Regina Jennings Page 5

  Molly’s hand froze on the plates. Goose bumps appeared on her arm. So much for peace. Without lifting her eyes she pulled the plates down and began to place them around the table, as mute as a ladybug.

  “It’s about Mr. Fenton. I don’t wish for any awkwardness to fester between us. While I still esteem him greatly, I recognize that he might not be God’s plan for me. If that’s the case, then I’ll be forced to adjust my expectations, plain and simple. I’ll trust that God has someone better.”

  The plate was chipped, right through the painted rose, but Prue had probably never noticed. Molly walked around the table to set the next plate in place.

  “Prue, I told you he doesn’t want to squire me around, but we have no choice.”

  “He does have a choice, and I’m disappointed with what he’s chosen.” Prue twisted a dishrag in her hands. “Of course, I still have feelings for him. Those don’t just vanish, you know. It’d be nice if they would, but Mr. Fenton is the first man I’ve ever loved. I don’t quite know how to get over him.”

  The plate clattered on the table. Could one ever recover from love? Maybe if Mr. Fenton embarrassed Prue in front of the entire church, it’d help her forget him.

  Maybe not.

  Conflicting agendas warred within Molly. She wanted to promise Prue she’d never speak to Mr. Fenton again, but if she refused to see him she might as well pack her bags and hop into the first lumber wagon back to Prairie Lea. Besides, until the finances at the mill were secured, she’d be foolish to insult the family that could loan them enough to stay solvent another season.

  “Perhaps I should court someone else, Molly. Someone who’s nothing like Mr. Fenton. I need to dwell on the qualities that he lacks.”

  “I don’t think that’s helpful. Mr. Fenton and you suit each other quite well.”

  “Oh, come now. He can be frightfully priggish. So uptight.” Prue straightened her back and turned to survey the room with her gaze dripping off her nose. She lowered her voice to a midtenor and proceeded with a decent imitation. “‘I believe we were to meet at noon. It’s now two past the hour.’”

  Molly frowned, panic rising in her throat. “He’s not that bad.”

  “Oh, yes he is.” Prue took Molly’s arm. “‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Lovelace, but please don’t walk too close. We mustn’t incite gossip.’”

  Molly twisted her arm out of Prue’s grasp. What was wrong with her? Molly thought Prue’s regard for Fenton was unshakeable. How could Molly escape her fate if he became unattached?

  Molly took cotton napkins to place around the table. “Mr. Fenton holds you in the highest regard. He’s reliable and steady.”

  “Then perhaps I need to find someone different, someone impulsive and exciting, someone who laughs easily and drinks life to the lees.”

  “I don’t know if I’d recommend—” But her caution was interrupted.

  “What’s for supper?” Mr. McGraw bellowed from the doorway.

  “Ham and potatoes. Come and get it.”

  Counting the plates on the table, Molly panicked. She’d set a place for herself and the four McGraws, forgetting Mrs. McGraw’s passing. Why hadn’t Prue corrected her? She reached for the plate, but someone caught her wrist.

  “You aren’t going to let me eat?”

  “Bailey?”

  She blinked, not trusting her eyes. Had he followed her there? No one else seemed surprised at his presence.

  “Nice of you to join us tonight,” Bailey said.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” She turned stunned eyes to Prue, who set the gravy boat on the table, as serene as ever.

  Mr. McGraw smiled. “That’s right. Y’all know each other, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Molly and I are old friends.” His eyes danced, although tears were running down his face.

  Was he crying? What was going on?

  “I . . . I’m not hungry.” Molly held on to the back of the chair with white knuckles. “I think I’d better go.”

  “Nonsense.” Bailey took her by the shoulders and directed her to a chair. “Prue’s put together a fine meal, and she’s quite the chef. Isn’t that right, Cookie?”

  “Please don’t call me that,” Prue said. “I don’t appreciate being compared to your trail cook.”

  “The comparison’s to your credit.”

  “But it shows a lack of . . .” She untied her apron and tossed it on the counter. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. I was telling Molly I need to be more . . . what was it? Impulsive?” Prue carried the last dish to the table and then seated herself. Bailey took the seat next to her, opposite Molly.

  Molly squirmed on the hard chair, unable to drag her eyes off Prue. It couldn’t be. Proper, cautious Prue wasn’t interested in Bailey, was she?

  She had to get her wits about her. With a start, Molly realized she’d passed the food around the table without filling her plate. Bailey noticed, too. Silently he raised an eyebrow and nodded to her plate. He lifted the platter of ham and passed it her way a second time.

  Molly scowled. She’d just as soon eat her leather boot as the slab of ham, but she must partake. She speared a thick piece and tried not to notice Bailey’s approval. Molly tossed her curls. They wouldn’t get the best of her. If eating could prove her unaffected by the ambush, she’d put food away like a sow at the trough.

  “This is right nice y’all eating together,” Prue’s brother said. “If Mr. Fenton were here, we’d have a tableful.”

  His barb went uncommented upon, but nothing said could’ve rivaled the silence for discomfort.

  Mr. Fenton. Molly wished she’d never heard of the man. Why had she allowed her parents to convince her to take after him? He belonged to Prue. She had half a mind to summon him before Prue became fonder of his absence. Molly’s mouthful of meat seemed to expand the longer she chewed. She’d have to swallow it whole.

  Junior spoke up again. “But at least you stopped crying, Bailey. Things must be looking up.”

  Molly had forgotten the tears. Could he be missing her? She looked at his now clear face, and just as she reached for her glass, he winked.

  “Watch what you’re doing,” Junior cried, but it was too late.

  Molly’s glass tipped and a flood of tea rushed across the table and onto Bailey’s lap.

  “Whoa there!” Bailey jumped out of his seat, sending the chair crashing to the floor.

  “Oh no.” Molly threw her napkin on the table to stop the rivulets streaming off the edge onto Prue’s clean kitchen floor.

  General chaos broke out as Prue went for a mop and Mr. McGraw removed the dishes so the soaked tablecloth could be taken away. Molly dove onto the floor with the dish towel, crawling awkwardly with her bustle bouncing above her.

  Bailey met her midway under the table. “It was only a wink,” he whispered. “No reason to drench me.”

  Molly tilted her head up, inches from his face. Why, oh why, did her heart have to beat like a hummingbird’s wings? Why couldn’t her anger prevent the fluttering in her stomach?

  Fluttering or no, his unsettling smile must be dispelled.

  Lifting the saturated dish towel over his head, she squeezed it, sending a cascade of dirty tea rolling down his face.

  “I have every reason to drench you,” she cooed and willed the butterflies to calm before she rose to help her shocked hostess.

  “But you mustn’t walk by yourself,” Prue said to Molly after supper as she gestured to the street. “This neighborhood isn’t safe at night.”

  Bailey, stretching with his arms overhead and enjoying the early winter evening, almost missed his cue. “I’ll see her home.”

  Was it wrong that he enjoyed the glower Molly shot his direction? He stepped off the porch and rubbed his belly. “It’s the least I can do for my hostess after that bang-up meal. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Perhaps we could do it again.” Prue leaned against the porch rail.

  “Sounds dandy,” Bailey said. “Aunt Frances won
’t miss having me at her supper table. That’s a fact. You might check with your pa, though. I don’t think I’m going to be working for him much longer. Not with the havoc the smoke plays on my eyes.”

  “Smoke? That’s what’s wrong with you?” Molly blurted.

  “What did you think? That I was spilling tears over some heartbreak?” But Bailey couldn’t be sure she’d heard, for she was already marching down the street unescorted.

  Prue chuckled low. “You two make quite the pair. Better catch her before a vagrant crosses her path and she beats him senseless.”

  “You’re right. Thanks again, Prue.” He settled his hat on his tea-damp head and trotted after Molly, who was plowing a path through the scraps of former fences left in the walkway.

  Instead of wasting time offering his arm, Bailey took Molly’s and directed her to the street. She tried to pull away.

  “What’s wrong? We’re in public. Are you afraid I’ve lost my convictions?”

  “No, but your shirt is wet. It’s getting my sleeve dirty.”

  He grinned and pulled her arm even tighter against his side. “It’d be dry if you hadn’t baptized me under the table.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind—seeing how you’ve got so much religion these days.” Her eyes flashed blue above rosy cheeks.

  “Why are you worked up? You aren’t still mad at me, are you?”

  Her little chin jutted out like a billy goat’s preparing to butt heads. Charming. ’Specially knowing that anger wasn’t what ailed her. It was jealousy. Bailey couldn’t hide his smile. Prue had been right, but would Molly admit it?

  “I’m sorry to hear that you’ll once again be unemployed,” she said. “Can’t say that I’m surprised, though.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.” He thought about winking but remembered the tea.

  “Well, if you learned a skill like blacksmithing, you might accidentally stumble into an income. Then, if you weren’t careful, you could find yourself in the uncomfortable position of having to marry me like you’ve threatened.” The jutting chin disappeared beneath a smug smile.

  “Believe me, if I find myself dangerously close to being able to support a wife, I’ll be sure to call our families together and see what they suggest. We’ll meet at the church for a discussion. You should come, too. Show up in white—”

  He didn’t want to stop just as her confidence was returning, but the situation at a vacant house ahead of them demanded attention. Standing on a porch the size of a cowhide was a dingy little girl peering into the window.

  “No one lives there.” He frowned and went to the gate, trying to remember who the child belonged to. “Do you need help?”

  The girl turned, took a bite of a sticky bun, and nodded solemnly.

  Bailey held the gate open and motioned Molly into the yard.

  The house stood abandoned, the flower beds brimming with winter weeds and blooms past their season. The girl’s dress had seen better days, too. With grimy fingers wrapped around her treat, she walked out to meet them.

  “I’m supposed to be home before dark, but my kitty ran into this haunted house.” Her big brown eyes never left his, but she must’ve seen his amusement, for she set him straight immediately. “It is haunted. That’s why it’s for sale. Old Lady Ridens don’t want to share her bed with a haint no more.”

  Share a bed? Oh boy. Bailey saw Molly dimple, trying not to laugh at the girl’s story, and the movement drew the child’s attention to her.

  “Say, you’re dressed up real pretty like.” She took inventory of Molly’s skirt trimmings of braid and fringe. “Like the pictures in the catalogs.”

  Molly gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. She peered triumphantly through her eyelashes at Bailey. He chuckled. As if he needed a ragamuffin to draw his attention to how Molly looked.

  “Thank you, honey. And don’t you have the cutest—” Molly’s enthusiasm wilted.

  Even Bailey could see the girl’s plain frock sported only one strand of eyelet lace, broken loose and dangling. A ribbon that should’ve been retired years ago captured fewer strands of dirty hair than it released.

  “Freckles?” he offered, and Molly threw him a grateful smile.

  Bailey’s heart warmed as she knelt and fished through her reticule for a handkerchief. He should’ve known she’d spiff up the child. His little sisters always begged him to bring Molly home, relishing the attention she lavished on them.

  The girl slurped sticky bun off her finger but held still for Molly’s attentions. “When I get big, will I look like you?”

  “Only if you’re lucky, sweetie,” Molly said. “Lucky and willing to spend two hours at your dressing table every morning, scads of money on your wardrobe, and have the patience to religiously scour Harper’s Bazaar for the latest fashions.” After a few swipes at the glaze, she gave up and pulled the sticky handkerchief off of the girl’s face. Sighing, Molly fished a three-cent piece from her bag and dropped it into the child’s hand.

  “Tomorrow morning you go buy yourself a fresh hair ribbon.” Molly stood and tugged at her snug bodice. “And no more sticky buns. You’ll regret every bite some day.”

  “Don’t pay her no mind,” Bailey said. “She does everything she can to disguise what God gave her. If she’d spend half the effort, she’d get twice the results.” He really shouldn’t be looking at Molly like that. What had Weston said about repeatedly falling into temptation?

  “Now, let’s get that cat of yours before the haint does,” he said.

  Pushing through the unlocked door, Bailey walked into the dark building.

  ———

  The creaking hinges sent chills up Molly’s back. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Not usually, but sunset in the questionable part of town wouldn’t be the time or place to learn she was mistaken. Boards creaked as she felt her way further into the house.

  “Bailey, don’t go by yourself.” Molly tiptoed to the nearest window and slid the tattered curtains open, making use of the last of the sunlight. “Can you hear me?”

  No answer came from the dark hallway.

  The girl at the door peeked in. “He’s d-dead. The haints got him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” But why didn’t he answer?

  Molly crept closer to the giant stone fireplace, trying to hide herself between it and whatever lurked in the shadows of the hall. Footsteps sounded, coming toward them. The child’s eyes grew large, and Molly backed into the fireplace to hide.

  “Meow!”

  Something landed on her neck.

  “Bailey, help me.” Molly streaked across the dusky room screaming and swatting at her back. “Some beast has a hold of me. Get it off.” She touched something hairy and screamed again.

  “It’s not a beast,” the girl cried. But if it wasn’t an animal, Molly’s ideas about the afterlife were shattered.

  Bailey ran into the room and removed the life-threatening menace, but not before it hooked a slender claw in her neck.

  Bailey handed the kitten to the little girl, who cradled it in her arms. She kept her grasp on the now fuzzy sticky bun, choosing to let the three-cent piece drop on the scuffed floor instead.

  “You best keep your money, miss. If you don’t know the difference between a kitten and a haint, you might should spend less time in front of the mirror.” She spun on her bare foot and marched proudly out the door.

  “The little ingrate.” Molly was appalled but bent to retrieve her coin nonetheless.

  Bailey chuckled.

  “I don’t expect you to be as insulted as I am, but would it pain you to hide your amusement?” she said. “Surely you don’t approve of such haughty behavior in children.”

  “Absolutely not. Someone needs to take her down a peg . . .”

  Molly nodded.

  “. . . before she grows up and some poor fellow falls in love with her.”

  Molly drew a heart with the toe of her boot on the dusty floor and then rubbed it into oblivion. “I thought you�
��d sworn off talk like that—to me anyway.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Talk like what? I’m merely discussing the failure of a child’s mother to teach her values. I didn’t say which child. There’s many a lesson to be learned when confronted with ill behavior.”

  “You sound like Reverend Stoker.” Molly reached up and gingerly touched her hat. “Did that churl destroy my bonnet?”

  “I’m more worried about the scratch. Let me see.”

  He took her by the elbow and turned her from him. Molly felt his fingers trace a tender path from her hairline to her collar. She stood absolutely still, waiting until he was finished to breathe again.

  “It’s too dark to see, but it raised a line. You’d better get some iodine on that before it scars.” He stepped away.

  “Serves me right, venturing across the canal.”

  “It’s not that bad. The McGraws have a nice house—and look at this place. Even a beginning blacksmith could afford this.”

  “But you aren’t smithing anymore.”

  “There are other jobs. I hear they’re looking for a bailiff.”

  “Too late. I met the new man today.” It was the truth, but maybe she could’ve said it a little nicer.

  Bailey seemed to pull from his inexhaustible reserve of optimism. “So I’ll find something else—butcher, baker, candlestick maker—they all have houses and families. You don’t have to live on San Antonio Street to be happy. There’s nothing wrong with starting small.”

  Replacing an errant hatpin, Molly cocked an eyebrow. “Like this hovel? Where would the maid sleep?”

  “We wouldn’t want a maid, not when it could be just the two of us. Alone. Real cozy like.” He didn’t come any closer, but his voice reached out to her and pulled her into a warm embrace.

  “You should see the kitchen,” he continued. “It’s the perfect size—everything at your fingertips. No hollering across a giant dining room. And for this parlor we could drop a nice sofa right here in front of the fireplace. Wouldn’t that be perfect for days like today? Cuddling under a quilt until one of us decided it was time for bed.”