Jolt, Page 22

  Nelli looked bored, but nodded. Lalita expected to follow Mrs. Pilson up the stairs and was surprised when she led her past the stairway and into a larger, even more formal, sitting area with a grand piano. She did not invite Lalita to sit, however. She merely closed the French doors behind them and blew out a tortured breath. Lalita took a step toward her. "Is everything all right? How's the baby?"

  Millie turned away, wringing her hands. "Anna is fine. I just can't let you and Nellie see her today."

  Lalita reached out a hand to her arm. "That's okay. We shouldn't have just dropped in on you. If she's sleeping, we'll come back another time." She reached for the French doors. "And next time we'll call first."

  Millie spun back. "I'm afraid that's impossible as well. My husband has forbidden you to enter our home. He'd be furious if he knew I was talking to you now." Lalita was sure the shock on her face was evident. She had no idea what to say.

  Millie looked near tears. "Someone came by last night and spoke with my Edwin, and when he left, Edwin said you were not to enter our home again, and that we would find a new doctor, as well. I asked him why, and he said that you were—" She cut herself off with a hand to her lips.

  Lalita felt near tears herself. "Go on, Millie," she whispered. "What did he say?"

  The distraught woman cleared her throat. "He said that you were a soiled dove, and that by keeping you under his roof, Dr. Cavanaugh had soiled both his house and his medical practice."

  A fire burst into flame inside her as she remembered the last time she'd heard the term "soiled dove." She sucked in a deep breath and let it out, trying to remain calm. "Millie, was the man who came by Seth Dickson, by any chance?"

  "I don't know. I was upstairs with the baby. I only know someone was here because I heard the doorbell and a man's voice in the foyer." Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you think it was Mr. Dickson?"

  Lalita put her fingertips to her temple and closed her eyes for a moment. "I have my reasons." Opening them again, she sputtered into laughter. "Oh my, wouldn't my friends back home have a jolly time with this. There, I was teased for still being a virgin."

  Millie gasped. "Surely not! Are your friends so heartless to want you ruined before you have a chance to wed?"

  Lalita gave her a weak smile. "Yes, yes they are. Although they think of it more as becoming experienced rather than ruined." She shook her head, realizing she was not helping her cause any by rambling on about a different time and culture.

  She turned once again to the doors. "I don't want to get you in trouble with your husband, Millie, so I'll go, but I do ask that you put in a good word for Dr. Cavanaugh. He's a good doctor and a good man, and he doesn't deserve to be disrespected just because he was kind to me."

  Millie nodded, and Lalita let herself out, found Nellie, and the two stepped out into the late morning sun. Lalita looked to the peak that overlooked Manitou, and for a moment she regretted ever laying eyes on it. "Nothing but trouble," she muttered as a tear broke loose and coursed down her cheek.

  ***

  Tate saw them heading toward the hill from the west as he was reaching the turn from the east. Dragging along in silence, he could tell that something was wrong even from a distance. Tying the reins to the arm rail, he jumped down and jogged to meet them.

  It was obvious that Lita had been crying, and he wanted to take her into the comfort of his arms, but he didn't dare out in public. He had to think of her reputation. He swept up Nellie to keep those arms occupied. "What happened?"

  Nellie held him tight around the neck. "Oh, Papa. Mrs. Pilson said we couldn't see the baby today, and that made Lalita very sad. I tried to tell her we could go back another time, but she still cried."

  Tate knew Lita well enough to know that was only a small part of the story. "Well, come on home. It's nearly time for lunch."

  He lifted Nellie into the buggy and offered his hand to Lita, taking the opportunity to caress her fingers with his thumb as he helped her up. It wasn't enough—not nearly enough to stop the ache in his heart for what his little mountain town had done to them both over the last few days, but for the moment, it would have to do.

  ***

  Lunch was a solemn affair.

  Tate had taken Lalita aside while Nellie was washing up and heard the full, awful story of Lalita's conversation with Mrs. Pilson. He'd nearly stormed out to find Dickson, but Lalita was right—trying to talk sense into him the day before had gotten him nothing but a black eye.

  They ate in silence under the watchful gaze of his friend, and as soon as Nellie was finished, Tate excused her from the table and asked her to play in her room until he came to get her.

  It was time to talk strategy.

  Tate took a long drink of water, unsure of how to begin.

  Jeremiah began for him. "So what happened? You two have been acting like your best friend died all through the meal?"

  Tate set his glass on the table, his smile grim. "I'm sorry for our poor company. Lalita had an upsetting encounter this morning." He briefly shared what had occurred at the Pilson's, then filled in Lalita on what he had told Jeremiah about their plans to wed.

  Jeremiah had listened attentively then sat a moment rubbing his chin. "I think I'd bring the man up on charges of slander. Libel, even. You've got it in writing."

  Tate inwardly groaned as Lita looked confused. "What do you mean? What do we have in writing?"

  Jeremiah looked sheepish. "You didn't tell her that part?"

  Tate shook his head as Lalita's wide-eyed gaze turned to him. "What haven't you told me?"

  Tate laid his hand over hers on the table. "The letter I received over breakfast this morning wasn't about a bill. It was a petition signed by eighty or so people demanding I remove you from my house."

  Lita gasped as though stabbed. "Eighty people who now think I'm a 'soiled dove'?"

  "Eighty people is still a small percentage of the town. I haven't studied the names yet, but I'd wager Dickson went to people who don't even know you to spin his lies."

  Lalita's brow pinched. "No one really knows me, Tate, except you and Nellie and Mrs. Kettler." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "And Mrs. K. doesn't like me all that much."

  "It's true, Papa." Everybody turned to see Nellie in the doorway.

  Tate let out an exasperated breath. "I thought I asked you to play in your room for a while, Miss Nell."

  She took a hesitant step into the room. "I couldn't find Arabella, and I just came down to see if I left her in the parlor." She took another small step and cupped her hands around her mouth. "But it's true." She glanced toward the pantry hall that led to the kitchen. "She doesn't like Lalita. I heard her tell Mrs. Atkins in the store."

  Tate put out his arm with a hitched brow, an invitation for her to come closer. He spoke quietly, the other adults leaning in. "What else, sweetheart?"

  Nellie's eyes were wide with disbelief. "She said Lalita's flowers were bad and showed that she was a bad person." She looked to Lalita and smiled. "I think they're beautiful."

  "Flowers?" Jeremiah inquired as Tate got to his feet, but he had no intention of telling him about Lita's shoulder bouquet.

  "Excuse me, but I need to have a talk with Mrs. Kettler. Why don't you all move to the parlor."

  As the adults headed Nellie out of the dining room and down the hall, Tate tried to get his emotions under control. He knew to let her go could result in more gossip against his household, but he would not—could not tolerate this kind of malicious tongue wagging by his own employee. To lose her would also probably mean he'd lose Harold's assistance in the carriage house, but it couldn't be helped. Tate tugged on the hem of his vest with conviction and strode into the kitchen to fire his housekeeper.

  Chapter 30

  Jeremiah stopped the buggy in front of the mercantile and took in the view for a moment before stepping down to the street and offering a hand to Lalita. As soon as she hit the ground, she was moving toward the store. He stopped a moment to rub Maisy's nose before hit
ching her to the post and walking to the door of the store himself.

  He waited just inside, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that they were together. He could have waited in the buggy, but he had an almost compulsive need to study her. She handed her list and empty basket to the girl behind the counter and scanned the room with an apprehensive eye.

  He had heard Lalita and Tate arguing in the hallway as he sat in the parlor reading the newspaper after breakfast. She said she needed some things from the store. He said with no one calling for a doctor, they had to be frugal. She said if she was going to be cooking, she had to buy some different things than were in the pantry. He had finally agreed but begged her to keep purchases to a minimum. She expected him to drive her, but Tate was hesitant to leave the phone. And that's when she'd cursed the nineteenth century for its lack of "cell phones."

  Finally, Jeremiah had volunteered to take her, quite happy to have the lady to himself. After two days of Tate waiting by the phone, and Lalita trying to fill Mrs. Kettler's shoes, the tension between the two of them practically filled the house. He'd hoped by getting her out, that tension would be released in enlightening conversation, and although he tried to get her to talk, all he got was short answers and a cordial facade.

  He watched her nervously tapping her toe beneath the purple striped dress she was wearing. He noted that, with the exception of the dress he'd first seen her in, everything she wore had a different fabric border around the bottom, and after hearing the sewing machine going for several days, he realized that she had been remodeling all of Augusta's dresses to fit herself. It seemed almost profound, in a way, as this woman was as far removed in personality from Tate's late wife as any woman could be.

  She paid the woman with the bills that Tate had given her, and he headed outside to ready the horse.

  What was supposed to be a research trip had turned into something else, and he had asked himself several times in the last few days why he just didn't go home. He liked to think that in some small way, he was helping his old friend work through a crisis, but he knew there was more to it. And it had to do with the little woman heading his way with a basket full of groceries.

  He smiled as she approached, and he was happy to see her smile back, looking more relaxed now that the deed was done, and they were going to be heading back home. He took the basket from her hand and stashed it behind the seat. He turned to help her up, but she was already sitting in the buggy, completely unaware that she'd just committed a breach of etiquette. He smiled to himself, as he walked around the buggy, knowing he should have expected it.

  He let Maisy set her own slow pace as he tried once again to engage the unusual woman beside him in conversation. "Were you able to purchase everything you wanted?"

  "Mostly. I still haven't got a good grasp on what's available in this ti—" She blinked. "Town. The selection is a bit different here."

  "Oh? What were you looking for that they didn't have?"

  "Whipped cream. I didn't really expect it, but I had hoped."

  "A ready-made product? How would the store keep it sufficiently cold?"

  She blew out a breath. "That, Dr. Fischer, is the million dollar question that must wait for an answer."

  Jeremiah was intrigued. While he couldn't decipher the larger mysteries surrounding the woman beside him, she seemed far less on her guard about the seemingly innocuous questions that told him more than she realized. "To make fresh whipped cream, don't you merely beat cream and add sugar? When it's that easy, why would you—"

  "Easy? Have you ever tried to use a hand-cranked egg beater to whip cream? The picture is not in the dictionary under 'easy,' I guarantee you."

  Dr. Fischer smiled at her phrasing, even as he pressed her further. "Hand-cranked? Isn't Tate's kitchen equipped with an electric model? I bought one for my cook several years ago."

  Lalita's face brightened into a look of happy surprise. "There is such a thing?"

  He grinned. "Quite. I'm surprised you've not seen one."

  "I've seen one, I just didn't realize…" She looked back at the shops they were leaving behind. "Do you think I would be able to buy one here?"

  "I would think so. Do you want me to turn around?"

  She thought a moment before shaking her head. "No, Tate asked me to only buy what I needed. It will have to wait."

  Jeremiah was confounded. "You have me a bit confused. When I first mentioned the device, you acted like you didn't know that it existed, but then you said you'd seen one."

  She floundered for a response. "Well, what I meant to say is… I've wondered… I mean it seems logical, doesn't it, in this day of… of safety razors and flush toilets and modern electricity and all that, that something like an electric mixer would have to be invented. So when I said I've seen one… I… I… imagined what it might look like with turning beaters" —she started demonstrating with her hands— "and… and buttons to make it work…"

  "You imagined it."

  "Believe me, if you had struggled with that hand beater, you would start dreaming about a better way."

  He laughed. "Perhaps you're right. 'Necessity is the mother of invention.' "

  Her explanation was the poorest lie he'd ever heard, but if he challenged her further on it, she'd close the door of communication. Instead, he took the opportunity to move the conversation toward a topic he was more than a little curious about. "You seem to have a very vivid imagination, Miss Torres. Do you write fiction?"

  She laughed. "Heavens no! I read fiction on occasion, in between dusty history tomes, but I don't think I have what it takes to write it."

  Jeremiah had a difficult time hiding his surprise. "So you've never even considered writing something along the lines of a Jules Verne novel?"

  When she laughed this time, she nearly snorted. "What would make you say that? That's not me at all! I find real life much more interesting. Give me a good documentary any day of the week."

  "Documentary?"

  Her smile slipped even as her laughter was squelched in an instant. "You've heard of a documentary… haven't you?"

  The way she squeaked the question, made him wonder if it was something risqué. He shook his head. "What is it?"

  Lalita knew she was digging herself in deeper every moment she was with this man. Her mind flew. Okay, what's the history of film? "So," she began slowly, trying to feel him out, "you've probably heard of the new moving pictures…"

  "Not terribly impressive, if you ask me. 'Much ado about nothing.' "

  Lalita inwardly sighed with relief. "Well, 'documentary' is kind of a new term for non-fiction motion pictures. History, how things work, etc." She paused and swallowed.

  Dr. Fischer nodded. "I see. It has been documented by facts. Well, the cameras will have to improve. They just give me a headache."

  Lalita smiled, thinking about the last 3D movie she had gone to. "I'm sure they will. They're just getting started, really."

  The doctor turned the corner to ascend the hill toward home. "There's that imagination again. Where did you get such a large dose of it?"

  Lalita wished she were home. "Dr. Fischer, if you're referring to Tate's letter, please remember that I had a head injury. Think of what I said at that time as nothing more than fuzzy dreams."

  The doctor nodded, but Lalita didn't think her answer really satisfied him.

  They drove up the hill in silence, but as they pulled into the carriage house, he spoke again. "If it is nothing more than an injured girl's ramblings, why would Tate keep it?"

  "Keep what?"

  The doctor turned to her. "Your history book. He has it in his desk. Why would he keep it?"

  Lalita felt heat rising in her face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Dr. Fischer gave her a slight smile. "Of course you don't." He turned and hopped off, and Lalita stepped down with as much calm as she could. He read it. He must have.

  Walking to the side door, she called back over her shoulder. "If you wouldn't mind bringing t
he basket in when you're done unhitching the buggy, I'd appreciate it."

  Forcing herself to walk, she made her way to the back door. She found Tate in his study, staring out the window. "We're back. You should probably go help Dr. Fischer with Maisy."

  He nodded, and Lalita hoped for a kiss as he rose and came around the desk, but his focus was on the door. She turned and blinked as she watched him leave, a foul mood threatening. She tried to shake it off as she moved to Tate's desk chair.

  Opening the center drawer, she took out the book with her name on the cover. She realized now that even though writing it was therapeutic for her, it was a dangerous thing to do. She'd burn it at her first opportunity.

  She was about to close the drawer, when the corners of several old photos caught her eye. She pulled them out. The one on top was of a couple in wedding attire, and Lalita recognized a younger Tate. She knew the somber expression was due to the need to be still for the longer exposure time, but she'd seen that look too many times this week. She let her gaze move to the woman. So this is Augusta.

  Even though, she too, had a solemn expression, she was obviously a beauty. Fine features were framed by curls underneath a simple veil that fell over her shoulders. She held a bouquet, and Tate's hand was on her shoulder just like— She turned the photo abruptly over and slid it back in the drawer. Blinking back unexpected tears, she tried to focus on the remaining photo in her hand. There was handwriting across the top that said "The Cavanaughs, April 18, 1886."

  Her eye found Tate in this group shot that must have been taken on the same day as the wedding photo. She lingered on him a moment, then let her gaze explore the rest of the faces. Her brows flew up as her mouth dropped open. Tate was surrounded by people that looked like her.

  Chapter 31

  Tate was longing for some private time with Lita, but instead, he was once again sitting in the parlor with Jeremiah while Lita and Nellie cleaned up in the kitchen. She had seemed on edge for days, but especially short-tempered since she and Jeremiah had returned from shopping. He wondered if Fischer had said anything to upset her, or if it was the news that Lita's court date had been set for early the following week.