Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
Laughter rang out, filling the dining room, everyone amused at Max’s suggestion.
Bart refilled his white porcelain coffee cup from the silver coffee pot on the star-shaped trivet at his end of the table. “Folks in these parts, Max, other than your ancestor, spend their money on ranch hands, not butlers or valets.”
“I don’t know,” Livia said, her fork toying with the eggs on her plate. “Maybe a butler wouldn’t be such a bad idea. We are entertaining the cream of Denver and Cheyenne society.”
“In town, yes,” Bart said. “But here at the Sky Top…”
“Well,” Livia said, “we have to explain him somehow.”
“I’d be quite happy to tag along with Sheriff Creede,” Max said. “I really am quite self-sufficient. I passed my country’s military survival course with flying colors. And not just because I am a prince,” he added as Bart looked like he might make a slighting comment. “I’m not about to put my comrades-in-arms, or myself, for that matter, in danger by expecting preferential treatment.”
The others around the table fell quiet, each of them giving Max an assessing gaze.
“I could be a lawman on loan to Creede from Tombstone,” he said, slipping into his Texas twang again, getting another laugh. “Or the O.K. Corral.”
Livia grinned. “I’m pretty sure the O.K. Corral was in Tombstone.”
“Whatever,” Max said. “As one of Creede’s tough, silent deputies, I’d be out of your hair. No one would know the difference.”
Miss Calliope placed another pancake on her syrupy plate. “I reckon I don’t see you as the silent type, prince. And ain’t no one going to mistake you for anything but who you are. Everyone who’s met you here thinks you’re the Evil Prince, even when you’re in Bart’s cowboyin’ clothes, with your hat half-covering your eyes, and a bandana covering your chin.”
Bart cut into a succulent slice of ham. “Max isn’t going anywhere. No,” he said when Livia opened her mouth to protest. “I’ve sent most of the hands who met him yesterday up to the north meadow for the next three days. The rest of the folks here know better than to gossip with others about Sky Top business.”
“But the suitors won’t,” Livia said. “Gossip about Max might get to the Evil Prince’s ears.”
“I have a feeling,” Max said, setting down his coffee cup, “that a meeting with my ancestor is inevitable.”
“Yes,” Livia said, “but I’d prefer it was on our terms, not his. And if he is destined to give us trouble, I’d rather hold you in reserve.”
Max smiled. “Another Machiavellian, I see.”
“You have to admit,” she said, “your knowledge of him and your country could be useful.”
“Not to mention the family resemblance,” Max said. “A blessing and a curse. Really, masquerading as your butler would be just the thing to hide my presence. A slight modification of my accent to make it sound British, a formal suit, and” —he raised an amused eyebrow at Miss Calliope— “my princely manner adjusted to that of a formal, upright, stuffy butler, and no one will suspect.”
“Won’t it be beneath your dignity?” Mrs. James said. “You are a prince.”
Max grinned.
“From what I know about Prince Max,” Livia said, “this is just the kind of lark he would enjoy.”
And, Max said to himself, he’d be perfectly placed to protect Miss Calliope if Evil Prince Hugo decided to make that diplomatic visit Max had foretold.
Late that morning, after a series of fittings conducted with Livia and the wife of the ranch’s assistant foreman, Mrs. Wade, who was an accomplished seamstress, Max was standing at attention in the small bedroom at the end of the hallway that contained the main house’s sleeping quarters, dressed in a formal late-nineteenth-century suit with waistcoat that had, until this morning, belonged to Bart. The fine black wool smelled of the cedar chest from which it had been removed. A white dress shirt of a very fine cotton was soft against his chest, its wing collar stiff with starch.
Fortunately, the long suit coat, waistcoat, and trousers had already been a close enough fit that the speedy Mrs. Wade had had enough time to finish her work before the suitors—due in another couple of hours—began to arrive.
Livia held a flat-bottomed red pincushion that looked like a tiny ottoman toward Mrs. Wade, keeping it in easy reach of the seamstress, who was making tiny final adjustments along one seam of the coat.
Sunlight filled the bedroom, sunlight as bright as the yellow and blue curtains and bedspread that decorated the cozy space.
“This was Livie’s room when she first came here,” Miss Calliope said. She leaned against the doorframe, adorable in a pink dress patterned all over with more of the tiny flowers that seemed so prevalent among the clothing of this century, the fabric crisp and fresh and new looking. Her gaze seemed to hold a hint of admiration behind those pretty eyes that were full of gleeful mischievousness at his masquerade.
“A new dress, Miss Calliope?” he teased, but inside he felt that inconvenient tug again of attraction to her.
Miss Calliope glanced down at her garment. Its simple lines set off her athletic, feminine figure, the dress demure like her other outfits, and just as alluring. Too damned alluring. “Ma wants them suitors to see me in my natural habitat, which means I ain’t dressed in fine clothes all the time.”
He nodded. “Very American West, if I may say so.”
“Don’t you have calico dresses where you’re from?” she asked.
“Is that what you call all those tiny flowers?” Max said. “Calico?”
Miss Calliope grinned. “Shore do.”
Livia glanced between her sister-in-law and Max for a long moment, then looked at the elegant, engraved gold pocket watch she took from the hip pocket of her plain, pale-blue dress. “This will have to do if we’re going to be done with the alterations in time. Take off the coat, Max, and go finish the rest of your disguise.”
The first batch of suitors arrived around two in the afternoon, when the hot sun was high in the sky, and the breeze from the snow-topped peaks of the Sky Top mountains carried the scent of pine down the mountains’ slopes. The sound of the ranch’s blacksmith pounding a metallic beat on his anvil came from the outbuildings.
Max, dressed in his formal butler clothes, complete with white cotton gloves and black silk Ascot-like tie, stood at the foot of the porch at a respectful distance from the James family, who—alerted by the barking dogs—were arrayed at the bottom of the porch steps, dressed in their own finery: Bart in a dark-gray suit less formal than Max’s, but still with a matching waistcoat, with black cowboy boots and his own black Ascot-like tie to round off things; Mrs. James elegant in a long blue dress with the high neckline and fitted sleeves that seemed to be the daytime fashion of this era, her dark hair up in an elaborate knot at the back; Livia in a similar pale-green dress, only with a fuller skirt and looser sleeves, looking for all the world as if she’d been born and raised in the nineteenth century.
And Miss Calliope, standing between her mother and brother in her pink calico dress. Her pretty face was composed and serene, shockingly so, given that she was at any moment about to greet her possible future husband. Her dark hair was up like her mother’s, only less elaborately, befitting her simple dress. All of her, in fact, looked suspiciously demure, and Max realized that as much as he’d like to ride in a posse with Creede, he wouldn’t have missed seeing Miss Calliope say howdy to her suitors for anything.
Did the suitors understand just what they were undertaking, courting the vibrant young tomboy?
Did any of them have the fortitude to keep up with her?
Her gaze was quietly assessing as three young men rode up to the house at a walk atop impressive, sweat-darkened mounts, all of them, according to Livia, from Denver or Cheyenne.
Three athletic young men, with varying levels of good looks, and Max found himself measuring them against himself, and he chided himself for his foolishness. But that didn’t stop him from watching Miss Calliope as she watched the young men, knowing she would be judging the men’s horseflesh as well as their own appearances.
The guests dismounted. Two stable boys led the horses away.
Introductions commenced, the three suitors making their bows as they met Livia for the first time, Livia having stayed at the ranch while Miss Calliope and the others had traveled to Denver and Cheyenne.
Mr. Anderson, from Denver, was finely dressed in an English-style riding outfit of fitted breeches, tall polished black boots, a dark-green coat, and a striped bow tie—sportsman attire of the time, Max thought—Mr. Anderson flushed from the heat. Sweat beaded along his elegant white collar, where it pooled after running down his face from his temples. The narrow, curled brim of his fashionable hat was as elegant as the rest of him, but not practical for an hours-long horse ride in the hot mountain sun. Shorter than the other men, he was still taller than Miss Calliope, to whom he gave a quiet, dignified, gentlemanly nod.
Mr. Yardley, also from Denver, and dressed as finely as Mr. Anderson, seemed more athletic than the other man, and Max felt a twinge of jealousy as Miss Calliope looked over the young man’s horse, then the young man’s own body—surreptitiously, but Max knew—a hint of approval in her pretty blue eyes.
But Max had caught a slight whiff of whiskey as the young man greeted her mother.
Mr. Vann, a handsome cattleman’s son from Cheyenne, with a trim, dark mustache, and who was, perhaps, more used to long mountain journeys by horse, had worn what Max would consider high-end, expensively tailored cowboy-like clothes, the most practical of the three. Practical, until he opened the long leather case he’d untied from the back of his Western saddle and produced a beautiful armful of long-stemmed red roses packed in wet moss and a limp canvas bag that had likely that morning held ice.
Miss Calliope caught her breath. “Thank you, Mr. Vann,” she said, speaking for the first time as she took the roses from him—speaking in an elegant, formal voice Max had never heard from her before, and which had him making a double take. It was Miss Calliope all right, standing there, but still, he gaped at her for a long moment, the unexpected elegant voice matching her demure face and elegant hair style, somewhat the way her less formal speech matched her riding skirt and tomboy braid, then he thought of his own sister, who was able to turn the formal royal manner on and off when needed.
Miss Calliope glanced at the leather case, then the moss, and Max knew she was just itching to exclaim and ask questions about how Mr. Vann had managed to preserve the roses.
Instead, she gave a delicate sniff of the rose blossoms, half-closing her eyes in a way that made every young suitor there—and Max—think of things none of the suitors should be thinking about. Not about Miss Calliope.
“They’re lovely, Mr. Vann,” Mrs. James said, breaking the spell Miss Calliope had unwittingly cast. “Welcome, gentlemen, to the Sky Top Ranch. Please, come inside.”
Max remained at the foot of the porch, no longer quite so amused, as Mrs. James escorted the hot, dusty suitors into the house, presumably for lemonade.
Not a one of them had had a genuine smile for Miss Calliope. No hint of adoration or even love. Not even a glance that appreciated her charm, or her sheer vitality.
What was Mrs. James thinking?
Livia, lingering on the drive as the others went inside, stepped over to Max with a raised eyebrow, as if asking what he thought.
“What on earth is Miss Calliope’s mother thinking, inviting these guys here?” he said to her in a low voice, the cotton balls he’d tucked in his cheeks to round out his face making his mouth dry. Hot sun struck his bare forehead, his hair slicked back from his face, lending a larger palette to his features that seemed to shift his whole appearance, enough at least to contrast with what one could see past Hugo’s facial hair and ornate military hat. “They don’t give a damn about her.”
“They come from the leading families in Denver and Cheyenne. They have a lot of family power.”
“Surely Mrs. James doesn’t expect Miss Calliope to marry just for that.”
“No, but she wants Cally to have every opportunity. These guys wouldn’t be the first to improve through the love of a good woman.”
But Max had pegged them easily within five minutes. “Mr. Anderson is a dandy, more interested in his appearance and tailoring than Miss Calliope. Mr. Yardley will be drunk before five. Mr. Vann is here for the money—surely you noticed his gaze going over the ranch house, then the rest of the buildings, like an adding machine calculating its net worth.”
“You say that speaking as a man of the world?”
“Well, yes. Yes, I do.” Max had known men like that all his life, and better ones, too, thank God. Hell, he’d been nearly all of these men, at one time or another, not in the extreme, but there’d been a time when his appearance had meant nearly everything. A time when he’d found temporary solace in whiskey. A time when he’d valued money over everything else—all phases he’d gone through rapidly, he was glad to say.
Fortunately, he—as Bart’s butler—would be on the scene anytime any of these suitors were anywhere near Miss Calliope.
“You know,” Livia said, “June is pretty smart. I suspect she’s invited the suitors here for Cally to size them up on her own territory.”
“Miss Calliope would know the difference between a man of character and a handsome face, wouldn’t she?”
“Hard to say,” Livia said. “I’ve never seen her fall in love.”
“Never?”
“She’s only recently discovered an interest in men.”
“Why do you tell me these things?”
“Because…I don’t know,” Livia said, as if she hadn’t thought about it before. “Maybe because we grew up in the same century. Maybe because nobody else here would understand.”
“They all seem appallingly young,” Max said.
“People marry earlier these days than in our time.”
“‘Our time.’” Max shook his head. “How long did it take you to get used to saying that?”
“It’s still hard to believe,” she said. “Even now.”
Bart stepped outside onto the porch and raised his hand toward Max.
“Cheerio,” Max told Livia, and adjusted his pristine white cuffs with his white-gloved hands. “My employer has summoned me.” He held out his elbow, silently offering to escort her up the porch steps to her husband. “Time to do my country proud.”
She stifled a grin as she took his arm, he could tell by the wavering of the corners of her mouth. “You behave,” she told him.
With a solemn face befitting his new station in life, Max led Livia toward Bart.