Harmony (15 page)

“Good morning, ladies,” she said, speaking clearly and distinctly. She hadn't had any practice acting matronly to girls precious few years younger than herself. To Edwina's way of thinking, she was still in her youth, too.

“Good morning, Miss Huntington,” they returned in unison.

Although her purpose was to appear matronly, Edwina felt frightfully dusty on the old maid's shelf with that form of address. Changing times were at hand. In Chicago, young women had begun to address their husbands informally by their first names, rather than in the old-fashioned way of Mr. Whoever.

“You may call me Miss Edwina,” she said, neatening the application stack, which hadn't been untidy to start with. “Allow me to tell you about this school and what you'll be learning here. A well-developed moral sense will prevent idleness and build in you a regulated character, which will in turn preserve you from the excesses of those tenderer emotions and deeper passions of women that are potent and can work for evil or for good.”

The girls gave her blank stares, but she continued in a voice that held depth and authority she didn't necessarily feel. “You will be taught discipline and how . . . um . . .”—her sternness faltered—“. . . not to run wild. You'll be trained to use a noble and harmonious self-restraint.”

“Please?” A hand raised, and Edwina nodded. “What exactly do you mean, Miss Edwina?” queried Lucille Calhoon, lovely with her carrot-colored hair, pale blue eyes, and warm smile. She waited patiently for Edwina to elaborate.

Edwina wasn't given the opportunity—not that she had a ready and definite answer in her head—to reply.
Camille Kennison answered for her, her sunny personality matching the sunny blond of her hair.

“She means we're not supposed to go gadding around uptown and being idle or something. Don't look at or talk to men we don't know—even if we think they're delicious. And never do what you want to if it's uncultivated, because you have to show you're above trivialities.” Her perfectly pouting mouth lifted in a smile. “Isn't that right, Miss Edwina?”

“Well . . .” she said, toying with the pencil beneath her fingertips. “That's not how I would have put it, but you have some fine observations. Idleness is a great cause of misery. You should be trained in the habits of household duties and the duties of married life.”

Behind the back of her hand, Hildegarde Plunkett whispered, “Like submitting to the dark and secret degradation in the bedroom.” In contrast to her lily-white fingers, her pretty round face grew pink. She was a little ungainly but concrete.

Edwina couldn't have been more shocked by the statement. She hadn't suspected these girls ever discussed such things. She knew she hadn't when she'd been their age.

“It must be terrible at first,” Ruth Edward said in a timid voice. “I know I'll die of shame.”

Johannah Treber, who had a thin nose and a dimpled chin, added, “I don't think that after a while you'll mind so much. Not if you really love your husband. I could do anything for love.”

The conversation had taken a life of its own, completely befuddling Edwina. She herself had done things for love, and it had brought her trouble and a lifelong commitment to remaining unattached.

Camille joined in. “That's right.” She was comely and pert, popular with boys, and always stylishly dressed. “If it's real love, you don't have any doubts at all.”

“But real love comes after you're married,” Ruth said. “You won't know if you can . . . do things . . . until after you're already a wife. And then, if you don't ever
fall in love, you're stuck and have to . . . do things . . . anyway.”

“I'm not going to be stuck in a loveless marriage, and that's flat.” Hildegarde turned around in her chair to face Ruth. “My mother says that if you marry a good man and you respect him, you can make yourself fall in love with him. Just look at her and my father. Before she married him, she told me she used to think of him as a lummakin—part lummox and part bumpkin. Now she worships him every Friday night when he tells her how much money he's put in her household account.”

Crescencia's hand rose and Edwina nodded, although she'd lost control of the situation. The other girls had been talking as frankly as if they'd forgotten where they were.

“Miss Edwina, tell us about Chicago.”

Cressie's question stilled the room. Then Meg Brooks, who'd remained quiet until then, said, “Please tell.”

Edwina hadn't counted on their wanting to know about her time in Chicago. But perhaps it was for the best. She'd make them aware of their options. “If any of you ladies ever has the chance to go to a big city, I suggest you do so.”

“Did you see any automobiles?” Meg asked.

“Yes.”

Johannah chimed in. “What were they like?”

“Loud.”

“Did you ride in one?” Crescencia wanted to know.

Edwina thought about the time she'd gone touring with Ludie in his Pontiac motorcar. There'd been a dozen riders, all crammed in and having a joyous time. Abbie had sat in the front next to Edwina, who'd sat directly beside Ludie. They'd gone to the waterfront, where they'd frolicked on the beach. It had been later that night, as a bonfire burned high in the sky, when Ludie had proposed. And much later . . . when Edwina had. . . . She stopped the thought right there.

With an unyielding sigh, she knew not to encourage the girls in this kind of behavior. Her answer was “No,
I've never been in an automobile. But if you're ever invited to ride in one, make sure you're properly escorted. And that would go for all activities in public places.”

“I know of public places that aren't so public during certain times of the day,” Lucille said with a secretive smile.

“And just what are you getting at, Lucy Calhoon?” Meg demanded. “We all know you'll go with any boy in the hopes of getting a comb-and-brush set.”

“What's wrong with that?” Hildegarde directed her gaze at Meg. “My mother says that a girl can accept a comb-and-brush set from a boy, but nothing else.
If
you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Ruth said, then mumbled, “kissing.”

“What do any of you know about kissing?” Crescencia piped up, her spectacles firm on her nose. Gone was the insecurity and fluster when men were present. Her face shined with a thirst for knowledge, as if she'd never been privy to this sort of information before.

How did they get into this discussion anyway, Edwina wondered. She had had no idea the girls were this outspoken with one another about the opposite sex. With her father's illness at its worst during her last year in normal school, Edwina hadn't been able to partake in the social activities of girls her own age. She hadn't attended the coming-out parties and the ice-cream socials. She'd gone from schoolgirl to mother's helper, blindly unaware of what she'd been missing—until she'd gone to Chicago. She'd never had a bosom friend in school, a girl she could tell all to. Apparently, these young ladies had learned more by talking among themselves and exchanging tidbits than Edwina had ever gleaned from her mother in twenty-four years.

“Kissing men with mustaches is far preferable to kissing men without.” This came from Camille Kennison.

“How would you know?” Lucy asked.

“I just do.”

Meg, whose upswept hair shone like copper from a pool of sunlight coming in the window, said, “There was that notions and trimming salesman she thought devilishly handsome.”

“I never did,” came the hot denial. “And look who's talking. You get all those traveling men in your father's hotel. You've got the run of all of them.”

“They're wickedly dangerous,” Ruth whispered with a shy smile.

Hildegarde said, “My mother says they wear boiled shirts and stiff collars.”

“And pinkie rings,” Crecencia added with a giggle.

“So what?” Meg shrugged. “They pay a dollar a night.”

“Have you ever dared to look in one of their sample cases when you make up their beds while they're out?” Johannah's close-together teeth bit into her lower lip.

With a sniff of displeasure, Meg replied, “I'm not allowed to go upstairs when the rooms are occupied. But I did see inside a man's case once while he opened it in the lobby.”

“Tell!” the other girls shouted, leaning closer to Meg.

“Ladies' corsets! Not these wasp-waisted things our mothers make us wear. But real straight-front ones.”

“Oh . . .” Crescencia sighed. “I could never let a man see me in a straight-front corset.”

“Cressie, don't be such a goose,” Camille hastened to say. “You're so fainthearted around men that if there's a knock on your door, you won't answer it, fearing tramps. What if the knocker was
the one
coming to pay a call on you?”

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Crescencia said, “A man's never knocked on my door . . . tramp or otherwise.”

“Cressie, you never set your cap for any man so he
could
knock. That's your trouble. You're pretty enough. All you have to do is go after the right one and he'll be putty in your hands.”

While Crescencia digested that news with thoughtfully
drawn brows, Lucy wistfully said, “I think Julius Addison is good-looking. Even though his nose is crooked.”

“He broke it in a fight,” Hildegarde informed her. “My mother told me to stay away from him. His hands are always dirty.”

“It's from the oil on barbed wire,” Lucy said in his defense. “He can't help it if he has to work at the feed and seed.”

“He wears overalls,” Johannah commented dryly.

“So?” Lucy was adamant in her affections for the Addison boy.

Camille toyed with a curl resting on her shoulder. “How can you be attracted to a man who doesn't even wear a padded suit and lace-up shoes?”

“I just can, is all!” Lucy shot back. “When he looks at me, my bones melt.”

“What were you doing up by the feed and seed?” Hildegarde wanted to know. “My mother says . . .”

Edwina put both hands to her temples; she had to maintain a semblance of order—at least inside her head. Her intentions had been to teach the girls about men and life's responsibilities, not the other way around. But what she'd just heard was beyond belief. These girls were not nearly as innocent as she'd suspected.

She interrupted their chatter. “Ladies! Ladies, I think it's time we put this discussion to an end and focus more on the deportment of your person.”

Having gained their attention, she put a hand on the top of the deportment book once more, as if for fortitude. “Just as you should prepare yourself for a city trip, you should prepare yourself for excursions in town. Before making a call or visit, a lady always takes her hair out of curlpapers, then changes her felt shoes and puts on either her best—or second-best—dress. Lastly, she puts on her gloves—which she has not buttoned on the stoop.”

Just when she thought things would now progress in a more mannerly fashion, a commotion began outside. Shay Dufresne led a string of pack horses past the window,
then tethered the lines on the rails he'd installed out front. A group of five men who looked well to do in new hunting suits congregated next to the animals while Tom Wolcott engaged them in a spirited conversation. Guffaws and loud laughs resounded, distracting the girls.

Bottoms lifted from desk seats as the girls strained to get a better look out the window. There were plenty of smiles of curiosity and whispers about the gentlemen, and Crescencia Stykem's eyes were fastened on Shay Dufresne.

From her position, Edwina couldn't view the whole scene. She did hear the deep drone of masculine conversation, and then horrid noises, like those of an animal in severe pain. Over and over, the hideous snorts echoed through the classroom. This wasn't to be tolerated.

Rising from her desk, Edwina calmly said, “Girls, stay seated. I'll attend to the matter.”

But as soon as she'd passed through the open door, a swish of skirts could be heard as they all drew next to the window. One glance over her shoulder and she saw seven faces peering out of the glass.

Once outside, she noted the hunters all had a type of rippled hose device next to their mouths. When they blew into the tubes, a grunting call pierced her ears. It was deafening when they all sounded together.

“Mr. Wolcott!” she shouted.

He turned toward her, one of the offending contraptions in his hand. This being their first encounter since last night, she was unsettled by his presence, knowing that she'd pummeled him while in her underwear not twenty-four hours prior. And with a rip in the said unmentionables, to boot. She hoped he hadn't noticed the tear before she'd tied his shirt around her waist. But where Tom Wolcott was concerned, luck was never on her side.

She did have to admit she owed him a thank-you for the advice about the police. Had he not suggested making the report, she wouldn't have done so and thus saved
face. On the other hand, had his dog not dragged her clothing off, she wouldn't have found herself in the situation at all.

She'd thought she'd seen the last of him, but it seemed there was no end to the grief he could cause her. Days ago, it had been vermillion paint. Today, it was obscene noises. Tomorrow . . . who knew. In spite of his innumerable faults, he had the audacity to look ruggedly handsome in a red plaid shirt with indecently tight denims hugging his lean legs. Tan leather boots with chunky heels added inches to the already towering height he had over the other men.

“What is it, Miss Huntington?”

His tone was businesslike, yet she detected an intimate warmth to it. Or had she imagined that?

“Mr. Wolcott, the grunting noises out here are disruptive to my classroom.”

“Rutting,” he said, correcting her, then ignored her to speak to the gentlemen. “Now, these elk calls are going to work nicely for you if you don't overuse them. But no bull is going to buy into a female making all the noise ya'll've been making at once. So in case you'd like to try something else, I do have the diaphragm type that is as effective but not as easy to use. They come in medium, small, old, and screamer.”