Chapter 35 Woman-Shaped Thing
WOMAN-SHAPED THING
I sat at the station for longer than I’d hoped, and it was long enough to start to comprehend the full breadth of my dishevelment.
Dust had settled into the fine weave of my traveling dress, darkened the hem.
My hair, once a sleek and careful arrangement of curls, had declared independence somewhere between day six and day sixteen of the journey, and now hung in stubborn, frizzy rebellion around my face.
I knew it was him before I even turned.
Ealy Washington did not arrive. He descended, in a swirl of voices. He was the color and sheen of boiled peanuts, and his hair was oiled to perfection. He was the most important person in any room.
And then, he blew right past me like I was a park bench. He scanned the platform, gaze slipping over me entirely.
Passed over. That phrase is going to be on my tombstone.
After a few slow steps, he stopped.
Seeing no other woman-shaped thing waiting for him, he turned back to us carefully, brows drawing together.
It was a very strange thing, watching the man you were meant to marry walk right past you like you were a barrel crate.
Not even a nice barrel crate. Just one of those cracked ones used to store rotting turnips.
Ealy scanned the platform, his gaze sliding clean over me and right onto some poor old widow behind me with a crooked bonnet. The townsfolk on the platform were hiding laughter behind their fans. He approached me finally, but it wasn’t to embrace me.
“Have you two ladies seen—” he started. “Well, my brother told me a real fine lady was s’posed to be waitin’ on me here,” he said, laughing in a way that was mostly teeth and not a lot of joy. “I’m afraid if I don’t come back with her, he’ll draw up my last will and testament.”
I couldn’t even be offended. He looked so worried I almost pitied him. But it wasn’t me he was worried about; it was his brother Major’s wrath.
“This here’s Miss Caroline.” Lessie placed both hands against my back and shoved me forward.
A hush fell over the gathered townspeople, a collection of well-dressed businessmen and their corseted wives, shopkeepers peering from doorways, the odd dust-coated cowboy leaning against a post, all watching to see how the tall, important man would handle his less-than-impressive fiancée.
Ealy’s gaze landed on me, and for a second—just a second—his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line before he caught himself. He fixed it instantly, smoothing his features.
“Caroline, the… uh, beauty of New Orleans Caroline?” he said.
A line he must’ve practiced on the way over. “I waited for three days,” he said. I knew he meant to sound devoted, but it landed a little closer to wounded pride. “I was worried sick.”
“I’m so sorry. We were delayed,” I said. Trying to match his pitch.
“Oh, dear. On Saturday, there were speeches. Toasts. Plans. Oh, it was grand.”
Ealy took two measured steps forward and, instead of embracing me, brushed dust from my shoulders.
“Caroline. I—” Then he said, “Let’s get you changed and into a proper bath.
Major says you’re whip-smart. But I have to tell you—out here, it’s cooking, cleaning, and refinement that matter. Not books.”
He laughed.
It wasn’t surprising. Men like that existed back in New Orleans, too, only with better waistcoats. But something about his words landed differently now. Not like a revelation, but like a final, definitive bad note on a trumpet someone should’ve retired years ago.
He pulled out a white handkerchief and held it to his nose, like my presence might carry the plague.
Heated embarrassment bloomed across my skin, crawling up my neck in sharp, mortifying waves. I wasn’t what he’d imagined, and the look on his face was letting me know live, in front of a full audience, instead of through a letter weeks after the wedding.
This was the kind of story one of my friends would write me about in hushed tones, begging me to guess what happened next. But this wasn’t a letter. This was me. And I already knew the ending.
When I wrote home, I’d tell them Ealy was charming. That the house was made of marble. That I was lucky. I’d write it the way I’d practiced it.
But standing there on that platform, I knew better.
He was still rattled by the delay. I could see it in his eyes.
My lateness disrupted the schedule. The engagement had unfolded out of order.
It should have been, a beautiful woman arriving precisely on time.
A grand engagement unfolding precisely as planned.
We were alike in that way. It was why I had agreed to be his bride from hundreds of miles away.
Ealy did not forgive that sort of thing. Not easily.
The townspeople had started whispering. Pointing. Watching. I could feel their scrutiny gather and press into me. And Ealy, panic-stricken Ealy, only started walking faster, beads of sweat breaking across his upper lip.
Something else was going on here.
And it looked like I would be the last person to find out what it was.