Wainscott had worn to a ball in honor of Missouri’s governor, was no reason to feel so nervous—or so excited.
As if something wonderful were going to happen …
Most likely
, she told herself,
people will know who you are and stay as far away as they can
.
At first the lobby and dining room of the hotel looked to be a blur of people, lanterns, swirling gowns, loud music, laughter, and stamping feet.
Then the blur dissolved into a throng of people—ranchers and townspeople, miners, gamblers, and merchants. Women in a rainbow of gowns, their faces flushed and bright, men in expensively cut black suits or denim and buckskin. There were three fiddlers and a harmonica player on a raised platform at one end of the hotel dining room, where all the tables and chairs had been cleared to make way for the dancing. Colored lanterns added a festiveglow, and against the walls of the dining room and the lobby were refreshment tables draped with white linen cloths, sagging with pies and cakes and cookies, pitchers of lemonade, decanters of whiskey and bourbon and elderberry wine.
“Well, now, Emily Spoon, there you are. My, my, just look at you.” It was Nettie Phillips. She had tapped Emily on the shoulder and grinned at her—and Emily drew a breath of relief to find a friendly face.
“And who is this handsome gentleman?” Nettie turned toward Lester.
“May I introduce my cousin, Lester Spoon.” Emily kept a firm grip on Lester’s arm as she felt him trying to slip away. Always as shy around women as Pete was cocky, Lester mumbled something unintelligible, but resigned himself to waiting as Nettie Phillips took charge of more introductions.
“You’ve met Margaret Smith, of course.” She waved a hand toward the young matron whom Emily had encountered in the mercantile. “But Lester hasn’t—and you may as well both meet the rest of the Smith clan,” she said briskly as the four people she’d been chatting with all visibly stiffened. “Here’s Margaret’s husband, Parnell,” she indicated a tall, reedy man with a high forehead and spectacles, who made no effort to shake Lester’s hand. “And his parents, my good friends, Bessie and Hamilton Smith.”
Emily thought poor Margaret looked as if she didn’t know whether to greet the Spoons or pretend they didn’t exist. Her mother-in-law, Bessie, looked equally nonplussed. Emily took swift stock of the tall, stalk-thin woman in plum sateen. Bessie’s white hair was piled atop her head in plump sausage ringlets. Her very pale blue eyes blinked rapidly in her long face as Nettie completedthe introductions. Beside her, her short and plump husband frowned, twisting the end of his mustache between two thick fingers.
With a sinking heart, Emily remembered—Hamilton Smith was a
banker
.
“Miss Spoon.” The banker sounded grim. “Mr. Spoon.” As he looked at Lester, he sounded even grimmer.
Dismayed, Emily wondered why she’d ever thought coming to this dance was a good idea. If Nettie’s dearest friends couldn’t summon up even a morsel of friendliness upon Nettie’s own recommendation, what would the rest of the town do?
Parnell Smith, who had his mother’s height and pale coloring, was studying her and Lester as if expecting them both to pull out guns and try to steal his pocket-watch, fob, and Margaret’s thin gold wedding ring.
And Margaret—
Emily paused, suddenly noting that Margaret Smith was no longer regarding her with reluctance or wariness, but with interest. Very definite interest. The young matron had begun eyeing Emily’s dress.
Her own gown was pretty, a white-sprigged muslin with pouffed sleeves and a square neckline.
But sapphire blue would have suited her better
, Emily thought.
Margaret’s eyes had grown round. “My … my goodness, what a lovely gown,” she burst out. “I haven’t seen anything quite so smart since our last trip to New York!”
“Emily made this gown herself,” Nettie put in. “It’s the latest style
As if something wonderful were going to happen …
Most likely
, she told herself,
people will know who you are and stay as far away as they can
.
At first the lobby and dining room of the hotel looked to be a blur of people, lanterns, swirling gowns, loud music, laughter, and stamping feet.
Then the blur dissolved into a throng of people—ranchers and townspeople, miners, gamblers, and merchants. Women in a rainbow of gowns, their faces flushed and bright, men in expensively cut black suits or denim and buckskin. There were three fiddlers and a harmonica player on a raised platform at one end of the hotel dining room, where all the tables and chairs had been cleared to make way for the dancing. Colored lanterns added a festiveglow, and against the walls of the dining room and the lobby were refreshment tables draped with white linen cloths, sagging with pies and cakes and cookies, pitchers of lemonade, decanters of whiskey and bourbon and elderberry wine.
“Well, now, Emily Spoon, there you are. My, my, just look at you.” It was Nettie Phillips. She had tapped Emily on the shoulder and grinned at her—and Emily drew a breath of relief to find a friendly face.
“And who is this handsome gentleman?” Nettie turned toward Lester.
“May I introduce my cousin, Lester Spoon.” Emily kept a firm grip on Lester’s arm as she felt him trying to slip away. Always as shy around women as Pete was cocky, Lester mumbled something unintelligible, but resigned himself to waiting as Nettie Phillips took charge of more introductions.
“You’ve met Margaret Smith, of course.” She waved a hand toward the young matron whom Emily had encountered in the mercantile. “But Lester hasn’t—and you may as well both meet the rest of the Smith clan,” she said briskly as the four people she’d been chatting with all visibly stiffened. “Here’s Margaret’s husband, Parnell,” she indicated a tall, reedy man with a high forehead and spectacles, who made no effort to shake Lester’s hand. “And his parents, my good friends, Bessie and Hamilton Smith.”
Emily thought poor Margaret looked as if she didn’t know whether to greet the Spoons or pretend they didn’t exist. Her mother-in-law, Bessie, looked equally nonplussed. Emily took swift stock of the tall, stalk-thin woman in plum sateen. Bessie’s white hair was piled atop her head in plump sausage ringlets. Her very pale blue eyes blinked rapidly in her long face as Nettie completedthe introductions. Beside her, her short and plump husband frowned, twisting the end of his mustache between two thick fingers.
With a sinking heart, Emily remembered—Hamilton Smith was a
banker
.
“Miss Spoon.” The banker sounded grim. “Mr. Spoon.” As he looked at Lester, he sounded even grimmer.
Dismayed, Emily wondered why she’d ever thought coming to this dance was a good idea. If Nettie’s dearest friends couldn’t summon up even a morsel of friendliness upon Nettie’s own recommendation, what would the rest of the town do?
Parnell Smith, who had his mother’s height and pale coloring, was studying her and Lester as if expecting them both to pull out guns and try to steal his pocket-watch, fob, and Margaret’s thin gold wedding ring.
And Margaret—
Emily paused, suddenly noting that Margaret Smith was no longer regarding her with reluctance or wariness, but with interest. Very definite interest. The young matron had begun eyeing Emily’s dress.
Her own gown was pretty, a white-sprigged muslin with pouffed sleeves and a square neckline.
But sapphire blue would have suited her better
, Emily thought.
Margaret’s eyes had grown round. “My … my goodness, what a lovely gown,” she burst out. “I haven’t seen anything quite so smart since our last trip to New York!”
“Emily made this gown herself,” Nettie put in. “It’s the latest style
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