her to dance.
She’d left the festivities early, ridden home all alone, and returned her mare to her stall in the barn. Then she’d climbed up into her favorite place, the hayloft, huddling in the sweet, hay-scented darkness and thinking about all the young people laughing and spinning across the school-house floor. Later, when she’d returned to the farmhouse, she’d told Aunt Ida that the fiddle players hadn’t been able to keep a tune, that the refreshments were sparse, and that the company was boring.
She’d been grateful when Aunt Ida didn’t ask her many questions.
Shortly after that night, they’d lost the farm, and moved to the boardinghouse in Jefferson City. She’d gone to work for Mrs. Wainscott—and her days of attending dances had ended.
But tonight she was going to a dance in a new town, where she’d already made one friend. And she was no longer young and thin and awkward. And in this dress …
She peered at herself in Aunt Ida’s old bronze-framed mirror, which Pete had hung over the pine bureau in her room—and felt a sense of wonder at her own transformed image. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she could pass herself off as a young woman of means and education and privilege—not as plain old Emily Spoon.
Her hair had been tamed for once—it was tightly coiled atop her head, held in place with a dozen pearl hairpins that her mother, according to Aunt Ida, had wornon her wedding day. Only a few delicate curls had been permitted to dangle, softly framing her face.
The low-necked dress hugged her body enticingly, but decorously, she felt. The rose silk fell in graceful folds, its rich color accenting the creaminess of her skin and the natural rosy hue of her lips.
The lace sash made her waist look tiny, and it didn’t seem to matter that she didn’t have matching rose kid slippers but merely plain black ones. The dress was enough.
“Whoa, Emily—don’t you look like something the angels dropped down from heaven.” Uncle Jake’s deep-set eyes shone as she stepped out of her room, feeling absurdly shy. Her uncle set down his playing cards and snatched his cigar out of his mouth—then gave a long appreciative whistle. Joey, in exact imitation, did the same, though only a slight wheeze came from his lips.
“You sure do look pretty, Em-ly!” he added, as if to make up for the whistle.
“It’s the dress. It did turn out well, didn’t it?” Emily twirled around for them to see, absurdly proud of her accomplishment. Lester came forward, his face scrubbed, his hair plastered with pomade, his good blue-and-yellow plaid shirt buttoned up to his neck.
“I’m going to have to stick by your side and fight off every man in the room wanting to dance with you all night!” he declared, looking worried.
“Don’t be silly.” Emily tucked her arm through his. “You don’t have to stay by me—or dance with me. You go find yourself some pretty girl to flirt with—I’ll have Nettie Phillips to talk to, and maybe she’ll introduce me to some other ladies in town—ladies who will want me to make dresses for them.”
“I promise you, Em.” Lester steered her toward the door. “You’re going to be doing a lot more dancing tonight than talking. I just hope Pete finishes up at that tournament and gets over to the dance in time to help me.”
Pete had made it into the final rounds of the poker tournament, and the winner would be determined tonight in a private upstairs parlor of the Gold Gulch Hotel.
If he won, Emily knew, he’d be raring to celebrate. And if he lost…
Well, she’d just have to see that her hot-headed brother didn’t get into any kind of a fight with the winner.
By the time she entered the Gold Gulch Hotel, Emily’s heart was pounding. She didn’t know why. It was only a dance. Just because it was the first dance she’d attended since she’d blossomed into a woman, and because she was wearing a gown every bit as spectacular as one Augusta
She’d left the festivities early, ridden home all alone, and returned her mare to her stall in the barn. Then she’d climbed up into her favorite place, the hayloft, huddling in the sweet, hay-scented darkness and thinking about all the young people laughing and spinning across the school-house floor. Later, when she’d returned to the farmhouse, she’d told Aunt Ida that the fiddle players hadn’t been able to keep a tune, that the refreshments were sparse, and that the company was boring.
She’d been grateful when Aunt Ida didn’t ask her many questions.
Shortly after that night, they’d lost the farm, and moved to the boardinghouse in Jefferson City. She’d gone to work for Mrs. Wainscott—and her days of attending dances had ended.
But tonight she was going to a dance in a new town, where she’d already made one friend. And she was no longer young and thin and awkward. And in this dress …
She peered at herself in Aunt Ida’s old bronze-framed mirror, which Pete had hung over the pine bureau in her room—and felt a sense of wonder at her own transformed image. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she could pass herself off as a young woman of means and education and privilege—not as plain old Emily Spoon.
Her hair had been tamed for once—it was tightly coiled atop her head, held in place with a dozen pearl hairpins that her mother, according to Aunt Ida, had wornon her wedding day. Only a few delicate curls had been permitted to dangle, softly framing her face.
The low-necked dress hugged her body enticingly, but decorously, she felt. The rose silk fell in graceful folds, its rich color accenting the creaminess of her skin and the natural rosy hue of her lips.
The lace sash made her waist look tiny, and it didn’t seem to matter that she didn’t have matching rose kid slippers but merely plain black ones. The dress was enough.
“Whoa, Emily—don’t you look like something the angels dropped down from heaven.” Uncle Jake’s deep-set eyes shone as she stepped out of her room, feeling absurdly shy. Her uncle set down his playing cards and snatched his cigar out of his mouth—then gave a long appreciative whistle. Joey, in exact imitation, did the same, though only a slight wheeze came from his lips.
“You sure do look pretty, Em-ly!” he added, as if to make up for the whistle.
“It’s the dress. It did turn out well, didn’t it?” Emily twirled around for them to see, absurdly proud of her accomplishment. Lester came forward, his face scrubbed, his hair plastered with pomade, his good blue-and-yellow plaid shirt buttoned up to his neck.
“I’m going to have to stick by your side and fight off every man in the room wanting to dance with you all night!” he declared, looking worried.
“Don’t be silly.” Emily tucked her arm through his. “You don’t have to stay by me—or dance with me. You go find yourself some pretty girl to flirt with—I’ll have Nettie Phillips to talk to, and maybe she’ll introduce me to some other ladies in town—ladies who will want me to make dresses for them.”
“I promise you, Em.” Lester steered her toward the door. “You’re going to be doing a lot more dancing tonight than talking. I just hope Pete finishes up at that tournament and gets over to the dance in time to help me.”
Pete had made it into the final rounds of the poker tournament, and the winner would be determined tonight in a private upstairs parlor of the Gold Gulch Hotel.
If he won, Emily knew, he’d be raring to celebrate. And if he lost…
Well, she’d just have to see that her hot-headed brother didn’t get into any kind of a fight with the winner.
By the time she entered the Gold Gulch Hotel, Emily’s heart was pounding. She didn’t know why. It was only a dance. Just because it was the first dance she’d attended since she’d blossomed into a woman, and because she was wearing a gown every bit as spectacular as one Augusta
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