Imitations of a Lady Page 2

  “Same blonde hair, light eyes, and it’s been years.” She smacked her lips together and sighed. “I’ve had the most marvelous scheme come to this old brain. Solves both your problem and Lettie’s. It’ll take some practice on your part, but we’ll make do. We’ll just need Lettie’s approval, given her current state, she’ll be more than happy to give.”

  “Lettie’s approval?” Cora cocked an eyebrow.

  “Just so. We’ll be needing her to educate you on how to be a lady companion and how to do your hair just so, but you’ll pass.”

  “Pardon?” Cora crossed her arms. She could smell the mischief brewing, and she didn’t like it.

  Maggie sighed in exasperation. “Young people, always so boneheaded.” She tapped her fingers together once more. “Yes, the more I think on it, the more I’m convinced of it.”

  “Maggie?”

  The old woman cackled, but her laughter was laced with determination and resolve. “Let’s see to your new belongings and send you on your way, Miss Williams.”

  Cora’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t be serious. Cora wouldn’t pass for a lady of such upbringing. “You think Lettie will wish me to take her place? Her aunt would know in an instant.”

  Maggie laughed once more. “Impossible—poor woman died, and I think Lettie’ll be happy to spend her confinement here before returning to her family. Her employer will never know the better of it. That is, if you can pull off your part of the bargain. You’ll be free of Milton and Crooked Creek, and Lettie will have her chance at saving her reputation and honor.”

  Terrance met them at the porch, shoving his hands in his trousers. His hips rocked back and forth. “How may I be of service?” he asked. Flies swarmed around his greased hair, but he didn’t bother to swat at them.

  “For starters, you might take a bath in the horse trough. Then let’s talk about an errand,” Maggie said, dry heaving. “I wouldn’t want you touching my belongings with a stick, smelling as you do.”

  “Just buried a dog.” Terrance rubbed a hand along his brow. “Poor soul fell into a hole and got stuck.”

  Maggie dipped her chin. “Did you get stuck with it?”

  Terrance’s eyes bulged. “It wasn’t a proper grave for Lockhart’s dog, so I crawled down in it too.”

  “That ain’t no excuse for such filth.” Maggie pulled her shoulders back. “Now, can you or can’t you bathe?”

  He grinned, wheezing slightly. “It’ll cost you an extra dime.”

  Maggie nodded. “Worth every cent.”

  Chapter 3

  For one so ill, Lettie Williams looked uncharacteristically happy. Her face was drenched in sweat, but color had returned to her cheeks and life to her darkened gaze. She sat on the bed next to Maggie and leaned her back against the wall. “If this is to work, you must remember everything. Repeat what I taught you.”

  Cora refrained from grunting. Not only was it the opposite of ladylike—and that was her new assignment—but she knew Lettie was right. Cora had to get the facts right. “Your mother is Caroline Williams, your father is Anthony Williams. You have one brother—Francis, but he died six years ago when you—or I—was only thirteen. You were sent away to your aunt’s home while your parents grieved the loss of your brother, and it was there you met Mrs. Davis.”

  “Stop,” Lettie said, shaking her head. “My brother’s name is Frederick, and I was fourteen when he died. My visit to Overstead and Northwind Range was five years ago, not six.”

  “Frederick. Fourteen.” Cora inhaled and massaged her forehead. The situation was riddled with difficulties—remembering all the facts, acting as a lady, and, even more challenging, lying to an elderly lady.

  Lettie leaned forward. “I put all of this to paper, so you have the entire train ride to memorize this information. I doubt Mrs. Davis will ask you for my detailed history. She already knows about Frederick and my upbringing, and she will not talk about my brother. She knows it is too painful. Now, it is of utmost importance that you focus on learning about my aunt and Mrs. Davis.”

  Cora swallowed. “You aunt Eleanor died two years ago from pneumonia.”

  Lettie nodded, urging Cora on.

  “She and Mrs. Davis were dear friends due to their mutual appreciation of literature, and participation in the musical committee for the Davis Stampede each year. Mrs. Davis is in her late seventies, the owner of the biggest ranch in her town and subsequently rich. You bonded with her over your adoration of literature and luxuries.” There was something else. Cora tapped her fingers together. “Her sons help her with the ranch, and she’s lonely because…”

  “Mrs. Davis’s son and grandsons run the ranch, but you need not worry. I met none of them when I visited last. You will not be expected to remember any of their names,” Lettie said. Her voice grew quiet. “More importantly, Mrs. Davis is lonely. She misses Eleanor. Since my aunt’s death, Mrs. Davis has had no female company, other than her cook and maid, on a ranch full of only men.”

  A ranch full of men. Cora chewed on the inside of her cheek. At least she would not be set on stage, a spectacle to drunken men. Yes—Overstead would be a definite improvement to Crooked Creek. Milton gave Cora reason enough to flee, however difficult the task would be.

  “You will be a great comfort to her.” Lettie’s gaze fell, and she clasped her hands together. “If it were not for my condition, I would gladly go.”

  Most would argue that Lettie had brought the pregnancy and predicament upon herself. Yet, Cora reached for Lettie’s hand. The girl was about to cry, and somehow, despite Lettie’s frailty and troubles, she claimed Cora’s sympathy. Lettie was kind and gentle. Determination rose in Cora’s chest; she had to help Lettie.

  At nineteen, Cora had come to know, quite personally, that one’s circumstance were rarely as they seemed. There were reasons for everything, quite often multiple, that couldn’t be explained by a mere glimpse or an easy excuse. Life had a way of stacking the deck, sometimes dealing a difficult hand. There was no making it out of the game unscathed. Cora had already been robbed of a mother and an upbringing.

  Lettie clung to Cora’s hand, pulling her to the bedside. “I cannot thank you enough, Miss Burns. You and Maggie have been heaven sent. For the first time in months, I feel a glimmer of hope that perhaps my life will not fall to pieces.”

  “Fall to pieces?” Maggie croaked, shaking her head. It was a wonder Maggie had stayed silent for so long. The old landlady had an opinion about everything. “We’ll see you right. Don’t you worry. Besides, nothing falls to pieces that can’t be picked up anyhow. Ain’t that right, Cora?”

  Cora’s lips tugged. Maggie had such a way of making her smile. “Yes,” Cora said, though she lacked conviction.

  “I remind myself that each time I look in the mirror and see another bit of myself drooping lower.” Maggie laughed, nudging Lettie. “You young people know nothing about falling to pieces. Your situation ain’t so bad, and with Cora’s help, you’ll see it pass.”

  Cora swallowed the lump at her throat. She’d always been a performer, but no show had carried such importance, such life-changing consequences. This was not just singing and dancing. This arrangement required acting—something Cora had dreamed of, but never attempted. And acting in this capacity was different—dishonest.

  Lettie’s head bobbed up and down as her tears dropped to her lap. “Yes, I believe you are right. Thank you, Cora.”

  Lettie was so soft-spoken, so seemingly innocent. Anyone in their right mind would notice the differences between Cora and Lettie. Cora caught a glimpse of their reflections from across the room. “Our features are different. I’m at least four inches taller. What’ll I do if Mrs. Davis detects she is being deceived?”

  Maggie patted Cora’s arm. “Five years, especially during maturation, can do a lot to a person,” she said, grinning. “And from what Lettie says, Mrs. Davis barely keeps her wits. Don’t you worry your head another minute. Besides, what you’re doing ain’t so bad. The woman is in want of a
companion, and you’ll be just the one.”

  But Cora did worry. Such a scheme was a risk, a ridiculous one. Desperation drove a person to do rash things. But this…?

  Maggie shifted her weight, and the mattress creaked in response. “You only have to keep up the front for five months, until Lettie has the baby and finds it a good home. Then, you can say you’re called home. Lettie’ll return to the East, and you’ll be free to go wherever the wind blows. At least this way you have time to think on it without Milton breathing threats down your neck.”

  Maggie—ever the persuasive woman. But this time Cora didn’t even try to refrain. She grunted loud and clear. “It’ll never work, Maggie. I don’t know anything about literature or luxuries. I can read, but only enough to get by.”

  “Let Mrs. Davis take the lead,” Lettie said. Her voice grew even softer, and Cora had to lean closer to hear. “Ask for her opinions, and comment only so far as her responses are concerned. If I remember correctly, Mrs. Davis values validation and silence.”

  That Cora could do. She was exceptionally talented at keeping her lips closed. She’d had to, working for Milton. She closed her eyes and sighed. Maggie was right. Cora needed time to figure out where she wanted to go and what she needed to do. It would take time, time away from Crooked Creek.

  “You practically live on stage,” Maggie added, waving a shaky fist. “You can do this.”

  The front door of the boarding house swung against its frame, and the three women startled in response. Milton’s hole through Cora’s door remained, eliminating any sound barrier from the boarding house entry.

  “Delivery for Mags,” Terrance Wilkins called.

  Maggie shuffled from the bed and motioned to Cora. “Well, aren’t you dying to see what treasure Old Jez’s niece left you?”

  “Five trunks full of lady stuff,” Terrance called, tapping his boot against the floor. “Shall I leave it here?”

  Maggie bounded to the door like a jack rabbit, a feat Cora never imagined possible, and cackled. “We’re on our way. Five trunks? What on earth did Jez’s niece bring out West?”

  Five trunks. Cora hadn’t enough belongings to fill half of one until now. She darted to the door and flung it open, surprising herself and nearly knocking into Maggie.

  Terrance retreated, holding his hands up in surrender. “Ain’t nothing more frightful than a woman and her dresses.” He dug a hand into his front pocket. “Found the letter like you said, though I can’t read a word of it, especially in that delicate hand.”

  Cora ripped the letter from his hands, anticipation flooding her. Such jumping about and fluttery feelings were unmistakably unlike her. But then again, Cora had never had a reason to hope for anything until now.

  “Well? What does the lady say?” Maggie asked, placing a coin in Terrance’s palm.

  He left without a word.

  “Give me a moment to open it,” Cora said, catching her breath.

  Miss Cora,

  Please accept these lovely dresses and trunks. I am soon to leave Crooked Creek, and I expect our paths will not cross again. Thank you for your kindness to me, and to my uncle. Within these trunks, you will find five hundred dollars in the bottom of a stocking. Please use it to leave Crooked Creek as well. I wish you all the best.

  Charlotte Albany

  “My word.” Cora reeled backward, nearly losing her balance. Five hundred dollars was a fortune! What on earth had prompted the deputy’s new wife to bestow such a sum on Cora? It was unthinkable.

  “Well?” Maggie said, pulling the letter from Cora’s hands. The old woman scanned it. Her eyes bulged. “Goodness, Cora! You’re rich.” Terrance Wilkins was already out the door, but Maggie chased after him. “Mr. Wilkins, we’re in need of your services once more.”

  Cora followed Maggie out the door. The old woman had that mischievous look again—the type of look that sent Cora’s nerves buzzing.

  Terrance dug into his pocket in response and lifted a single coin—his payment for retrieving the trunks. “But it’ll cost you double, Mags. I ain’t missing another burial’s pay for your errands. Not without proper payment.”

  Maggie cackled. “No matter. Be here Thursday morning. Miss Burns’ll be needing transportation.” She turned to face Cora and smiled. “Only thing left to do is send the old lady a telegram.”

  Chapter 4

  Jesse Davis scowled. He’d never met anyone as stubborn as his grandmother. “Why not send Jude on the errand? My hands are full enough with the calves. I expect another’ll be born this afternoon, and Daddy’ll have my hide if I miss it. I ain’t had a day off in months, and now you’re asking for a favor?”

  Mrs. Lucy Davis, widow of ten years, returned his scowl and clicked her tongue. “Twenty-four years old, and still I need to remind you who owns this ranch.” She turned from him, blowing her nose into a handkerchief. “Your father isn’t any better. Always telling me my business. Horace wouldn’t have stood for such behavior, and I won’t either. Miss Williams is a young woman of refinement—as rare around these parts as your obedience. Now, twenty-four is plenty old to marry, and I can’t understand why you resent any attempt I make at introducing you to quality women.”

  Jesse pursed his lips, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Always the stipulation of marriage. If he married by twenty-five years of age, Grams would give him a portion of land for a house, and he already knew just the spot. He shook his head. “I reckoned it was one of your ploys to marry me off, but it won’t work. I’d marry Claire if she’d have me, but we both know she’s sweet on Jude. Speaking of Jude, why don’t you send him? He’s much better with the women folk anyhow.”

  “I’ll send you,” she said, swatting her hand against the arm of the chair.

  “Apologies, Grams, but I hardly understand why you need a companion.”

  “Of course you don’t understand; you’re a man. It is precisely why I wrote to Miss Williams. I could do with more civilized talk—talk about anything other than the ranch and the habits of my son and grandsons. Thank goodness your brother Jude has more manners. He’s my one saving grace. But I won’t have you bring up Claire Rogers again. She’s no lady, not fit for more than work around the ranch. She’s certainly not the type of woman I’d recommend to my grandsons. Now, if Miss Williams is anything like I remember, she’s just what I need—pretty but mannered, both things you men know nothing about. And,” his grandmother said, smiling, “the perfect match for you.”

  This time, Jesse rolled his eyes. Pretty and mannered—like half the female population of Overstead looking to marry a wealthy Davis. He didn’t need another female batting her lashes at him. He’d rather buy his own land and build a house. He wouldn’t marry to satisfy Grams or anyone else.

  “I expect you’ll be leaving, if you want to make it to the train station on time,” Grams said, flicking her sagging chin toward the door. “Miss Williams is the fragile type. I won’t allow you to leave her sitting in this heat.”

  Fragile type? Even worse than pretty and mannered. Jesse’s stomach churned. The journey was a thirty-minute wagon ride to the station. What in tarnation would he talk to such a lady about on the way home?

  “Off with you,” his grandmother said, flicking her fingers at him. “Straight away, Jesse, or I’ll turn you out of this house.”

  She had threatened as much before, but behind that icy exterior, Jesse knew his grandmother could never bring herself to do as much. Grams cared, even if she never said as much. Jesse was certain. “Suppose I listen to you and retrieve Miss Williams? Will you grant me a day off then?” he asked.

  Grams’s breath caught in her throat, and her voice wobbled. It was almost laughter. “You obeying me don’t make for a holiday, my boy. If anything, it should set the standard. Now, pull up your britches and be gone.”

  Jesse smiled. Tough love was Gram’s version of affection. He bent over her, placing a kiss upon her forehead. “I reckon I should take the wagon?”

  “As opposed to?” Gra
ms asked, pressing her lips in a thin line.

  “An extra horse or the buggy.”

  The edges of Grams’s lips curved downward. “You mean to rattle me, but I can sniff a snapperhead from a mile ahead.” She pinched his arm. “I won’t ask again. Take the wagon and collect Miss Williams.”

  Jesse bit back a smile and gathered his hat. He’d been wrong; a lady companion was just what Grams needed. Perhaps a pretty and mannered companion might teach Grams a few manners of her own. He exited the back door and took to the wagon.

  Miss Williams was fortunate the wagon was new, ordered only months ago from the catalogue. The new one cost Jesse a fair penny—sixty-five dollars, in fact. His latest purchase was a vast improvement to the old wagon with even wood and fresh lacquer, each corner reinforced with metal edging. The weathered slats of the previous wagon sent a splinter in Jesse’s rear each time he sat at the driver’s bench.

  Jesse grinned, imagining the look on a proper female’s face if a splinter were to stick her dress. It was a shame Jesse had already sold the old cart. He would’ve liked to have made such an impression on Miss Williams. She needed to know what she’d signed up for in coming to Overstead. She certainly shouldn’t expect a marriage proposal.

  He made the ride to Traverse Station in less time than he’d allotted, due in part to the new wagon wheels. They spun faster and smoother, covering more ground in less time.

  The building was nothing to Union Station in Denver—Jesse visited the large city after each cattle drive he went on—but the scene in front of him was impressive nonetheless. The red-roofed station stretched fifty feet, paralleled by stagecoach after stagecoach.

  He took his spot in the line and pulled the horse to a stop. According to the clock, he was fifteen minutes early. Grams would have dropped dead to see Jesse Davis arrive early on her errand.

  He tipped his head back and his hat forward, closing his eyes. With Daddy’s commands and Gram’s constant directions, Jesse hardly had a moment to himself. There were constant interruptions, even when Jesse was already occupied in fulfilling a task from one of their lists. He hadn’t had a full night’s rest in over two weeks—calving season at its best. The horse hooves, whinnies, and background chatter, lulled Jesse’s lids lower and lower. Thirty minutes of uninterrupted sleep seemed providential.