Waiting For Spring Part 2

Do you believe that sewing fancy gowns for wealthy women is making the world a better place?" It had been a week since Barrett Landry had spoken those words, and they still reverberated through Charlotte's brain.

She frowned as her feet pumped the treadle while her hands guided the fabric under the presser foot. Elias Howe's invention had dramatically reduced the time required to sew a gown, making short work of the seams and leaving Charlotte more time to add the fancy touches her customers craved, including the double box pleated hems that had become one of her trademarks. The sewing machine also gave her time to think. Some days that was good. Today it was not, for Mr. Landry's words haunted her.

He was right. Charlotte had known that at the time. Ever since David's birth, she had thought of little other than making a living for them and keeping him safe. That wasn't enough. For much of her life, she'd been coddled, protected by well-meaning parents and even her younger sister Abigail because of the lingering effects of her childhood bout of pneumonia. Though Charlotte hadn't told Jeffrey that the doctor had predicted her lungs would always be weak, he'd insisted on treating her like one of the fragile porcelain cups he'd given her. But Jeffrey and her parents were dead, and Abigail was more than a thousand miles away. For the past year, Charlotte had relied on herself, and in doing so, she'd discovered that she was stronger than she'd realized. Equally important, her lungs appeared to be fully healed, perhaps the result of Wyoming's dry air. The fact that her lungs seemed to be improving was one of the reasons she hadn't wanted to move back East after Jeffrey's death. That and the fact that she had fallen in love with the territory's rugged beauty.

She was a healthy, able-bodied woman, capable of doing more than dressing Cheyenne's most fortunate women. It was time to help others. The question was, what could she do? While it was true that she had once been a teacher and that teachers could indeed make a positive difference in others' lives, Charlotte knew she was not as gifted as Abigail. There had to be something else she could do.

She snipped the thread, then inspected the seam she had just sewn. Perfect. All that remained were the hem and the yards of lace that would turn a seemingly ordinary matinee, as the French were calling long fitted bodices this season, into one that would be the envy of Miriam's friends.

Miriam would be pleased, and so would Charlotte, for at least two or three of Miriam's acquaintances would ask Charlotte to sew similar garments for them. Those sales would help pay for groceries and Gwen's salary.

The gowns Charlotte made pleased Cheyenne's wealthy women. They enhanced their beauty and camouflaged less than perfect bodies, making each woman feel special. That was what Charlotte had intended when she'd called her shop elan. She wanted her store to generate enthusiasm, and so she had chosen the French word for high spirits as its name.

She rose and hung the partially completed garment on a padded hanger. Gathering the remnants, Charlotte smiled when she realized there was enough left to make a dress for Rose. Gwen would be delighted, for she was determined that her daughter would never wear tattered clothing. Even though Gwen herself had been clothed in little more than rags, sporting a shabby, ill-fitting frock with patched elbows and a frayed hem the day Charlotte met her, Rose had worn a relatively new dress. Sensing that Gwen was not one to indulge herself, three days later Charlotte had presented her with a new dress. The change had been little less than a transformation. Clad in a garment that flattered her, Gwen had gained confidence, and her demeanor had altered. She stood a bit taller, and her smile, which had been tentative the day Charlotte had met her, was broader, more a.s.sured. She even laughed out loud, causing both Rose and David to chuckle.

Of course. That was the answer to Mr. Landry's question. Charlotte didn't have to confine herself to clothing Cheyenne's wealthiest women. She could make dresses for the women who still lived in Mrs. Kendall's boardinghouse. As happiness bubbled up inside her, Charlotte began to sing. Gwen had told her of the poverty that had driven her and a dozen other women to take refuge in the rickety building on 15th Street. "Everyone wants to escape," Gwen had said, explaining that Mrs. Kendall's kindness and her excellent cooking were often overshadowed by the fear that the men who frequented the brothel next door would accost them. "We all wanted to get away, but I'm the only one who has."

Charlotte couldn't hire them all. She couldn't give them enough money to live in a safer area. But she could-and she would-provide them with respectable clothing. She'd have to order new fabric, for elan was currently filled with silks, satins, and velvets in antic.i.p.ation of holiday parties, and those were not suitable for Mrs. Kendall's boarders-but within a few weeks, Charlotte would be able to begin.

She was still singing when she heard the front doorbell tinkle.

"Charlotte! Are you there?"

Surprised that Miriam had arrived a day early for her appointment, Charlotte hurried to the front of the store. "I don't have your gown ready for a fitting, but . . ." Charlotte stopped abruptly, shocked by the sight of Miriam carrying four dresses. There was no doubt about it. They were the first four frocks Charlotte had made for her less than a year ago.

"Is something wrong?"

Miriam wrinkled her nose. "No. Yes." She sighed as she laid the dresses on the counter. "Mama wanted to burn these. She insisted that I can't wear them again because they're last season's style, and she won't let me give them to the servants. It wouldn't be seemly, she says."

Charlotte could imagine Amelia Taggert p.r.o.nouncing those very words. Miriam's mother had spent a year in England and had come home convinced that if she followed every rule of etiquette, she would be regarded with the same esteem as the British aristocracy. Far less pretentious, Miriam chafed at her mother's restrictions at the same time that she tried to be a loving and obedient daughter.

"I don't want them destroyed." Miriam fingered the brown calico that had been her favorite everyday dress. "Can you do something with them?"

Charlotte grinned. "Indeed, I can." It would take only a few hours to convert Miriam's elegant frocks into dresses better suited for the women at Mrs. Kendall's boardinghouse. Even before the new s.h.i.+pment of fabric arrived, Charlotte could provide a few dresses. "Your timing is perfect."

"This is the most beautiful gown I've ever had." Gwen turned slowly in front of the long mirror, admiring her reflection. Though normally they would have dressed in their apartment, tonight Charlotte insisted that they use the shop's dressing room, largely because she wanted Gwen to have the experience of being a customer of elan. The woman who did so much for her had admitted that she'd never been able to afford fancy evening clothes. Tonight was different. Even if they weren't seated in one of the elegant boxes, Gwen would be as well-dressed as any woman at the opera house.

Her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure and perhaps a bit of astonishment, Gwen ran her hands over her hips. "This style makes me look almost thin."

That had been the plan. Charlotte nodded as she fastened the last of the thirty-four b.u.t.tons that closed the back of the dress. "Simple lines are slimming." When she had designed Gwen's gown, Charlotte had forgone the intricately draped overskirt and p.r.o.nounced bustle that were popular, instead choosing vertical panels to give Gwen the illusion of more height and less width. Even the choice of midnight blue silk had been deliberate. Not only did the color flatter Gwen's blue eyes, but the dark color made her appear pounds lighter.

"You have beautiful shoulders," she told Gwen. "The gown draws attention to them." And to the strand of pearls her husband had given her. When Gwen had told Charlotte how long Mike had saved to buy her only piece of jewelry besides her wedding ring, she had decided to give the gown a low scooped neckline that would highlight Gwen's creamy skin and her necklace.

Gwen's expression turned wistful as she fingered the pearls. "I wish Mike was here to see me. I miss him so much. I miss being married." She blinked back tears before forcing a smile. "You understand."

Charlotte nodded, because she knew it was what Gwen expected. The truth was, she didn't miss being married. Marriage hadn't turned out the way she had expected. As a child and then a young woman, Charlotte had dreamt of falling in love with Prince Charming. In her dreams, they married and lived happily ever after. Reality had been far different. She had been wed less than a year and a half, and Jeffrey had spent so little of that time with her that, were it not for David, she could almost believe her marriage had been a dream. But David existed. He and the fear that the baron would find them were the legacies of Charlotte's marriage.

"Let me arrange your train." Gwen's habitual smile was back in place as she turned her attention to Charlotte's gown. Made of apricot silk, it was similar in design to Gwen's but had a higher neckline and an ap.r.o.n-style panel of darker silk that dipped gracefully below Charlotte's waist and draped around her hips, flowing into an elaborate bustle and short train. Had she been making the gown for a ball, Charlotte would have lengthened the train so that it trailed behind her, but since they would spend most of the evening seated, she had left it the same length as the gown itself, barely clearing the floor.

"It's not that I'm anxious to leave you and David," Gwen said as she straightened the fall of silk. "I hate the thought of leaving you alone if I remarry, but I want Rose to have a father." She looked over Charlotte's shoulder, meeting her gaze in the looking gla.s.s. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if both of us found husbands?"

"I'm not ready." I'm not sure I ever will be, she added silently. "It would take a special man to accept David." And even if he did, Charlotte wasn't certain she could trust her judgment. She had believed Jeffrey was the man G.o.d intended for her, and oh, how wrong she'd been. Jeffrey had showered her with material possessions, but he had not given her what she craved: true love.

Gwen shook her head. "That special man is out there. I know he is. And if he's in Cheyenne tonight, he won't be able to take his eyes off you. Apricot is the perfect color for you."

"I wanted us both to be walking advertis.e.m.e.nts for elan. That's why I made our gowns out of colors that complement each other." Charlotte wouldn't tell Gwen there was another reason she'd chosen the apricot for herself. Though she knew he'd be at the opera house tonight, she doubted Barrett Landry would notice her. But if he did, she wanted him to see that he was right about the color flattering her. And if that wasn't a silly reason to use the most expensive piece of silk in the store for herself, she didn't know what was.

Half an hour later, Charlotte marveled as the carriage she'd hired approached the opera house. She'd seen the building at least a dozen times when she'd strolled through her adopted city, but that had been during daylight. Now that the sun had set, everything looked different. Lights blazed from the arched windows. Though the mansard roof was shadowed, the windows in the two dormers and the fancy round one that some called an oeil-de-boeuf or cow's eye window gleamed, leaving no doubt that this was one of Cheyenne's most impressive buildings.

"Oh, look," Gwen whispered as they joined the crowd that filed through the front door, then up the grand staircase to the second floor lobby. "The chandelier is even more beautiful than I'd heard. Do you suppose there really are fifty-two lights?"

Charlotte didn't need to count the bulbs. Whether it had fifty-two or some other number, the chandelier was magnificent, providing decoration as well as illumination. Miriam had told her that until the city was electrified, the chandelier was rarely lit because of the unpleasant smell from the oil, but now it was one of the most admired parts of Cheyenne. Like the building itself, the chandelier was designed to impress, and it succeeded. As discreetly as she could, Charlotte looked up, wanting to see the skylights that were almost as famous as the lighting fixture. During the day, light spilled through them, but now though the gla.s.s expanses were dark, a close to full moon cast its glow on the symphonygoers, and a few stars twinkled, giving the opera house an almost magical aura.

"I can't believe we're here." Gwen's voice cracked with emotion as they reached their seats. "Look at those boxes." She gestured toward one of the four private boxes whose red velvet swags announced that they would be occupied by the city's elite. "It's a different world."

Charlotte nodded, trying not to frown. Gwen's innocent words had resurrected a host of painful memories. This was the world Jeffrey had wanted to enter. Places like this were the reason he had taken the risks he had, and ultimately, they were the reason Charlotte was a widow. Forcing herself to smile, she murmured something innocuous, then smiled with genuine pleasure when the lights dimmed and the music began. Within seconds, the glorious strains of Beethoven's epic symphony transported Charlotte to another world, a world where memories of Jeffrey's foolishness and worries about a man called the baron did not exist.

When the music faded and the conductor announced that they would take a brief intermission, Gwen touched Charlotte's arm. "Would you mind if we walked around? I'd like to see who's here."

"Looking for a husband?" Charlotte couldn't resist teasing Gwen.

Gwen's eyes widened as if she hadn't considered that. "Maybe we should both be looking. You never can tell where you'll find the right man." When Charlotte started to frown, Gwen continued. "A husband would be nice, but what I really want is to see the other women's gowns. I doubt any of them can compare to mine." She smiled as she fingered the rich blue silk. "When Rose is old enough to remember, I want to be able to describe everything about tonight."

Joining the throng, Charlotte and Gwen descended the staircase. It was almost amusing, seeing the momentary confusion of young women wearing gowns she'd fas.h.i.+oned. They would look at Charlotte, perplexed, as if struggling to recognize her. It was as Mama had claimed: people rarely noticed servants, and though Charlotte was not technically a servant, she was also a woman few of Cheyenne's elite would expect to see at a social gathering. Rather than embarra.s.s the women by speaking, Charlotte merely smiled and continued the slow progress toward the first floor. There, the doors had been propped open, the cool air of mid-October helping to dissipate the heat that had been generated by more than five hundred bodies.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carey are here," Gwen said, inclining her head toward the couple whose mansion was considered the most beautiful in the city. Gwen lowered her voice as she added, "Her gown isn't as nice as mine, and I bet she ordered it from Paris."

"You're simply prejudiced, but I'm glad you are." Charlotte squeezed her friend's arm when they reached the floor.

"Madame Charlotte."

The voice came from the left, startling Charlotte. How had she not seen him? She had known he would be here, accompanying Miriam in her emerald green gown. Though she hated to admit it, she'd been watching the crowd, looking for . . . Miriam. Of course she had been looking for Miriam, wanting to a.s.sure herself that the gown was perfectly draped. She hadn't been searching for a tall, dark-haired man who was even more distinguished in formal clothing than he was in his ordinary suits. For a second, she stood speechless, drinking in the sheer masculinity that was Barrett Landry. Then, reluctantly, her gaze s.h.i.+fted further to the left, where she saw Miriam deep in conversation with two gentlemen Charlotte didn't recognize.

"I hadn't realized you planned to be here too." Mr. Landry raised an eyebrow, as if asking for an explanation.

"The tickets were a gift from my friend." She turned toward Gwen, who was standing silently watching the exchange. "Gwen, let me introduce you to Mr. Landry. Mr. Landry, this is Mrs. Amos."

Turning slightly, Mr. Landry included Miriam and the other men in the conversation. "You know Miss Taggert," he said with a smile for the woman he'd escorted to the concert. Miriam nodded as she greeted Charlotte, her smile promising they'd discuss this evening the next time they were together. For the present, neither woman would admit they were anything more than modiste and customer, lest Miriam's mother disapprove.

Oblivious to the silent conversation, Mr. Landry continued. "These gentlemen are Richard Eberhardt and Warren Duncan." Though of the same height, a couple inches shorter than Mr. Landry, the two men had little else in common. Mr. Eberhardt was thin with brown hair and eyes and undistinguished features, while Mr. Duncan appeared to be at least ten years his senior, with steel gray hair. Although his eyes were an unusual shade of light blue, it was his prominent nose that caught Charlotte's attention. It might be uncharitable-after all, the man couldn't help being born with it-but the nose, combined with his intent expression, reminded Charlotte of an eagle searching for its prey.

Fortunately, that attention was not directed at her. Instead, Mr. Duncan took a step forward, stopping only inches from Gwen. "Tell me, Mrs. Amos," he said in a voice that betrayed an eastern education, "why I haven't seen you before. A beautiful woman like you would not normally escape my attention."

A becoming flush colored Gwen's cheeks. "I live a quiet life," she said. "With my new gown, I feel like Cinderella tonight."

"One of your creations, I a.s.sume." Mr. Landry pitched his voice so that Charlotte could hear it but not loud enough to disturb the conversation Gwen and Mr. Duncan were having. From the corner of her eye, she saw Miriam's lips curve in amus.e.m.e.nt. More than once, Miriam had admitted that she was surprised that the man who might become one of Wyoming's first senators was interested in women's fas.h.i.+on.

Charlotte nodded in response to Mr. Landry's question. "It was the least I could do after she bought the tickets." For a man with his wealth, the cost was insignificant, but Charlotte knew the gift must have substantially depleted Gwen's savings.

His eyes moved slowly from the top of Charlotte's carefully coiffed hair to the hem of her gown. When he finished his appraisal, Mr. Landry smiled. "I was right. The orange . . ."

"Apricot," she corrected him.

"Ah yes, apricot. Whatever you call it, the color flatters you."

A rush of pleasure swept through Charlotte. She shouldn't care what this man thought. While it was true that she would undoubtedly see him around Cheyenne, especially if he entered politics, his life and hers would intersect only if Miriam continued to buy her gowns from Charlotte and if Mr. Landry accompanied her to elan. Charlotte turned, planning to include Miriam in the discussion, but before she could speak, Mr. Eberhardt gave Miriam a dazzling smile.

"Clothes may make the man, but when a woman's as beautiful as you," he said, his voice low and intimate, "she could wear rags and still attract every man in the room. Come, my dear," he said, bending his arm so she could place her hand on it. "Let's leave these boring people to their boring conversation. I want to talk to you about the symphony."

As Miriam and Mr. Eberhardt made their way toward the door, Mr. Landry appeared unconcerned. "Are you enjoying the concert?" he asked Charlotte.

"Very much. This is my favorite Beethoven symphony. What about you?" Miriam had speculated that Barrett, as she called him, attended concerts only because it was the thing to do.

He wrinkled his nose, and once again Charlotte found herself wondering how he'd broken it. That wasn't a question one could ask a mere acquaintance, and so she would probably never know the answer.

"I hesitate to admit it, but I prefer lighter music," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

"Such as?"

"Stephen Foster," Mr. Landry whispered, his fingers cupped around his mouth, as though he were confiding a dark secret.

Pressing her hand to her chest and widening her eyes in feigned horror, Charlotte tried not to laugh. "I probably shouldn't admit this, but I used to like *Old Folks at Home.' The problem was, my dog hated it. Every time I started to sing *Way down upon the Swanee River,' he'd howl."

Though Charlotte had expected Mr. Landry to chuckle, his expression was quizzical. "You have a dog?"

"Not anymore. I gave him to my sister." Though she still missed Puddles and his antics, she knew that had been the right decision. "He was more her dog than mine. Besides, I couldn't picture him being cooped up in a city house."

"I know what you mean. My family always had dogs, but there was plenty of room for them to run." Mr. Landry brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder before he said, "Tell me about your sister. Is she older?"

Charlotte heard Gwen laughing. Whatever she and Mr. Duncan were discussing, it appeared that Gwen was enjoying their conversation. Charlotte, however, had ceased to enjoy her conversation with Mr. Landry. Though she hadn't intended it, they had ventured into personal subjects. Still, what he had asked wasn't anything more than she had told Gwen. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Both my sisters are younger. Abigail-she's the one with the dog-married a soldier. They're in Was.h.i.+ngton Territory now. Elizabeth is the youngest. She's finis.h.i.+ng her medical studies in New York." Before Mr. Landry could ask questions she wasn't prepared to answer, Charlotte posed one of her own. "What about you? Do you have sisters?"

He shook his head. "No sisters. I'm the youngest of three boys. Camden and Harrison run our parents' mercantile back home in Pennsylvania."

"And yet you became a cattle rancher."

Once again, his smile was self-deprecating. "My brothers claim that I'm the renegade. The truth is, I wanted to see if the stories I'd heard about the Wild West were true."

"Are they?"

As a couple anxious to reach the door jostled him, Mr. Landry shrugged. "Hard to say. I haven't seen any shoot-outs, and I've never experienced a stagecoach robbery."

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as his last two words registered. He was only making conversation, she told herself. There was no special reason why he'd mentioned stagecoach robberies. He had no way of knowing that the very thought made her shudder because it resurrected memories best left buried.

Swallowing deeply in an attempt to dislodge the lump that settled in her throat, Charlotte feigned nonchalance. "If you were hoping that I could give you a firsthand account, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. I confess that I've had no experience with either of those supposedly quintessential Western events. My life is very quiet." Except for the worry that the man known as the baron might find her and David. She wouldn't tell Mr. Landry that. Not even Gwen knew of Charlotte's fears. She managed a smile as she said, "Some might find my life boring, but it suits me. You didn't say, though. Are you disappointed that the West isn't as wild as you thought?"

"Hardly, but then I'd never describe my life as quiet or boring. If you've ever seen a herd stampede, you'd agree that raising cattle is anything but quiet, and rustlers keep life from being boring." His eyes darkened until they resembled Gwen's gown, a clear indication that he cared deeply. "As much as we try to stop it, rustling is still big business in Wyoming. It's bad enough when they steal mavericks, but when they take full-grown steers and alter the brands, well . . . it sets my blood to boil."

Charlotte knew she would be angry if someone had stolen bolts of fabric from the store. How much worse must it be when a living thing was taken? As Mr. Landry's lips tightened, Charlotte knew she needed to do something to take his mind off the rustling. "You mentioned mavericks. What are they?"

"Motherless calves." To Charlotte's relief, he seemed to relax as he explained, "During the spring roundup, we separate the cows by their brand. The calves haven't been weaned, so they stay close to their mamas. That's how we know whose cattle they are. Some of the youngsters aren't attached to a cow, most times because their mothers died. Those are the mavericks."

"So, who do they belong to?"

A smile lit his face. "All of us. They're sold, and the money goes to the stock growers' a.s.sociation."

Charlotte's smile mirrored his. "I probably shouldn't laugh, but I still find the term *stock grower' unusual. I keep imagining something planted in the ground."

He shrugged. "I prefer stock grower to cattle baron. That sounds so pretentious." And Mr. Landry did not appear to be a pretentious man.

He pulled his watch from his pocket. "We should probably return to our seats, but before we go, I hope you'll satisfy my curiosity. You know why I came to Cheyenne, but I'd like to know what brought you to Wyoming."

"My husband." Though few of the guests had started to move toward the staircase, from the corner of her eye Charlotte saw Miriam approaching with Mr. Eberhardt. Relief flowed through her at the realization that she would not have to say anything more and she wouldn't have to lie.

"Is it time already?" Mr. Duncan frowned as he asked the question. When Mr. Landry nodded, the older man murmured something that made Gwen flush. Charlotte's friend was not given to blushes, but this was at least twice in less than fifteen minutes that her cheeks had been pink.

"May I escort you and Mrs. Amos to your seats?" Mr. Duncan's words were polite. His suggestion was chivalrous. There was no cause for alarm, and yet Charlotte felt ill at ease.

"Thank you, but your friends are waiting for you." She gestured toward the trio to her left. Miriam had returned and had placed her hand on Mr. Landry's arm, while Mr. Eberhardt stood only a few inches away, his expression as solemn as if he were attending a funeral. Charlotte gave them all a smile as she linked her arm with Gwen's. "Good evening, Miss Taggert, gentlemen." No matter how pleasant it had been talking to Barrett Landry, Charlotte's place was in the back row with Gwen.

"Oh, Charlotte, I never thought it would be so wonderful," Gwen said as they ascended the stairway. Mr. Landry and his party had remained on the ground floor, chatting with Miriam's parents while other theatergoers began to crowd the staircase, their exuberant conversation almost drowning out Gwen's words.

"Truly, I feel like Cinderella. I've met my Prince Charming."

Though Charlotte raised an eyebrow, she tried to keep her voice even, not wanting to spoil Gwen's evening. "Mr. Duncan?"

"Yes. And please don't tell me he's too old for me. You know I'm over thirty."

Warren Duncan's age was not what concerned Charlotte. "I wasn't going to say anything about his age. I just wondered what you knew about him."

Gwen's face was suffused with a fatuous smile. "Other than that he's the most wonderful man I've ever met? Did you know that he's an attorney? He's one of Mr. Landry's advisers. Can you imagine, Charlotte? He's an important man about town, and yet he noticed me-me, Gwen Amos. It's like a fairy tale come true."

Charlotte tried not to sigh. Gwen's enthusiasm reminded her of when she first met Jeffrey. The young soldier had literally swept her off her feet, and she'd been convinced that it was a case of love at first sight. Only later had Charlotte realized that infatuation and love were two very different things.

"All I can say, Cinderella, is that I hope our coach doesn't turn into a pumpkin. I wouldn't want us to have to walk home in these gowns."

They'd reached their seats, and as Gwen settled into hers, she sighed with pleasure. "Oh, Charlotte, I'm so glad we came."

"So am I. The music is glorious." But when the orchestra resumed its playing, Charlotte found that she could not concentrate on the symphony. Instead, as she closed her eyes, pictures of Barrett Landry flashed before her.

4.

I'm disappointed in you, Barrett." Richard's normally placid brown eyes flashed with anger. For a second, Barrett considered ignoring his friend's comment, but he knew Richard too well. The man would not leave the morning room, where they were currently enjoying a late evening repast, complete with some of Mrs. Melnor's berry pie, until he was satisfied.