the bitter flavor of soap, she bit off the expletive, whispering, “Hell’s bells,” instead. Gritting her teeth, she silently chanted, Observe the proprieties, observe the proprieties. She managed to finish the piece without exploding, although she felt red-faced with the effort. The polite smattering of applause only served to deepen her flush. Obviously, their guests had also heard the lesson about observing the proprieties. She slammed her method book closed, sketched a brief curtsy to her audience, and stalked over to glare out the window.

Jake nearly exploded himself, trying not to laugh. God, she tickled him. All that red hair practically crackled with the force of her emotions. He decided to help her by shifting the spotlight away from her. Squeezing Jane-Ellen’s hand, he rose. Picking up a teaspoon from the service on the table, he tapped the side of his brandy snifter. “If I could have your attention?”

Hattie turned from the window, grateful the focus of interest had shifted. Jake was assisting Jane-Ellen to her feet, smiling into her eyes. Hattie suppressed a frown as she watched him lift Jane-Ellen’s hand and kiss her fingertips. She was embarrassed for him when he did things like that. It made him look like such a dolt.

While Jane-Ellen blushed, Jake turned to the gathering. “I would like to take this opportunity, while all of us are gathered here, to inform you Jane-Ellen consented to be my wife last night.”

“Oh, my dears . . .”

“Married! Well, son of a bi—uh, gun!”

“Congratulations, Miss Fielding, Mr. Murdock . . .”

“No!” In the multivoiced pandemonium, Hattie’s instinctive denial rang loudest. The felicitations died a sudden death, and in the ensuing silence, all eyes turned to her. She stared at Jacob as if he’d suddenly grown a second head. Married?

He couldn’t. She was barely growing accustomed to having to share his affections at all. He was her special person; he couldn’t get married. Not only was he supposed to wait for her, but Jane-Ellen wouldn’t let him tease her anymore and make her laugh, or bestow those light kisses that made her feel so special. Jane-Ellen would take him away. Oh, her insides felt simply awful.

She became aware that everyone was staring at her. Expected behavior. This, then, was what Aunt Augusta had really been talking about. This was what a young girl aspiring to be a lady had to do even though her stomach roiled with rebellion and she wanted to scream and kick and say, “Sonovabitch!” Even though she wanted to declare, “You can’t do this!”

Hattie licked her lips nervously and pasted on a weak smile. Knowing her first social lie was expected of her, she opened her mouth twice before the words came. Finally, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack, she said, “I mean”—she swallowed hard—“isn’t that nice?”