Woman's Own by Robyn Carr
Noel took a step backwards to stay out of her way. She whirled around her kitchen, finding a kettle, ladling water from a bucket, reaching for the china pot high up on a shelf and opening a tea jar. Noel appreciated the sight of her moving around the kitchen in her sleeping clothes, hair unbound, feet bare.
“Emily, you fix that tea. I’ll be right back,” he said, and went quietly up the back stairs to his attic room, some twenty-five steps, the last twelve nearly straight up, but as soundlessly as a mountain lion. He dropped his tie and coat on the bed and pulled a bottle from his carpetbag; it was time to get a lot of things opened up. Twenty-five steps down brought him back into the warm little kitchen where he found cups and saucers had been placed on the worktable, plus a dish of butter and three fresh buns. He liked the way Emily could gain control by moving around her kitchen. She was the kind of woman who, if she had work, some mission, would be all right. It was only when she didn’t know what to do that she could appear helpless. Noel pulled the cork from the whiskey bottle, poured a small draught in each teacup, and placed the bottle on the table.
When Emily turned from the stove she was holding the handle of the steaming kettle with a towel. She stopped short when she saw the whiskey bottle. Her pause was a studied one, but she had recovered her composure by working in her kitchen. She poured the hot water from the kettle into the teapot. “You’ll have to get rid of that bottle, Mr. Padgett. You know the rules of this house--spirits are not allowed. And should any of my boarders come into the kitchen and see--”
“Let’s just this once drop all these fancy ideas. First off, this isn’t spirits--it’s whiskey, and I need a shot. You might decide you need one too when you hear about your young woman. Second thing is, ain’t no one coming down here tonight. Little Annie and Jamie are all cozy, Mrs. Fairchild sleeps like the dead, you won’t see those young girls, and if John Giddings pulls on his drawers to come down the stairs, he’ll join us in a drink. He’s the only one might, and he thinks so highly of you that you could be sitting here naked with a fistful of playing cards and a cigar in your mouth and he wouldn’t say a word to condemn you.”
“Mister Padgett!” she whispered almost pleadingly, shocked.
“‘Spose that’s about ready?” he said, pointing toward the teapot. “Pour yourself a little over the whiskey and add some sugar. It’ll warm you up and calm you down.”
“I’m perfectly calm,” she replied in a tight voice.
“That might not last long.” He waited. He gave a nod toward the teapot, and finally, sighing, Emily poured tea into her cup, but when she moved the spout toward his, he stopped her.
She didn’t approve of liquor, but she liked independence. She found his tenacity admirable. It was only whiskey. Noel was not a drunkard. Also, she was grateful that he had brought Patricia home and would not repay him by judging him.
But rather than saying what she felt, she said, “I assure you, Mr. Padgett, I won’t be needing this brew for the courage to face whatever my daughter has--”
“Never meant to imply you did, Mrs. Armstrong. Emily.” He smiled and lifted his teacup, taking his whiskey neat in one swallow. He held his breath luxuriously, eyes closed, then smiled again. “Just keep it handy, ma’am. Think of it as a tonic.”
“What happened to my daughter?”
“Well, Emily, I reckon you already figured out she lied to you. She found herself some fancy friends who would take her to a fancy party. And, like she told you, they left her there.”
“The Jasper family? Why would they do such a thing? I thought Mary Ellen Jasper was Patricia’s good friend.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Thank the heavens you were there. She saw you and asked you for a ride?”
“Nope. It wasn’t quite that way. I saw her, saw how she had a new partner every dance, and decided I’d better keep an eye on her. Never could tell which young man was her escort. Get her to show you that dress she wore. Now, I’m a man to admire a woman with a nice, plentiful figure... unless... unless maybe it was my daughter. Seemed like Patricia lost track of the people she went to the party with because she was too busy.”
Emily felt her insides tighten; her neck was suddenly stiff and aching. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking, and she kept her eyes locked into Noel’s, waiting, although she wasn’t sure she could bear to hear any more.
“I couldn’t really see the point in stepping in to stop her, but on the other hand I knew she didn’t have any experience with fancy parties, and I didn’t want to leave her in trouble. Beautiful girl, Emily. I reckon she was the prettiest one there. Oh, for a while there I think she was maybe the happiest girl in the whole world, too, because she was sure the one with the most dance partners. The men couldn’t keep their eyes off her. Got a few green stares from women, too.”
Emily didn’t need his delicate explanation. She glanced away, feeling as foolish as if she herself had made a scene. She had seen the new hairstyle and was afraid to have Patricia model the dress. A vision of her daughter came easily: a cheap, garish creature, flirting outrageously, ignoring protocol, dismissing her escort, collecting partners indiscriminately. “How…how did you happen to be there, Mr. … Noel?”
“Oh. That. The territory of Wyoming, where I have a considerable piece of land and a goodly herd, they thought to make me a representative to the Centennial.
“Truth be known, Emily, I’m here to politic. The territory needs a lot of money; they need railroads, cavalry, land grants, the like. Part of my job during the Exhibition is to shake a lot of hands, get politicians interested in the territory, and maybe bring some business and some money home. I’ll have to go to a fancy party or two, meet the people whose influence will help Wyoming.”
“You must have a great deal of money,” she observed.
He cleared his throat. “Doesn’t make me any different, really, if I have some money.”
“It does make it a little strange that you’re content to stay in a boardinghouse like this one. I’m sure you could afford--”
“The truth is I like it better here than in the hotel. I’m not much for big doings, and I like the company. Turned out to be a good thing, all around, though, that I happened to be at the senator’s fancy party.”
Noel uncorked his bottle and poured himself another draught. He didn’t look at her. “Turned out to be good that Patricia got left behind.” The teacup, petite and fragile, looked clumsy in his large, thick hand. “I don’t know how I’d have done her any good if she’d gotten in a coach. And that young fella I tossed in the bush was there, talked to her a long while. I weighted the goods against the bads if I had to toss him in another bush.”
For me, Emily thought. He’d have done it for me. But what would have happened to Patricia?
“I guess it’s no surprise she thinks she’s a lot smarter than the rest of us. I remember thinking I was a whole lot smarter than my pa. And he let me think so, too, because telling me different wouldn’t have worked. Nope, he let me find out for myself just how smart I was. Wasn’t long before it was mighty clear. Maybe Miss Patricia had a lesson tonight.”
Emily’s hand rose to rest on the table, gingerly reaching for her teacup. She remembered, too. Amanda had tried so desperately to make her listen, but she wouldn’t. Her fingers shook slightly as she lifted it to her lips. She took a tiny swallow, letting the burning whiskey warm her all the way down. Then she took another, grateful now for the tonic.
“You must think I’m a terrible mother,” she said, her voice hoarse from the drink, which covered any fearful tremors. “Not even knowing where my own daughter was.”
“How do you reckon you’d know? She meant for you not to know.”
“But it’s my obligation to know! I should have seen--”
“So you’ve seen. Now it’s your place to be sure she can’t fool you again.”
Emily fought the urge to cry. She was so afraid, so confused. Despite the struggle to feed them, she wished the girls were babies again.
Noel’s hand tipped the bottle toward her teacup, and she waved it away. “No…no, I despise that terrible brew.”
“Go on,” he said, brushing her hand aside. “Takes the sting out of nights like this.” And she let him pour another small amount, noticing in spite of herself that she did feel slightly less panicked, but a great deal more emotional.
“I suppose,” she began while Noel added tea and sugar to her cup, “that many young girls behave rather…ah, spontaneously when they become interested in marriage.”
“If that was the reason for Miss Patricia’s getting herself to that fancy party and getting herself left behind, you wouldn’t have any problem at all, ma’am. The problem is a whole lot bigger than marriage.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, if there was someone she wanted to marry just now, you could sashay around the problem by letting her have him. The problem is that Miss Patricia wants a fancier life than what you have here. And that’s a real shame.”
Emily let her eyes drop. “I just don’t want her to be hurt,” Emily said very softly. Without raising her gaze, she lifted the teacup again. She sipped. “Thank you,” she said. “For bringing her home and for…for the tonic.”
“Pleasure, ma’am. And don’t worry too much about that young woman getting herself in trouble.”
“Do you think I’ll be able to talk some sense into her?” she asked, not finding it at all odd, given the tonic and her unsteady nerves, to be asking advice of an unmarried cowboy.
Noel smiled. “Nope. Time for talking’s past. Just bolt the door for a spell.”
“Yes,” she said in resignation. She stood then, feeling a little light-headed, but better. “I’ll talk to her in the morning. Good night.”
Noel stood. He reached out for her hand. “Emily,” he said quietly. “I think the time has come to talk about us. You and me.” She let him detain her, blaming the liquor. “There’s a reason I’d rather not go to some hotel now. And I think you know what it is.”
“Mr. Padgett, I think--”
“No, Emily, this time I don’t want you to get around it by refusing to say my name. Look here, I want you to listen to me. It’s you, Emily. I want to be here with you. I won’t pay you any disrespect. I won’t hurt your good reputation, but I want you to know--”
“Mr. Padgett, it’s after midnight, and I’m wearing my bedclothes!”
Noel pulled on her hand to draw her closer, and then, slipping his arms around her waist, he embraced her. He waited for a moment, his mouth above hers, giving her a chance to protest his kiss, and when she didn’t, he gently lowered his mouth. He regretted that he’d never done a great deal of kissing because he would have liked for this to be the most powerful kiss she’d ever had in her life, and he was unpracticed. He tried not to hurry and just gently coaxed her lips, tasting a bit of her mouth. She didn’t invite a deeper kiss. And she didn’t embrace him, not quite. She was little, but strong, firm, and she felt good in his arms, against him. The feeling was still easy in him; holding her was right. Her hands lay on his forearms, and he wished she would cling to him, pull him nearer. He kissed her a bit harder and felt her fingertips move into a clench. He wanted to feel more of her, feel some of the signs of a woman liking it, but with all those bedclothes and such there was only her small but solid body and her barely squeezing fingers. Still, she didn’t pull away. That wasn’t much on which to form a conclusion, but Emily wasn’t shy. She wouldn’t let him kiss her if she didn’t want to.
He continued to hold her, but he took his mouth from hers. “Will you hold me?” he asked her. “Will you kiss me?”
Her eyes didn’t open. “I…I can’t.”
“Can’t, Emily? Or won’t?”
“It’s been…it’s been too long, too--” She was unable to say anything more, unable to open her eyes. She let her head drop against his chest, eyes downcast. And so Noel wondered, too long, too painful.? Too lonely? Frightening?
“Do you miss him? Mr. Armstrong?”
She lifted her head and her eyes opened. “Oh! No! It’s not that, it’s hard to explain, but I…oh, please, don’t ask me, don’t!”
He didn’t try to kiss her again, but he couldn’t quite let her go. The feeling was a little less easy in him. That was the only thing he needed to know, that she wasn’t pining after someone long dead. In a lot of ways, he decided, Emily was more like an untried virgin than young Miss Patricia. Emily knew about love, about men and women, but she’d learned how to live her life without thinking about that, without yearning or daring or wondering or trying. How else could she have managed, and with a feeling of contentment? It had to be that she’d never considered finding someone new to replace her dead husband. Maybe she had never acknowledged desire.
“That’s fine by me,” he said softly against her cheek. “You’ll tell me all about it when you’re ready. But I won’t have lies between us. I’ll call you ‘ma’am’ and ‘Mrs. Armstrong’ around the others and I won’t embarrass you--I want you to be happy. But it’s you I care about, Emily, and I want it to be right between us. And I think you better know something else. I never cared for a woman like this before.”
He let go of her very reluctantly. He took the corked bottle, smiled at her, and turned toward the back stairs.
“Good night,” she said.
He turned, not exactly hopeful, but feeling a great many years younger than he was.
“Noel,” she softly added, her lips curving.
“Good night. Emily.”
The horsecar was nearly full so Lilly and Patricia had to sit on benches opposite each other, their knees nearly touching across the narrow, hay-strewn aisle. Patricia had lifted the hem of her skirt slightly, showing her leather buttoned ankles. Lilly, too, kept her hem off the hay. Although spitting was not allowed, there were telltale brown tobacco spots there, not to mention plenty of mud.
Beside Lilly slumped a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy, holding newspapers and a lunch tin. She guessed from his posture that he’d already finished a full day’s work. On her other side was a slim, mustachioed man who chewed noisily on an unlit cigar and supplied the acrid odor of a chimney sweep. Patricia was wedged tightly between a large, bosomy woman whose wide-brimmed and feathered hat occasionally dipped right over Patricia’s left eyebrow and a young woman wearing a maid’s cap and a long, heavily starched white apron.
Had the horsecar been less crowded, Lilly would have taken a seat beside her sister and would have been unable to look at her face. Had Lilly really wanted a more exciting life? Since Patricia’s evening out in Mary Ellen’s second-hand frills, the entire household had become strange. Emily had declared that the gown and accessories would be returned, but she had made no attempt to take care of it. Rather than doing as she’d been told, Patricia had concealed the clothes in the bottom of their armoire. She didn’t lie or pretend to have returned them; she simply hid them and said nothing. And neither did Emily!
Lilly had heard the story from Patricia’s own lips: Mary Ellen had become jealous of Patricia’s prettiness and immediate popularity and sneaked away from the ball, abandoning Patricia. Rather than being contrite and sorry, Patricia seemed rather proud of the fact that had she not been left behind Emily might never have known.
Emily did not scold or lecture. She did not ask Patricia any questions, and Patricia did not supply any explanations. Looking piqued and headachey, Emily had entered their bedroom early on the next morning and was very brief. “Obviously you think yourself a great deal more experienced than I,” she said icily. “Since you will not listen to me and you will not let me help you, I am not inclined to try very hard. Consider yourself confined. You will not go out of the house unaccompanied. You will not have visitors. Nor will you attend any functions without my permission.”
Today Patricia rode into the cit
Patricia gazed across the aisle, over Lilly’s shoulder, at the passing houses and businesses. Her eyes were cool, her expression remote. Lilly had tried to get her to tell all; surely there was a great deal more. How Mr. Padgett had come to be at the fancy party, for one thing. But Patricia had never asked, didn’t care, and since she was now confined to the house, Lilly had not been able to read the wonderful pages of her journal where she believed a great drama lived. She had worried that Patricia suffered from melancholia, so distant was her gaze, so detached was her behavior, but, in the days since, Lilly had decided that Patricia displayed derision. Resentment. Haughtiness!
“Aren’t you afraid Mama will never forgive you?” Lilly had asked.
“I imagine she won’t, and who cares? I knew Mama would not have allowed me, and so I went without permission.” Patricia had shrugged, dismissive, as though she had little connection to this irate mother. “Mama is angry, I won’t be allowed out, and what does it all matter? It’s over, anyway.”