Lynna Banning - The Courtship

Her pulse hammering, she climbed the stairs up to the attic for her pattern box and the worn copy of Godey’s Ladies’ Book.

All at once she could hardly wait to begin.

Jane twisted the key in the rusty lock and pushed the plank door wide. A puff of hot, musty air washed over her, smelling of chicken mash—earthy and slightly sweet. For a moment she felt she might lose her breakfast.

She leaned over the mop bucket she’d brought from home, clamped her hand across her stomach, and closed her eyes. She could not do this. The only thing she’d scrubbed in her life was her mother’s already-spotless kitchen floor, and this was a far cry from that. This, she acknowledged, gazing at the cobweb-swathed walls and ceiling and the grains of something moldy heaped into the corners, was one step above a henhouse. Or maybe a step or two below.

Merciful heavens, she had borrowed good money to set up a dressmaking shop in a pigsty! The smell was overpowering.

Another wave of nausea swept over her. She clenched her jaws tight and convulsively swallowed down the bitter saliva pouring into her mouth.

When she could raise her head, she fumbled in the pocket of her blue work skirt for a handkerchief, folded it in half cross-wise, and tied it over her nose and mouth. The scent of lavender masked the odor of the stifling room just enough; if she left the door open and worked fast, maybe she could manage it.

She took the bucket outside, filled it at the pump near the horse trough in front of the hotel across the street, then lugged it into the mercantile. Mr. Mercer had offered to heat water for her on the potbellied stove next to the candy counter. While she waited, she rolled up the sleeves of her high-necked white waist and began sweeping down the walls.

Debris, dirt particles, even what looked like decayed bird droppings rained down on her. She rolled the sleeves back down to protect her arms. As she worked, a thick yellow dust rose and hung in the air like smoke. It made her cough, and her eyes began to smart, but she gritted her teeth and worked steadily until Mr. Mercer poked his head in the doorway.

“Here’s yer water, Miz Davis. ’Bout to boil, it was, so watch yerself, it’s awful hot.” He plunked the brimming bucket onto the floor.

Jane leaned on her broom to catch her breath. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

The storekeeper shook his balding head. “Saddest thing I ever did see,” he murmured.

Jane took his comment to heart. “I find I am quite surprising myself. It is hard work, but it just wants a bit of pluck and dash and it will all come straight.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, ma’am. I mean the thought of a lady turnin’ my feed store into a dressmakin’ shop. Too ladyfied for the likes of Dixon Falls.”

Jane stared at the wiry man in denim overalls standing before her. “Ladyfied? Why, you have ladies here in Dixon Falls, do you not? Ladies who wear dresses?”

“We got women. Not ladies. Not like you ’n yer ma, that is.”

Jane gave him her warmest smile, then realized he couldn’t possibly see it under her handkerchief mask. “Oh, we are all pretty much the same under the skin, don’t you think?”

“I dunno, ma’am,” he mumbled as he turned away. “I jes’ dunno.”

“Well I do,” Jane announced to the dust swirling in his wake. “Women are women. We all wear corsets and underdrawers and shimmies and petticoats. And dresses,” she added. “Handsome dresses that I intend to conjure from pattern pieces and my own imagination.”

With that, she unwrapped the square of lye soap, drew out the kitchen paring knife she’d brought in her pocket, and began to shave slivers of soap into the bucket of hot water. She swirled her broom to and fro, and when the suds bubbled to the top, she plunged the straw in up to the stitching and sloshed the soapy implement back and forth along the length of the wall.

Droplets of dingy water and soapsuds splatted onto her clothes, and her hair, neatly pinned up this morning, began to loosen and now straggled about her face. She felt sodden, and her fingernails were so dirt-encrusted she could not bear to look at them. She could just hear Mama’s reproachful voice. “Jane Charlotte, what have you been doin’ with your hands!” Even if her mother had a voice that was always soft and regulated, she brooked no mistreatment of hair or skin; such a transgression was worse than disobedience and elicited as sharp a criticism as if she had volunteered to spy for the Yankees.

Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d paid off all of Papa’s debts first thing this morning; by this evening, she would have the place for her business. She positively must be a success. She had to repay Mr. Wilder’s bank loan or suffer a fate worse than death—marriage to That Man. That Yankee.

She worked through two more buckets of hot water before the walls and floors were cleaned to her satisfaction. She would not open a business in dingy quarters! Her back and shoulders felt as if she’d been yoked like an ox to a Conestoga wagon. Every muscle in her neck screamed. Even her derriere was sore.

By the time she got around to washing the front window, she was so tired her legs would no longer support her weight. She sank down onto her knees, dipped a clean rag into her still-warm water bucket, and addressed the lower half of the expanse of glass.

And that was how Rydell found her. He tapped on the open door and lifted his foot to step over the threshold when her voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You get one speck of dirt on my clean floor and I’ll dump this mop bucket over your head.”

Her back was toward him, but he realized she could see his reflection in the glass. He eased back onto the boardwalk step. “I brought your supplies from home,” he called.

She scooted around on her bottom to face him.

“What are you talking about? I haven’t sent for anything yet.”

Rydell caught his breath. She was filthy from head to toe, her hair bedraggled, her once-white waist half pulled out of her water-splotched blue skirt. A ridiculously feminine-looking embroidered handkerchief, folded into a triangle, covered the bottom half of her face. She looked like an angel-bandit. A dirt-streaked and very weary angel-bandit.

He resisted the impulse to scoop her bodily from the floor and carry her off to his private suite at the hotel. And a bathtub.

Her eyes flashed fire. “Have you come to gloat over my difficulties?”

“Believe me, Miss Davis, I would not gloat over a lady in your current…situation.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Rydell pushed down the chuckle that threatened. “Lefty Springer got bucked off a horse this morning. I came in his place.”

Jane glared at him. “To do what? Laugh at me? I must be a pretty sight, all wet and dirty and so tired I could…” She stopped abruptly as her voice wobbled.

He tore his gaze from her face and studied the floor instead. She was tuckered out, close to breaking. He had predicted as much, but now that it was before him, he wanted to spare her pride. He concentrated on the toe of his boot.

“I came to help, Jane. Lefty gave his word, and I back him up. Always have. His leg’s hurt, so I came instead. Your sewing machine and some boxes of patterns and such are in the wagon out front.”

Jane looked up at him in silence. The blue eyes under the dark eyebrows grew shiny. “I do thank you, Mr. Wilder.” Her voice sounded choked up. “And I apologize. I am so tired I hardly know what I am saying.”

“Rafe Mercer’ll help me unload. You ready for your things?”

Jane tossed her cleaning rag into the bucket and got to her feet. “How did you know what to bring?”

“I asked your mother. She was very helpful.”