17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
A fter all the nights spent camping, even Sylvia’s modest room in the boardinghouse felt like a luxury. Perhaps that was good, a sign that she was slowly adjusting to this life. And since James had been adamant about not returning to England, she would have to adjust.
The door down the hallway slammed shut as Mr. Marshall left his room. Sylvia wavered. She wanted to know about his plans, but it would be rude to ask. It’s been a day since their return; James would set out for Georgetown tomorrow—with it being a day’s journey, that left him one extra day for possible complications.
But Mr. Marshall made no move to leave yet. Now that James was safe, did Mr. Marshall’s words of not leaving her alone still stand?
Did it matter, when in the grand scheme of things, it could never lead to anything?
Sylvia finally opened the door, but the hallway was empty. He was gone.
It was for the best, really .
Two other voices came from downstairs; in the loud and brash one, Sylvia recognized Emily even before she and Molly ascended the stairs.
“There she is! Just the woman we’re looking for.” Molly confidently strode toward Sylvia. “You won’t mind if we use your room, will you? I told Emily you could come to my lodgings, but she said you’d probably faint at the thought.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s something about clothes,” Emily said.
“It’s about the dance,” Molly corrected her and herded them into Sylvia’s room. She dumped a leather bag on the bed. “My, you’ve got quite a nice place here. Lovely decor.” She picked up Will’s painting. “You’re an artsy one, aren’t you?”
“I—it’s not mine.”
Emily looked at the painting, then, with narrowed eyes, at Sylvia.
“What dance are we talking about?” Sylvia quickly changed the topic. “Is there going to be a ball?”
Molly waved her hand. “Nothing so formal. A little celebration this evening. Word’s gotten out about your adventures. I heard a few people are already planning to head up those mountains. And just this morning, I saw young Dooley pester his grandmother about old legends—you never know which one may hide a secret treasure, hmm?”
“And what does this celebration entail?” Sylvia asked, wringing her hands. She hoped it wasn’t anything like the rowdy evenings at the saloon.
“Bit of music, eating, dancing … and that’s why I’m here.” Molly opened the bag and dragged out some colorful fabrics. “We’ve got this tradition where the men draw ties matching the ladies’ skirts, to determine who’s dancing with whom. So I thought I’d bring you something decent to wear. ”
“That’s very nice of you, Molly, but I don’t think Sylvia’s criteria for ‘decent’ matches ours,” Emily said.
“Oh, I know she’s got plenty of fancy stuff to wear.” Molly turned from Emily to Sylvia. “But this ain’t about fancy. It’s about dressing for the occasion.” She straightened two calico skirts on the bed: one a dark blue with thin silver stripes, the other a cream color with a tiny flower pattern in shades of blue, purple, and pink.
“This one is for you.” Molly grabbed the floral one and held it up at Sylvia’s waist. “Oh, yes, perfect. And Emily gets the blue one. What do you think?”
“Who has the matching tie?” Emily asked.
“We don’t know. We dump them all in a bag, and the men who show up to the dance blindly draw them.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“For once, Emily and I are in agreement,” Sylvia said. “It’s better I withhold my attendance. I’m not well-versed in your customs.”
“Well, if you never try, you’re never gonna be,” Molly responded. “We’re short on women as it is. And Grandma Dooley’s not getting any younger. With two fine ladies like yourselves, we can’t let this opportunity go.”
Emily took her designated skirt. “You know how to flatter, Molly.”
“I sure do. Works even better on the opposite sex.” Molly let out a short laugh. “Let’s get right down to it. You two change, and I’ll dig up the cosmetics.”
“Cosmetics?” Emily asked in alarm. “None of those mercury creams, please.”
“The fancy stuff? No, I ain’t got any of those. Couldn’t get them around here, and besides, nobody would care. ”
Sylvia’s cheeks grew warm. She turned away and pretended to be busy with the skirt.
“We’ll only put a bit of powder on your cheeks. Maybe some lip rouge, as well?”
Based on the clinking and rustling noises, Emily was digging through Molly’s cosmetics supplies. “Cool. I didn’t know y’all even had these things. Sylvia never wears them.”
“Of course not.” Sylvia turned, exasperated. “Rouges, powders—these things are for actresses and …”
“Prostitutes?” Molly helped, raising an eyebrow. “Well. It seems you won’t need cheek rouge, at least.”
Sylvia’s whole face was burning. “I’m sorry, I—it—it is just not to be done!”
“Says who? Men? Let me tell you a secret about men.” Molly came closer and laid a comforting hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. “Men like to pretend they’re all high and mighty and know better. They say they want their women wholesome, and using beauty products turns them into liars and deceivers.” Molly adopted a deeper voice and an exaggerated manly stance. “No rouges! No paints! It’s ugly! Pah!” She relaxed and smiled. “Yet you never see the brothels empty, do you?”
“What’s this?” Emily held up a small can.
“Grease and coal. To darken the eyelashes.” Molly stepped to the table where all the items had been spread out and glanced over her shoulder at Sylvia. “The trick is to use just enough to emphasize your attributes, but not as much as to be garish.”
Molly and Emily got to work, chattering and laughing, and Sylvia sat down on the bed, examining her face in a hand-held mirror. Perhaps the rules didn’t make much sense. People said natural beauty was best, yet Sylvia had to spend her entire life fighting a useless battle with her freckles. Emily was right—they were not blemishes, and they would never go away. They were natural. But the same people who stood for natural hated them.
The same people who attributed the choices James had made to her own behavior.
The same people who carefully directed every step of her life to ensure the best, most proper outcome.
The same people who sang praises to Sir Richard.
How blind had they been? How blind was she?
“It’s great, but we need something else.” Molly stepped away from Emily and examined her work—Emily wore a bit of the eyelash-darkening powder, and her lips were slightly darker, but still looking natural. “I’ve got it! We need jewelry. Do you have any?”
Emily shook her head.
Sylvia’s hand reached for the necklace around her neck before she fully realized it. “I have this.” Her own voice seemed distant, as if it was still trapped far away, in the confines of her old world.
“Oh, my. That’s beautiful. Simple, but beautiful. May I?” At Sylvia’s nod, Molly unclasped the necklace and took it over to Emily. “It’s perfect. You’re not one for pearls or diamonds, anyway.”
“You sure you want to be a rancher?” Emily mused. “Because you could’ve been a stylist, too.”
“I’ve no idea what that is, but thank you, I suppose.”
“I …” Sylvia began, and stumbled as the other two looked at her. “Can I … can I try some of the cosmetics, too?”
A wide smile spread across Molly’s face. “Of course, honey. Now, I don’t think we need any rouge for you at all. But it would be nice if we could see those eyelashes of yours. Some powder? ”
Sylvia gave a quick nod, and Molly got to work. Distracted, Sylvia barely noticed how Emily rubbed the pendant with her finger, stared at both the finger and the pendant, and then slipped it inside her blouse.
***
The dance took place inside the same barn as the boxing match. The floor had been somewhat cleaned, and chairs and tables had been placed along the walls. Stacked boxes and planks formed a makeshift stage for the musicians.
Emily sat next to Sylvia, trying to keep her hands from constantly fiddling with the pendant. She couldn’t believe after all the hassle, Sylvia had given her the necklace herself. Well, lent it to her—but after a busy night like this, Emily could easily claim she’d lost it. For now, she wore it outside the blouse; the silver and dark blue colors did go perfectly with her skirt.
“Did you see them draw the ties yet?” Emily whispered to Sylvia, eyes peered on the bag by the entrance that stored the skirt-matching ties. Most of the guests had arrived by now—at least the barn was properly filled up—but so far, Molly had only been guarding the bag.
Finally, she rang a bell and announced to all the dance-willing men to draw near. Emily caught Will’s glance and exaggeratedly wiggled her eyebrows.
The men crowded around the bag like thirsty cattle at the water trough. “Take it easy, boys. One by one. No peeking!” Molly playfully slapped one man’s hand. “One tie per person, Henry.”
At last the crowd thinned, the men setting out to find their respective partners. Frank waved his, then grabbed a woman with the corresponding skirt and spun her in an embrace. Grandma Dooley, a woman with a face as wrinkled as a Shar Pei’s but surprisingly animated countenance, gave a toothless smile to a young man who bowed before her.
“Miss Sylvia! Oh, Miss Sylvia!” Gibsy trotted up to them, waving a tie with the tiny floral print. “Will you do me the honor?”
Sylvia’s face was somber, verging on disappointed, for a brief moment before she smiled at the old man. “Of course, Mr. Gibson.” She offered him a hand, which Gibsy accepted with uncharacteristic elegance, and he led her to the dance floor.
A minute later, Will approached, holding one hand behind his back.
“Thank god,” Emily breathed.
“Sorry.” He showed a blue tie with big red roses.
“Roses, that’s …” Emily flicked to the entrance, confirming the tie matched with Molly’s skirt. “Oh, foot. I thought I was saved. Do you know who got mine?”
“No clue.” Will sat on Sylvia’s empty chair.
“Oh, I got the pendant! Sylvia gave it to me, would you believe?”
Will frowned.
“No, really. Well, technically, it’s borrowed for the dance. But don’t worry, I’ll pretend I lost it. So this is solved, we have the device and a few extra barrels, and James is good. We’re ready to go home.”
“About that.” Will wrapped the tie around his fingers. “I promised James I’d accompany him to Georgetown tomorrow.”
“What? Why?”
“His arm is still giving him some trouble. Nothing serious, but as he said, he’s ‘not too quick with the gun right now.’ He wants someone with him so MacPherson doesn’t get any ideas. ”
Emily’s heart squeezed—strangely enough, though, she wasn’t sure whether it was entirely because of Will. “Okay. Can I come?”
“I’d like you to stay here, keep an eye out on Lady Ross.”
“So you go do cool stuff, and I’m stuck playing babysitter.”
“Hardly ‘cool’. It’s a serious matter.”
It was—but that didn’t make it less exciting.
“We’ll be gone for three days, four at most. I trust you can do it?”
Emily sighed. “Fine.”
“James’ friends will watch out for possible strangers to the town. Other than us, that is.”
“It seems we have it all settled.” Emily slumped in the chair.
The first dance began, and Emily and Will watched the dance floor in silence. The pairs twirled, jumped, and occasionally clapped to the rhythm of a lively folk tune. The movements weren’t familiar to Emily, though they wouldn’t be too hard to learn. She’d been afraid of getting a partner she wouldn’t like, but what if no one had drawn her tie at all? Though Molly had said women were in the minority. What if her tie had gotten lost?
Why was she worrying about this?
She opened her mouth, hoping a conversation with Will would distract her, but the strange expression on his face made her pause. He was looking at the dancing crowd, eyes slowly moving—following something—caught in an almost dreamlike state. Emily tilted her head, trying to find Will’s target. Close to the center of the crowd, Sylvia danced with Gibsy, trying for a strange balance between the elegance she must’ve been taught and the vivacious moves of the dance. Will’s mouth tipped ever-so-slightly upward as he watched her.
Shit .
“Well, since nobody—” Emily started, only to get interrupted by Molly making her way to them.
“My lovely Mr. Marshall. I’m finally free.”
Will twitched, changing his attention to Molly. His cheeks colored slightly. “Of course. May I offer you a dance?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Molly wrapped her arm around his, sending Emily a cheeky smile over the shoulder as she led Will away.
“And then there was one,” a well-known silky voice spoke near Emily. She whipped her head to the left, finding James leaning on the wall. Her heart gave another one of those weird squeezes, with an added bit of a raised pulse. James hadn’t sought her out after the encounter last night, and she hoped he understood and had given up.
At least she hoped that she hoped.
James raised his hand, a silver-striped tie dangling from his fingers.
“Of course, you had to get it,” Emily said. A rush of relief—no, alarm, it had to be alarm—ran through her. There was no point in delaying it, so she stood. “Let’s go, then.”
“So eager.” James followed her to the dance floor. “You’re not upset I got your tie, are you?”
“I knew what I was getting myself into. Why would I be upset?”
“Good.” He clasped his hands around her waist. “Because I had to take five shifts at the bar from Molly for her to give me your tie.”
“Wh—” Emily jumped away, which coincidentally aligned perfectly with a jump from all the other female dancers. “You cheated!”
“I tilted the odds to my advantage. And trust me, Molly is a hard negotiator. ”
He twirled her to the side. As she spun back and their hands made contact again, an annoying thought wormed through— at least that means he wanted to dance with you. He even cheated to achieve it.
“It won’t work,” she said. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re doing—it won’t work.”
James fixed her with a serious, determined gaze that made the rest of the room slow down. “I know you intend to go home. I said I was fine with that, and I am. But I could—”
“No.” She tried a tone that matched his look. “I’m serious, James. Last night I might have gotten a bit carried away, but nothing happened, and nothing will happen. Nothing can ever happen. Is that clear?”
He stared stubbornly at an empty spot across the dance floor for a moment, then looked at her again. “Why?”
Oh, wasn’t that a long story.
He continued, “I think I’ve made it clear I’m attracted to you. And based on your response last night—ending notwithstanding—I believe this is not one-sided. Circumstances had already thrown us together. Why are you fighting it so hard?”
“I’m not—ugh!” She tore herself out of his arms. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
The dance ended fittingly with her outburst, giving her an opportunity to retreat back to her chair. She examined the room, flicking from head to head, searching for the coppery hair. Wherever he’d gone, for once, James had listened and left her alone.
Sylvia plopped on the chair, catching her breath. “This is livelier than I am accustomed to, but not entirely disagreeable.”
“Glad you’re having fun,” Emily grumbled.
“Is something the matter? ”
Emily grumbled some more.
“I had noticed you dancing with James. That’s good. You should foster your marriage.”
“Oh, don’t even get started, Lady. Next, will you be giving me marriage advice? How to keep a husband happy?”
Sylvia blushed, and Emily quickly regretted her harsh words.
“I am likely the least fitting person to do so,” Sylvia admitted. “No one can say I have a successful marriage.”
“Yeah.” Emily twisted and crumpled her skirt between her fingers. “You seem to be doing pretty well, though. You’d gotten over him.”
“Over him?” Sylvia arched her eyebrows.
“Like, you know, you don’t care about him anymore. ‘You liar, I loved you, and you betrayed me,’” Emily added in a higher voice.
“I never loved him in such a manner,” Sylvia said, dead serious.
“But you still married him?”
“Of course. Marriage does not need to be based on love.”
“I guess, for you people.” Emily wrinkled her nose. “Kind of disgusting to sleep with him, then. And y’all are super into having lots of children, aren’t you?”
Sylvia’s blush heightened, reaching limits even for her. “I …” she clenched her skirt. “Sir Richard and I, we never—that is to say, our marriage has not been—I didn’t—”
“You didn’t”—Emily clucked her tongue, searching for a phrase that wouldn’t turn Sylvia’s face into a fully ripened tomato—“share the bed with him?”
Sylvia shook her head vehemently.
“How? I thought the guys would—well, guys are guys, they’d want to— ”
“I had been ill. When Mama and I came to London, I was still recuperating. Sir Richard was aware I had a weak constitution.”
Emily scanned Sylvia’s body. “You don’t look that sickly to me. A pound or two more wouldn’t hurt, but you’re not on the verge of death.”
Sylvia frowned. “Thank you, I suppose.”
“And Ross, he, uh, never pressed you?”
Sylvia shook her head again. “I am ashamed, though not entirely sorry, to say Sir Richard most likely used me for his gain and had no romantic and probably little friendly interest in me.”
“What about when he kissed you?”
“The brushes on my cheek were acceptable, I suppose. I had never found him repulsing—”
“Not the cheek thing, we’re not ten years old.”
Sylvia’s eyes widened.
Then Emily’s eyes widened. “Oh. He never gave you a proper kiss either, did he? Did anyone?”
“That depends on what you count as proper,” Sylvia bit off. “And I assume you and I don’t share the same definition of it.”
“You poor thing.” No wonder she was so miserable and nasty. She expected no love in marriage, she’d never even been kissed, and her husband refused to sleep with her and then went on to kill a man.
Sylvia was due for a few rounds at a therapist.
Sylvia stood and straightened her skirt with a harsh sweep. “I’d appreciate you not taking pity on me, Miss—Lady—” She blinked and shook her head. “I assure you I need none.” With a feminine little “hmmph,” she turned on her heels and marched from the barn.
** *
Outside the barn, Will leaned on the wall and enjoyed the silence and the dark, interrupted only by a weak oil lamp hanging off the side. While the festivities were entertaining, and Molly a great dancer, Will quickly realized he needed a break—he simply wasn’t sure from what.
Lady Ross looked like she had fun, too, dancing with Gibsy. The older man had been in line right before Will when they pulled out the ties. Will couldn’t quite explain the strange disappointment when Gibsy pulled out the little floral tie, and he didn’t want to overthink it, either.
In fact, it would be better if he’d stopped thinking about it— her —entirely.
A rustle to the right brought him to attention. Someone had rushed out of the barn. Even if it weren’t for the floral skirt, paired with an elegant blouse with lace frills, Will couldn’t have mistaken the red hair shining in the light.
Lady Ross stopped as she noticed him. “Mr. Marshall.”
“Lady Ross.” He gave her a greeting-goodbye nod and resumed looking at the partially stomped grass while listening for the sounds of her leaving.
But she didn’t leave.
“Would you kiss me?”
Will whipped his head to her. Lady Ross, in response, quickly averted her gaze.
He stuttered through his surprise. “Excuse me?”
She kept her posture as stiff as ever, the only sign of nervousness the wringing of her hands. “I was wondering if you would kiss me.” Her voice had turned to a whisper .
He was still stumbling for words when she continued, “I’d never been kissed. Not the way … the way …”
A woman should be. At first, Will was flooded with confusion, even a bit of anger—what was that husband of hers thinking?—and then came the strange, daunting sense of … satisfaction.
“And the way my life is going, I don’t think I’ll ever be,” she went on. She closed her eyes and took a breath before refocusing on him. “I am not asking for much, Mr. Marshall. Your cousin speaks of such actions as if they are rather simple and not scandalous. Well, my life has already been racked by scandal. I cannot escape my marriage, but it is unlikely I will ever resume it. And I will certainly not consider any relationships—of that sort—with other men.”
The bubble of satisfaction popped, leaving behind a bitter sense of irritation.
Will slowly moved toward her. “Why me?”
“You are … honorable.” She swallowed. “You would not spread the word of such an event.”
Unwillingly, her words brought a pang of disappointment.
Because he was the safe choice.
And what is wrong with that? Aren’t you confining your life to nothing but safe choices?
Lady Ross bit her lip—a gesture arising from nervousness but no less inviting.
“Please.” The breeze drifted over her barely audible whisper.
Will made one step further, enough that their bodies touched.
She tilted her head up and shut her eyes, letting her delicate eyelashes—were they darker than usual?—rest on her blushed, freckled skin .
Ever so slowly, Will lowered his head, closing his eyes just before the tentative touch. Her lips were soft and warm, and that bit of irritation shifted into delight at the contact. He lingered, as she didn’t seem to mind. Then her lips parted, only for a fraction, and the tiniest moan escaped them, a sound that somehow managed to be the most innocent, tantalizing, and erotic thing he’d ever heard. A fire spread through his veins, and underneath that, a tingle.
The tingle.
In a surge of horrifying realization, Will broke the kiss and stumbled back. He looked at his open palms—grabbing her shoulders not a moment before—as if mere traces of the touch had the power to scald him through all the layers of his clothes.
Sylvia reached two fingers up to her lips. “Th-thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” With frustration, fear, and irritation battling inside of him, Will bowed his head and left.
The walk back to his room was short, far too short for him to clear his mind. The flashes of fantasies lingered, little excerpts of dreams that never happened and never would. His hand brushed the watch as he was undressing and stayed there for a moment, weighing and immediately deciding against it. He’d never go to the future. He’d never go to see, never dare to look upon another woman’s face—a woman with the same name—Sylvia, would he pick her just because of her —because this Sylvia could never be his?
One wrong look, a passing glance at the family tree. What had he begun?