years back, ma’am. When your husband was associated with the newspaper office.”
“Oh, yes. How nice to see you again, Mr. Wilder.”
Jane stepped forward. “What do you want?”
“Jane Charlotte!” Her mother had not raised her voice, but Jane jerked guiltily just the same.
“Ah expect you wish to see my husband, Mr. Wilder? We were just about to have our afternoon tea, won’t you join us? Jane, go set the kettle on and call your father.”
Rydell’s gaze held hers for a long, long moment, and then he dipped his head in a barely perceptible nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis, but my errand concerns your daughter.” He turned to face Jane.
“You left something in my office this afternoon.” He pressed a white envelope into her hand. “The key,” he said in a low voice. “You’ll need it to unlock the store.” He closed her fingers around the stiff paper.
An army of white-hot needles marched along her skin where his hand touched hers.
“Jane Charlotte, do let us have some tea! And call your father.”
Jane fought the urge to scream.
“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Rydell said. He looked straight into Jane’s eyes. “There’s no need to bother Colonel Davis. I’m sure he has pressing business elsewhere this evening.”
He released Jane’s hand, bowed to her mother, and turned toward the door. Jane noticed his leather boots were polished to a shine.
“Lefty Springer’ll be there tomorrow, if you need help,” he said.
“I need no help, thank you.” Her hand still tingled, and the sensation made her slightly dizzy. It felt as if that part of her body didn’t belong to her any longer, but belonged instead to him. Goodness, what if he touched my shoulder? My chin? Would those parts of me feel the same? As if they belonged to a different person?
Rydell grinned at her. “Like I said, Lefty’ll be there. You can fire him if you want, but I warn you, he’s almost as stubborn as his employer.”
It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. By the time she’d thought up a retort, he had disappeared through the doorway. The screen banged shut behind him.
Her mother sighed. “My, what a nice young man.”
“He’s a Yankee, Mama!”
“Is he? Well, fancy that. A Yankee in Marion County.”
“Mama, we’re not in…” Oh, what was the use? Maybe it was better this way. At least Mama was not suffering the awful grief widows usually endured.
Jane’s mind buzzed. Her hands itched to be busy. Part of it was the need to escape rather than watch her mother retreat into her pretend world. The rest…well, she couldn’t bear to think of that just yet. Her skin felt stretched tight along the length of her spine and across her shoulders. The sensation was so intense she half expected her body to split in half. She needed to do something!
Her pulse hammering, she climbed the stairs up to the attic for her pattern box and the worn copy of Godey’s Ladies’ Book.
All at once she could hardly wait to begin.
Jane twisted the key in the rusty lock and pushed the plank door wide. A puff of hot, musty air washed over her, smelling of chicken mash—earthy and slightly sweet. For a moment she felt she might lose her breakfast.
She leaned over the mop bucket she’d brought from home, clamped her hand across her stomach, and closed her eyes. She could not do this. The only thing she’d scrubbed in her life was her mother’s already-spotless kitchen floor, and this was a far cry from that. This, she acknowledged, gazing at the cobweb-swathed walls and ceiling and the grains of something moldy heaped into the corners, was one step above a henhouse. Or maybe a step or two below.
Merciful heavens, she had borrowed good money to set up a dressmaking shop in a pigsty! The smell was overpowering.
Another wave of nausea swept over her. She clenched her jaws tight and convulsively swallowed down the bitter saliva pouring into her mouth.
When she could raise her head, she fumbled in the pocket of her blue work skirt for a handkerchief, folded it in half cross-wise, and tied it over her nose and mouth. The scent of lavender masked the odor of the stifling room just enough; if she left the door open and worked fast, maybe she could manage it.
She took the bucket outside, filled it at the pump near the horse trough in front of the hotel across the street, then lugged it into the mercantile. Mr. Mercer had offered to heat water for her on the potbellied stove next to the candy counter. While she waited, she rolled up the sleeves of her high-necked white waist and began sweeping down the walls.
Debris, dirt particles, even what looked like decayed bird droppings rained down on her. She rolled the sleeves back down to protect her arms. As she worked, a thick yellow dust rose and hung in the air like smoke. It made her cough, and her eyes began to smart, but she gritted her teeth and worked steadily until Mr. Mercer poked his head in the doorway.
“Here’s yer water, Miz Davis. ’Bout to boil, it was, so watch yerself, it’s awful hot.” He plunked the brimming bucket onto the floor.
Jane leaned on her broom to catch her breath. “Thank you kindly, sir.”
The storekeeper shook his balding head. “Saddest thing I ever did see,” he murmured.
Jane took his comment to heart. “I find I am quite surprising myself. It is hard work, but it just wants a bit of pluck and dash and it will all come straight.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that, ma’am. I mean the thought of a lady turnin’ my feed store into a dressmakin’ shop. Too ladyfied for the likes of Dixon Falls.”
Jane stared at the wiry man in denim overalls standing before her. “Ladyfied? Why, you have ladies here in Dixon Falls, do you not? Ladies who wear dresses?”
“We got women. Not ladies. Not like you ’n yer ma, that is.”
Jane gave him her warmest smile, then realized he couldn’t possibly see it under her handkerchief mask. “Oh, we are all pretty much the same under the skin, don’t you think?”
“I dunno, ma’am,” he mumbled as he turned away. “I jes’ dunno.”
“Well I do,” Jane announced to the dust swirling in his wake. “Women are women. We all wear corsets and underdrawers and shimmies and petticoats. And dresses,” she added. “Handsome dresses that I intend to conjure from pattern pieces and my own imagination.”
With that, she unwrapped the square of lye soap, drew out the kitchen paring knife she’d brought in her pocket, and began to shave slivers of soap into the bucket of hot water. She swirled her broom to and fro, and when the suds bubbled to the top, she plunged the straw in up to the stitching and sloshed the soapy implement back and forth along the length of the wall.
Droplets of dingy water and soapsuds splatted onto her clothes, and her hair, neatly pinned up this morning, began to loosen and
