TEXAS LONESOME
By Alice Duncan
Texas Lonesome
Copyright © 1996 by Alice Duncan
All rights reserved.
Cover illustration 1996 by Doreen Minuto
All rights reserved.
Published 1996 by Harper Paperbacks
A division of HarperCollins Publishers
Smashwords Edition September 3, 2009
Visit aliceduncan.net
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Chapter 1
San Francisco, California, 1895
“Dear Aunt Emily: I am in deep distress and know not what to do. I have a passionate Artistic Temperament and am in love with an actor. The object of my love is not just any actor, Aunt Emily, but plays Hamlet on the Stage. My mother says all Theatrical People are trash. She refuses to let me attend the Theatre with my friend Jill and says I must marry a banker. All I can do is weep. Oh, please, please, help me! I am Desperate! Signed, In Love With Hamlet.”
Emily von Plotz glared at the letter clutched in her fingers and muttered, “Affected, sniveling dolt.”
Before she could put pencil to paper and answer the correspondent with her own appropriately modified opinions, however, she found herself rudely jerked up from her park bench. Both letter and pencil went flying, and Emily had to grab hard at the leashes straining against her arm. Uncle Ludwig would never forgive her if she lost his dogs.
Will Tate stared at the melee erupting in front of him. He squinted to be sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him. Shaking his head, he decided they hadn’t. Two of the most ridiculous-looking animals he’d ever seen in his entire life were trying to murder his dog.
The ferocious duet were glossy, reddish-brown, and about as close to the ground as a mammal could get without slithering on its belly like a snake. They were doing their level best to put an end to poor Fred, who tried without much success to lift all four paws off the ground at the same time in an effort to elude them. The effect was comical, and Will wondered with some amusement if the minute warriors planned to chew their way up to a vital organ from Fred’s enormous feet.
The little hellions were being barely kept in check by a slender woman who tugged with all her might at the leashes nominally tethering them. Will figured she must have come to Golden Gate Park on this perfect San Francisco summer morning in order to exercise the dogs. She had obviously been unprepared for their militant streak.
“It’s a good thing Fred has a sense of humor,” he murmured as he urged Cyclone, his big bay gelding, closer to the action.
He could hear the woman trying to control her wayward pets as he neared.
“Gustav! Helga! Stop it right now. That dog could eat the both of you with one bite!”
That was true, and Will acknowledged the woman’s honesty with a smile. Fred was an enormous, though amiable beast. The latter quality, while generally considered favorable, had apparently gone unappreciated by his present company.
Will reined in Cyclone a few feet from the altercation and whistled for Fred. Then he slipped off the horse’s back and waited for his obedient dog to come to him.
Fred took one last peek at the two frenzied hounds, and plodded meekly to Will, his tail wagging a happy greeting.
“Good Boy, Fred. Sit down now, old fellow.” Will gripped him by the collar, then glanced at the woman.
The poor thing was young—Will guessed her age to be somewhere near twenty—and she was a charmer. She had lots of honey-brown hair, a rosebud mouth, and eyes as blue as the sky above them. He almost whistled in appreciation of her perfect Gibson-girl figure. She was something and a half; no mistake. Will grinned in approval and pushed his hat back on his head.
“‘Pears to me those two critters lack a certain sense of proportion, ma’am,” he said in a friendly drawl owing as much to his understanding of city women as it did to his southwestern roots. That lazy, sun-kissed accent got them every time.
The woman blushed rosily and Will thought she looked pretty as a picture in her blue skirt and short jacket with its puffy sleeves, strapped around by those two crazy animals’ leashes, and with her cheeks as pink as a Texas sunset. Her straw hat had been knocked a little cockeyed in her struggle with the dogs, and it now sat at a jaunty angle on her upswept hair. Will’s smile broadened and he doffed his hat politely.
“Oh,” she cried in obvious embarrassment. “They’re such absurd dogs. My aunt’s brother Ludwig brought them to her from Germany.”
Her voice sounded at once proper and pretty. It caused something in Will to vibrate in appreciation. He plopped his hat back onto his head and gave her a slow nod, as though it all made sense to him now. “German, are they?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “These two are actually from Vienna, in Austria, I think.”
“That explains their dispositions then, I reckon.”
In spite of her embarrassment, the woman allowed a smile to peek out of her flushed face. To Will’s further delight, a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.
“I suppose it does,” she said. “I’m really sorry these idiots attacked your dog, mister.”
“That’s all right, ma’am,” said Will. “Old Fred here’s a friendly cuss. And he’s got a right lively sense of humor, so I expect he’ll just go back home and tell his pals about it and they’ll all have a good laugh.”
The woman gave him a full-bore smile. Then she stuck out a small hand, and said, “Well, I do appreciate your being so understanding, sir. My name is Emily von Plotz.”
Her smile was like sunshine on a rainy day. Will doffed his Stetson once more.
“Will Tate, Miss von Plotz. And it’s a real pleasure to meet you.” After shaking her hand and resettling his hat, Will hooked his thumbs into his back pockets and surveyed Emily von Plotz with a connoisseur’s eye. In order to keep her talking for a while, he said, “These critters always so happy to meet strangers, ma’am?”
Emily smiled at Will’s deep drawl, gazed up into his suntanned face, and couldn’t suppress a small giggle. It surprised her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had uttered a spontaneous giggle. Her life had been rather trying of late.
“They’re really awfully sweet dogs once you get to know them,” she said. “But Uncle Ludwig says they’re bred to be hunters. I guess they take their job in life seriously.”
“Well, that’s more than a lot of human folks can say, I reckon.” Will eyed the two little dogs with a dubious frown. “Hunters, are they?”
Emily watched him, intrigued. Mercy sakes, the man was handsome and so—so manly. She felt warm all of a sudden and wished she could fan herself.
“Oh, yes,” she told him. “They’ve been bred to hunt small game, like rabbits and such. My uncle says they’ll even go after badgers.” She gave a firm nod to emphasize her words. “Uncle Ludwig says they’ve got a lot of heart.”
Will seemed impressed. “Badgers are pretty rugged customers. No wonder you two think you’re tough.” Will squatted onto his haunches and held out a hand to the pair.
The dog Emily had called “Gustav” immediately rolled himself onto his back. He looked ridiculous with his four tiny legs flapping in the air from both ends of his sausage-shaped body, but Will decided it would be prudent not to point out the fact to Emily.
“Well, now, I guess you’re a friendly cuss underneath all that bluster, aren’t you, Gustav, ol’ boy?” Will scritched Gustav’s chest with deft fingers.
The dog named Helga backed up and began to yap hysterically. She bared her teeth and raised her hackles in a perfect fever of upset.
Will chuckled.
Emily sighed.
“Gustav, you’re a complete embarrassment,” she told the male severely. “Helga, stop it right now.” She looked at Will sheepishly. “At least she tries to earn her keep.”
“She’s a scrapper, all right,” acknowledged Will, peering up into Emily’s eyes.
He got lost in her gaze for a moment until Helga intruded again. Edging ever so slowly nearer to Will’s lanky thigh, she started to sniff tentatively. Then, after one or two preliminary snuffles, her long snout began a noisy, businesslike inspection of his leg.
Both Will and Emily let sighs of relief escape them.
“Well, now, are you going to try to make up to me after all that hullabaloo?” he asked the dog.
Helga snapped at Will when he ventured to stroke her head with a hand at least as long and brown as her nose. He withdrew his hand to the safety of Gustav’s belly in a hurry.
“Helga! Stop that,” commanded Emily.
The dog ignored her. Instead, she sniffed Will’s hand as it paid attention to an itchy spot on Gustav’s deep chest.
“I think she likes you,” Emily said. Her voice held little conviction.
Will grinned at her. Emily couldn’t help but notice he had a wonderful grin. His lovely hazel eyes crinkled up at the corners, and the creases on his tanned face deepened.
A tingle of excitement surged through her and she found herself wishing she knew Will Tate. As she was forever telling her correspondents, however, Emily knew it was not a lady’s place to initiate social intimacies with a gentleman. She didn’t quite know what to do instead, so she just swallowed hard and smiled back at him.
“What kind of dogs are these, Miss von Plotz? I’ve never seen their like before. Of course, I’m from Texas. We get mostly working breeds there.”
At his mention of Texas, Emily felt a sudden thrill and then tried to tamp it down. Oh, don’t be silly, Emily von Plotz, she chided herself. He couldn’t be. That would be simply too much luck.
Then she remembered Will had asked her a question but couldn’t recall what it was. She cleared her throat in embarrassment and felt her cheeks get warm.
“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Tate. What did you just ask me?”
Will chuckled. She was absolutely adorable. He wanted to scoop her up and make off with her, but he figured polite society would disapprove. “I asked you what kind of dogs these two are, Miss von Plotz.” He also decided Emily deserved a better last name than von Plotz, which sounded kind of ridiculous to him.
“They’re dachshunds, Mr. Tate.” Then Emily hurried on before Will could speak again. “Did you say you were from Texas?”
Will gave up on Gustav’s tummy and stood once more. He realized Emily only came up to his chin, and he liked that a lot. He liked the way she peered up at him with those big blue eyes of hers, too.
“Yep,” he said. “Got me a real nice place near San Antone.” He didn’t lay his accent on this thick as a rule but he figured, since Emily seemed to like it, he’d oblige her.
Emily did like it, although for a reason completely beyond Will’s ken.
She couldn’t help but notice what a big man he was, though. And very appealing. He had just the tall, lanky, lean look about him that Emily so admired. And he had the prettiest, sun-streaked brown hair underneath his big Texas hat.
“Are you—are you here in San Francisco on business, Mr. Tate?” she asked with what she hoped sounded merely like polite interest. What she wanted to do was grab him by the collar and shake him until he told her what she wanted to know.
“Nope. I’m playin’. I’m here on a holiday. And San Francisco sure is different from Texas, Miss von Plotz, I can tell you that.”
He seemed like such a sweet man. Emily tried to rein in her excitement. After all, the chances of him being the one she needed were very, very remote. Still, she’d never know for certain unless she asked.
“Mr. Tate,” she began, and stopped, unsure exactly how to proceed. Then she decided just to blurt it out and be done with it.
“Mr. Tate, are you ‘Texas Lonesome,’ by any chance?”
Then she flushed a deep, hot crimson.
“Texas lonesome?” Will’s brow crinkled. That was strange way to put it, he thought.
He watched her curiously, taking note of her fervent expression. She sure seemed to want him to be “Texas lonesome,” whatever that meant. Then he grinned. Will Tate was nothing, if not obliging. “Well, Miss von Plotz, I guess you might just say I am.”
Emily’s heart did a double somersault and began hammering like a woodpecker after a grub. “Oh, Mr. Tate,” she cried. She put a small hand on his sleeve and looked up at him earnestly. “I’m ‘Aunt Emily!’”
Will’s nimble brain assimilated that astonishing piece of information in only a very few seconds. When it did, his mouth dropped open.
“You? You’re Aunt Emily?”
The huge grin following his exclamation nearly caused Emily’s palpitating heart to turn a hand spring. She could only nod. Lord above, the man was handsome. She’d had no idea; would never have suspected, in fact.
Will couldn’t believe it for a second. Why, he and his pal Thomas Crandall had spent this very morning in stitches over Aunt Emily’s advice-to-the-lovelorn-and-other-fools-who-can’t-take-care-of-themselves column in the San Francisco Call. Will found it hard to believe people actually wrote the hogwash he’d seen printed in the newspaper. Thomas had almost spit his coffee all over his breakfast eggs when Will read some of the letters to him.
“Why, ma’am,” he told her honestly, “I just purely can’t believe it. I pictured Aunt Emily as a middle-aged spinster lady. And hog-fat, to boot.”
Emily wasn’t entirely sure she appreciated his disclosure. But still, if this man was “Texas Lonesome,” it wouldn’t do for her to get huffy at him. Too many intriguing thoughts were beginning to spin about in her mind for her to risk antagonizing him.
She smiled up at him, sweet as honey on a buttermilk biscuit. “No, Mr. Tate, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but she’s not. She’s me.”
Will shook his head slowly. “Oh, don’t be sorry, Miss von Plotz. I’m surely not disappointed.”
Emily’s smile faded and was replaced by an expression of earnest good will. “And, Mr. Tate, if you truly desire assistance in your endeavor, I can help you. I’m just certain I can. In truth, nothing would give me more pleasure than to help ‘Texas Lonesome’ in this time of need.”
By now, Will had come to the conclusion that this “Texas Lonesome” character must be one of Aunt Emily’s lovelorn correspondents. And, while it was true Will had adopted a scruple or two since he’d grown up and made his way in the world, it was also true he was quite taken with this little lady. He guessed he wouldn’t mind playing fast and loose with honesty for a while. At least for long enough to get to know Miss Emily von Plotz better, especially since she seemed so eager to help him out of whatever fix he was in.
He decided it might behoove him to play the bumpkin better, so he tugged his hat from his head and clutched it in front of him to show off his two big, calloused, country hands. “Why, ma’am, I’d just purely appreciate it if you would help me,” he said in his best Texas drawl.
Emily’s eyes fairly shone. Her expression of relief and happiness almost overwhelmed him. He’d never seen anything quite like little Miss Emily von Plotz in all his born days, in spite of her silly name.
“Oh, Mr. Tate, I’d just love to help you.” Emily meant that in all sincerity.
“Well, ma’am, I’d be honored if you would.”
He hoped she’d offer a suggestion as to how she planned to go about it pretty soon, since he had no idea what this “Texas Lonesome” fellow had written to her. It was always possible she might ask a question about his false persona he wouldn’t be able to answer, and then where would he be? Alone in Golden Gate Park without her, he reckoned. The thought held little appeal.
Emily thought fast. Will Tate seemed to be an honest and upright fellow. Still, she didn’t know him at all, and she certainly didn’t want to put herself into any compromising situations—yet. That might come later, after she determined for sure he was truly honorable. All at once, she thought of brilliant solution to her dilemma.
“Mr. Tate,” she said briskly, “I believe we can begin your lessons as soon as tomorrow morning if you’d like to meet me in the park again.”
Just in case he might wonder at—or, worse, object to—a young lady wandering at will and unaccompanied in a public park, she added, “I live nearby, Mr. Tate, and Golden Gate Park is such a well-traveled place. Nobody could possibly object to our meeting here.”
It sounded a little weak to her, so she smiled what she hoped was an alluring smile when she added, “I promise to leave Gustav and Helga at home.”
Will was lured. In truth, it never entered his head to think it odd that Emily should be out and about all by herself with no chaperone to watch over her. “Why, that sounds just fine to me, ma’am. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Good. Will nine o’clock be a good time for you?”
Although he had planned to spend a rip-roaring evening in a house of ill repute, gambling and sporting, and not return home until the wee hours of the morning, Will promptly agreed.
“That will be just perfect, ma’am.”
Emily was pleased. “Well, then, Mr. Tate, until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow, Miss Von Plotz.”
They shook hands on it. Then Emily had to awaken Gustav before she could walk home. Her mind was racing, and she dashed out of Golden Gate Park and practically skipped the few blocks to her aunt’s mansion on Hayes Street.
Blodgett, Aunt Gertrude’s kind, elderly, deaf, and very dignified butler, greeted her at the door. Emily quickly consigned the care of Helga and Gustav into Blodgett’s capable hands, then darted down the threadbare carpet and past the second-best parlor.
The bell-shaped tones of Aunt Gertrude’s voice told Emily that Gertrude was in the process of giving an elocution lesson. Emily could picture her standing amid the somewhat shabby furniture in the room, her iron-gray hair wound into a discreet knot at the back head, her finger upraised as she imparted the rudiments of proper speech to some bored young lady who didn’t care in the least. Emily sighed and wondered if this student was another one of her dear aunt’s charity cases, or if Gertrude would manage to get paid for once.
Since her aunt was otherwise occupied and couldn’t be disappointed at her improper behavior, Emily took the steps of the wide, curved staircase two at a time. She flung her door open and made a bee-line to her desk. Once there, she began rifling through a huge stack of papers. She soon found the one she was looking for, snatched it out of the pile, held it up to the late morning sunlight streaming through her window, and read it eagerly.
“It does,” she breathed with rapture. “It does say what I remember.” Then she kissed the piece of paper, hugged it to her bosom, and did a little twirl around her bedroom.
# # #
Will watched for a long time, enchanted, as Emily and her two low-slung companions walked away from him. He enjoyed the way Emily’s little bottom swished and thought she handled her charges quite well, considering their dispositions. He admired that.
With a pat for Fred and an affectionate stroke of a long, silky ear, Will murmured, “You get an extra bone tonight, Freddy boy. If it weren’t for you, I’d never have met Miss Emily von Plotz.” He shook his head and chuckled. “von Plotz. What a name.”
When Emily finally ambled out of his sight, he remounted Cyclone, whistled to Fred, and finished his trot around the park.
The place had changed a good deal in the five years since Will had lived in San Francisco. Civic pride had wrought many horticultural changes in which he took particular pleasure. Will was quite a gardening enthusiast and, therefore, very interested in some of the new gardens planted for the Mid-Winter Exposition the year before. He especially enjoyed roses, and took notes about several new varieties that might grow well in his own elaborate garden back home.
It was around four in the afternoon when he returned to the Nob Hill mansion belonging to Thomas Crandall, his friend and business partner, and made his way into the parlor. There he sat down in an overstuffed wing chair with his big, booted feet propped on a burgundy velvet ottoman.
When Thomas came home an hour later Will was shuffling through a huge stack of newspapers piled beside the chair and sipping from a mug of beer. He looked up and smiled. “Home so soon, Thomas?”
Thomas was a few inches shorter than Will, and he was built along stockier lines, although he was not at all fat. He had thin, curly brown hair and fluffy mutton chop side whiskers Will accused him of growing to distract the ladies from his receding hairline.
Thomas grinned. “Figured I’d better get back here early to keep you out of trouble.”
“Too late for that,” Will told him with a grin of his own.
“Oh, great God, what’s her name?”
Will laughed and shook his head. “Shoot, Thomas, now what kind of trouble can I get into in one little afternoon?”
Thomas flopped into a chair across from Will. “Well, if I remember right, it took you less than five minutes when we met up with Flaming Polly that time in Virginia City.”
There was more than a hint of wistfulness in Will’s smile when he admitted, “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”
“Well, my friend, ladies aside, has the city changed much in five years?”
“It’s changed for the better, I’d say,” Will told him with a wink. “I found me a fine new polyantha for my rose garden.”
Thomas shook his head. “Lord, Will, I still can’t picture you, of all people, as a damned gardener.”
“I like roses. I can’t help it. They make me feel refined. Besides, I’m rich. I can do what I want.”
“I guess that’s so.” Thomas shook his head again, this time almost sadly, as though he were ruing their lost youth. “That all you did today? Smell the roses?”
“Well, I had me a right fine time in the gardens. That’s true. But I also met up with some of the finest scenery I’ve just about ever seen in my life.”
Thomas sat up straight, all attention. “All right, Will, I mean it now. What’s her name?” Thomas and Will knew each other very well.
Sighing lustily, Will said, “All right. Her name is Miss Emily von Plotz.” He eyed his friend over the crinkled newspaper. “Better known to you as ‘Aunt Emily.’”
“Aunt Emily? That old maid who writes the silly advice column for the Call? My God, Will, all that digging in the dirt and playing with posies must be making you soft!”
Will peered at Thomas dreamily. “I learned a valuable lesson today, my friend. You should never judge a book by its cover. Or, in this case, you should never judge a columnist by the drivel she writes. ‘Aunt Emily’ is one prime female.” He added severely, “And I saw her first, so don’t get any ideas.”
Thomas laughed and stretched his legs out to snag the sides of Will’s ottoman. It took some clever maneuvering, but he managed to catch it between his feet and jog it towards himself so he could share it. “I assume you’re reading old columns so you’ll have something to talk about when you meet up with your fair aunt again?”
Will crunched the newspaper up on his lap. “Actually,” he admitted, “it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Hmmm. Now why am I not surprised to hear you say so?”
“You see, she thinks I’m some lonely cowpoke who calls himself ‘Texas Lonesome.’ I guess he wrote her a letter saying he needs some kind of help. So I’m trying to figure out just exactly what his problem is so when Miss Emily tries to help me, I can oblige her by getting better. And I promise to be real grateful, too.”
Thomas cocked an eyebrow. “And how, pray tell, did she get the impression you were this correspondent of hers?”
“Why, city feller, I ain’t got a clue.” Will’s drawl was so slow a snail could have beat it to Thomas’s ears.
“Oh, Lordy,” sighed Thomas. “Here. Better give me a hunk of those papers, and I’ll help you look.”
So Will divvied up the stack of newspapers, and the two men proceeded to dig through them in search of old “Aunt Emily” columns. They had been at their task for about ten minutes, when Will leapt to his feet.
“I found it!” He stood in front of his wing chair and read the column. Then he read it again. Then he looked over to where Thomas sat expectantly, grinning at him. Will was troubled.
“Uh-oh.”
“What do you mean, Uh-oh’?”
Will didn’t respond immediately. He sat down once more and read the column yet a third time to himself. Then he cleared his throat and proceeded to read aloud.
“‘Dear Aunt Emily,’ it says here. ‘I come to San Francisco to get me a wife because this here is where all the real ladies are. I got me a spread in the middle of Texas and a lot of money, but I’m too shy to talk to real ladies. I don’t smoke nor chew, nor I don’t hardly drink overmuch, but how can I get me a lady for a wife if I can’t talk to them. Please help me.’” Will looked at Thomas. “It’s signed, ‘Texas Lonesome.’”
“Oh, Lord. What does she say back?”
“‘Dear Texas Lonesome: You sound like a fine, upright man to Aunt Emily. I believe if you were to study an improving volume on proper deportment, it would help you to feel more at ease with the gentle sex. Ladies always appreciate a gentleman who is polite and kind. Many a young lady would be proud to marry a good man such as the one described in your letter, even if he is deficient in some of the social graces. I must add, however, that a good many proper ladies frown upon the consumption of strong spirits, even if such consumption is not considered by the consumer to be “overmuch.” Please accept my best wishes for success in your endeavor. Sincerely, Aunt Emily.’”
Will sat in his chair, the paper spread over his knees, and stared out of Thomas’s large parlor window. The window afforded him a splendid view of the city sprawled out at the foot of Nob Hill, but Will wasn’t paying any attention to rambunctious San Francisco as it passed by below.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all,” he said at last.
Thomas had been trying to stifle his amusement, but he let it go now. He hooted loudly, and then laughed so hard, he ended up slapping his knee and clutching his stomach.
Will scowled. “I don’t see what’s so blamed funny, Thomas.”
Thomas leaned back in his chair and wiped his streaming eyes. “Well, I was meaning to talk to you about it’s being high time you got married and settled down, Will. After all, you don’t want to follow in your Uncle Mel’s footsteps, do you?”
Melchior Tate had reared Will from “infantry to adultery,” in his own colorful and not entirely inaccurate words. Mel Tate was a rambling man. He was also a gambling man. And he had a more-than-passing acquaintance with the bottle. In fact, a good many shocked schoolmarms who had met Uncle Mel during Will’s several brief attacks at schooling had decried Mel as a whiskey-soaked reprobate. Uncle Mel had invariably preened under the flattery.
It wasn’t until Will met up with Thomas Crandall in the mine fields around Virginia City that he learned not all relationships were based upon what one could get away with. Still, Will appreciated some of the lessons Uncle Mel had taught him. He chalked up his easy way with women to Mel’s tutelage.
At his friend’s jibe, however, Will shuddered. “Lord above, Thomas, I didn’t know ‘Texas Lonesome’ wanted to commit something as foolish as matrimony.”
“What did you say she looked like? Maybe I could take her off your hands.”
“The hell you will,” Will said gruffly. Then he fell silent for a few moments, considering.
Thomas lifted the newspaper from Will’s lap and read Texas Lonesome’s letter and Aunt Emily’s reply for himself.
“What exactly was it Aunt Emily said to you today in the park?”
Will lifted his troubled gaze. “She said she’d be glad to help me.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound too sinister, does it? It’s not as if she said she wanted to marry you herself, is it? Maybe she’s just one of those do-gooders who’s not happy unless she’s rescuing some poor soul from happiness or feeding him Bible verses.”
Will’s clouded countenance began to clear a little. “That may be so.”
“So what can it hurt if you pretend to be this lonesome cowboy and learn a few lessons? At least you’d be in her company. There are worse things to do than keep company with a good woman, you know.”
“Think so? I’ve not had much practice at it.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
Will offered Thomas a crooked grin. “And how would you know about such a thing, my friend?”
His old pal laughed. “Well, that’s what I’ve heard, at any rate.”
By the time the two men sat down to sup upon prime California beefsteak in Thomas Crandall’s elegant dining room, Will had decided to keep his appointment with Emily von Plotz at nine o’clock sharp on the morrow.
As for Miss Emily von Plotz herself, ‘Aunt Emily’ stared at the water-stained ceiling above her bed for hours and hours before she finally managed to fall into a troubled sleep. By the light of the one flickering tallow candle she allowed herself, she considered various ways to entrap a rich, naive Texas rancher into marriage without tipping her hand.
Chapter 2
Early the next morning, Emily smiled when she read, “Dear Aunt Emily: I took the advice you give me and called a liberry from the telephone in my hotel. I asked about decorum but the lady said they got books on Ettyket. What is Ettyket? Can I use it instead of decorum? She said so but I don’t trust her. I trust you. Thank you for your help, Texas Lonesome.”
After thinking for only a moment, Emily wrote, “Dear Texas Lonesome: Your Aunt Emily applauds you for the dedication you display toward the achievement of your goal. Yes, dear sir, ‘etiquette’ will set you on the proper path toward ‘decorum.’ The object of your affections will assuredly honor your attempts to better yourself. Aunt Emily knows full well she will.”
She stared at her response for a full minute before she heaved a sigh and set the letter aside, her heart strangely stirred.
Moments later, that same heart thumped a frantic tattoo against her ribs as she walked briskly to her editor’s office. She had hardly slept last night, but she was too nervous to be tired.
As usual, Emily was alone on her walk and, as usual, she held her chin high in the air, daring any villain to approach her. She hoped any nonvillainous persons who might spy her would chalk up her solo jaunt to her being a suffragist. She wasn’t. But more than anything, she didn’t want to advertise the fact that her solitary state was due to her inability to afford a servant to accompany her. If she had nothing else, Emily had her pride.
Mr. Kaplan, her editor, gave Emily a somewhat bloodshot smile when she sailed through his door.
“You’re here bright and early today, Miss von Plotz.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t sleep very well last night, so I got up early and wrote my column.” She handed Mr. Kaplan a hefty sheaf of papers.
“Oh, my, you’ve got a bundle for us today.”
“I guess I do at that.” Emily had been in such a nervous frenzy this morning, she had read and answered at least five more letters than she usually did. “Can you print them all?”
“Well, if we can’t print them today, we’ll be able to fit them in eventually. You do good work, Miss von Plotz. Aunt Emily’s column is one of our best-read features. The public really love you.”
Emily felt her cheeks get hot. “Thank you, Mr. Kaplan.”
“Thank you, Miss von Plotz.”
When she left Mr. Kaplan’s office and headed toward the park, Emily tugged at the corkscrew sleeves of her half-fitting sailor jacket with nervous fingers. She hoped she cut a fashionably jaunty picture. She also hoped Will Tate would be too innocent to recognize the somewhat faded blue fabric as having been made over from her aunt’s old draperies.
She had sewn the walking outfit from a pattern she copied from a Ladies Standard Magazine, and spiffed it up with striped edging purchased dirt cheap and after much haggling from a grimy shop in Chinatown. She knew she was taking a chance by wearing the same straw hat she had the day before, but perhaps Will wouldn’t recognize it. She had redecorated it with more of the same striped edging and a big, red, satin rose.
A huge sigh leaked from between Emily’s lips when she thought about the rose. Her dear aunt Gertrude believed she had cut a tremendous bargain when she bought the bushel of satin flowers from a street vendor. Poor Gertrude could never be brought to understand a bargain is only a bargain when one actually needs the goods purchased and has no other use for the funds expended. And, although she resisted the truth at every turn, Gertrude needed many things before she needed satin roses.
Well, if this plan worked, Aunt Gertrude could have all the satin flowers she wanted, Emily told herself stoutly in order to bolster her resolve.
She still felt more than a little bit guilty about her plot as her footsteps carried her toward Golden Gate Park. She hoped Will wouldn’t notice she carried no parasol or that, if he did, he would chalk the lack up to personal choice and not penury.
Will was sprawled on a park bench, enjoying the lovely summer weather when he espied Emily striding toward him purposefully. He decided that foregoing a night of gambling and rutting wasn’t really much of a sacrifice when one had such an enchanting companion to look forward to in the morning.
Forgetting his role as crude country lout, he stood up and ripped his wide-brimmed hat from his head. Then he remembered he was supposed to be socially inept and decided Texas Lonesome would probably fidget. So he fingered his hat and shuffled his feet.
Aunt Emily, darlin’, you’re pretty as a San Antonio summer sky, he thought.
When Emily reached him she held out her hand, trying her best to appear unruffled. “Good morning, Mr. Tate.” Saints on high, he was a handsome man.
“Good morning to you, Miss von Plotz,” Will said with considerable warmth as his big hand engulfed her much smaller one.
She was nervous, he noticed with some surprise. He was the one who was supposed to be nervous.
Emily cleared her throat. “Well, now, Mr. Tate, shall we have a seat on this bench and begin our lessons?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Will agreed, trying his best to sound meek.
Emily gazed at him pensively for a moment or two. She almost wished he weren’t such a handsome devil. She was sure she would feel less fluttery about her deception if he were a plain man.
“I believe we should start with manners, Mr. Tate. Or, as some might say, etiquette.” She gave him a prim, sideways smile, wondering if she would get a responsive twinkle.
But Will only nodded solemnly. “I reckon, ma’am.”
Stifling her sigh, Emily said, “Now, you were perfectly correct when you stood at my approach.”
Will tried to make the best of his regrettable lapse into manners.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he muttered with as sheepish an expression as he could muster. “My ma taught me that.”
“Well, your mother was absolutely correct, Mr. Tate. A gentleman should always rise when a lady enters a room or if he intends to greet her in a forum of public assembly, such as this park.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you did very well by removing your hat, too. It was a polite gesture and in the very best of manners. Did your mother teach you to do that as well?”
“Uh-huh.” Will figured it wasn’t too much of a fib. If he had ever known a mother, he was sure she would have at least tried to teach him that much.
Emily smiled kindly. “One minor point, Mr. Tate. A gentleman usually tries to refrain from grunting in a lady’s presence. A lady would generally prefer to hear a gentleman say ‘yes,’ rather than ‘uh-huh.’”
Will appeared suitably abashed. “Oh, gol’, I guess I never thought of that, ma’am.”
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Tate. That’s what I’m here for.” She put a hand on his sleeve. “And please, Mr. Tate, don’t take anything I say as an affront. I mean only to help you.” As an experiment, she batted her eyes, and then felt silly.
Will noticed her fluttering lids and was amused. “You got something in your eye, ma’am?” he asked solicitously. Now why was Aunt Emily trying to flirt with him? he wondered.
Emily dropped her gaze and frowned. “No, Mr. Tate, but thank you for inquiring. It was very polite of you.” So much for flirting, she thought sourly. The man was even more innocent than she had suspected.
“Now, Mr. Tate, I believe it would be a good idea for us to take a small stroll around the park. Then I can point out to you various nuances of polite behavior which are better demonstrated than imparted verbally.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
Will stood up. Then he sat down. Then he tried his best to blush, failed, and decided to stutter instead. “D-do I g-get up first, ma’am?” he asked in what he hoped was a shy, tentative voice.
Emily smiled at him with genuine tenderness, thereby very nearly causing him to forget himself entirely, grab her, and kiss her.
“It is proper for a gentleman to stand first and extend a hand to help the lady rise, Mr. Tate.”
Will promptly surged to his feet and stuck out his hand. When Emily held up a limp wrist, he grabbed her by her fingers and hauled her to her feet with such gusto, her made-over hat almost toppled from her head. Emily clamped a quick hand on it to steady it.
“When I said a gentleman helps a lady to rise, Mr. Tate, my words were not to be taken quite so literally,” she gasped.
“Oh.” Will adopted a crestfallen expression.
“Oh, dear, Mr. Tate, I’m not scolding. You did nothing wrong. You were merely following my instructions. I should have explained to you that your hand is merely for support. Unless the lady in question is very old or infirm, you needn’t actually use force to help her to rise.”
“Oh.” Will still looked rather hang-dog. “I’m sorry, Miss von Plotz.”
Emily honored him with smile. “It’s quite all right, Mr. Tate. As long as you learn from your mistakes, all will be well.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Emily felt a quick stab of guilt for deceiving this perfect country innocent and then stamped it down with vigor. If she didn’t do something soon, she reminded herself, her entire family would be out on the street without a penny to their name. She had to deceive this poor fellow. It was for her family’s good. She held the knowledge close to her heart and swallowed the scruples that had suddenly lumped together in her throat.
“Do I hold your hand when we’re walkin’ ma’am?” Will asked, trying hard to look innocent.
Emily blessed him with an indulgent laugh. “No, Mr. Tate. You would never hold a lady’s hand unless the two of you are so well acquainted as to have become engaged. And then you would never do so in public. Such an intimate display of affection is offensive to the public’s eye and best kept to the privacy of one’s own home. Of course, you must always ask the young lady’s parents before you assume such a liberty, as well.”
Will nodded, sober as a judge. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You may, however, crook your elbow just so.” Emily demonstrated by lifting her arm as described “Then the lady will place her hand on your forearm as you walk.”
“Like this, ma’am?” Will crooked his elbow.
Emily placed her hand on his arm and smiled. “Very well done, Mr. Tate.”
Will grinned back at her. Saints and angels, this woman was the most adorable little thing he’d ever seen.
Emily felt her insides flutter when his gaze seemed to caress her in the most intimate way. She had to clear her throat before she could speak again.
“You—you are very quick to learn, Mr. Tate.”
“Shucks, ma’am,” Will mumbled. “You’re awful kind to teach me.”
“Well, shall we take our little walk, Mr. Tate??
“Yes, ma’am.”
Will expected to have to slow his long stride a good deal to accommodate his partner. He wasn’t prepared for Emily’s firm gait.
The park was a delightful place. Emily liked to come here on fine days to write her column even before she met Will Tate. Today, in his company, the park grounds seemed more beautiful than usual. The summer sky smiled down upon them and the sun’s rays picked out every leaf and petal as though to emphasize each one individually. The paths were raked to perfection and the shrubbery was pruned into tidy borders.
If she weren’t so acutely aware of her purpose, Emily might have taken great pleasure in their walk together. She was aware of her purpose, however, and didn’t dare let down her guard; not for a single instant.
“Now, Mr. Tate, when a gentleman walks out of doors with a lady, he always walks on the outside, if there is an outside. Here in the park, we shall follow the paths, so there is no particular side to consider, but on a street with traffic you would take care to stay on the street side closest to the traffic. The lady would walk next to the buildings.”
“Why is that, ma’am?”
“Well, Mr. Tate, it’s an old custom and one relating to matters of chivalry. A gentleman would place himself closer to the source of any danger in order to protect the lady. Also, if the streets are muddy, any mud or water thrown up by a passing carriage would hit the gentleman and not the lady. Ladies, as you know, are more delicate than gentlemen, and more apt to succumb to the ill effects of dampness. And their garments are more easily damaged, as well.”
A sudden image of Flaming Polly—smoking an enormous black cigar, her ample bosom spilling out over her red harlot’s corset, cursing like a sailor and pointing a silver derringer at a drunk—flashed through Will’s mind and he had to stifle a guffaw. He peered down at Emily, discovered her gazing at him with an expression of absolute sincerity. Apparently, Miss Emily von Plotz actually believed that folderol about women being more delicate than men.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly.
Will and Emily strolled through the park, delighting in the occasional, pretty floral displays blossoming in discreet beds here and there. Pansies, even in their ungainly early-summer sprawl, seemed to be particular favorites of Emily’s, Will noticed. He tucked the information away, thinking it might prove useful one day.
They meandered through the new Japanese Tea Garden and Will exclaimed at its exotic beauty. They both enjoyed the majesty of the Huntington Falls as their waters splashed and tumbled down Strawberry Hill. Will itched to take Emily to the new rose garden but held his tongue since it was she, after all, who was supposed to be showing him around.
They were at surprising ease with each other, and walked along for several minutes without speaking. When Will heard Emily’s gusty sigh, he hoped it was one of pleasure.
It was. Emily was very happy with the way things were going. Will Tate was an apt student. Although in his letters he portrayed himself as a shy country lad, he seemed to have a natural gift for the social graces. The unexpected attribute pleased her. Although she would have married him anyway, the thought of spending the rest of her life attached to a rude bumpkin, even for the sake of her beloved family, did not appeal very much.
Also, he seemed to be responding to her even though she had not been flirting—not since the aborted attempt at batting her eyes. Emily considered flirting a demeaning, embarrassing activity indulged in only by females of a certain sort. Even so, she was willing to thrust her compunction aside for the sake of winning “Texas Lonesome.” Now she prayed she would be able to accomplish her goal with at least some of her dignity intact.
Will gazed down at her reworked straw hat and noticed a couple of places where the straw weave had been repaired. It had not escaped his attention, either, that Emily’s costume had a look about it with which he was all too familiar: the look of made-over goods. He also acknowledged whoever had made it over was very skilled at her craft. If he were not exquisitely aware of all the tricks a person will use to try to disguise poverty he would never have guessed. However, Uncle Mel, the shrewdest confidence man Will ever met in his life, had taught him well.
Emily’s lack of a parasol, that absolutely necessary accoutrement to a lady’s toilette, had not gone without his notice, either. And today he recalled, as well, that young ladies of social standing did not traipse around town unaccompanied. He wondered what game Aunt Emily was up to. His interest, which was already piqued, surged.
“Would you care to look in at the flower gardens, Mr. Tate?” Emily inquired politely. “I believe if you were to escort a young lady on a stroll through the park, it would elevate you in her esteem if you were to exhibit an interest in flowers.
“Not,” she added primly, “that I advocate your professing an interest you do not possess, for that would be a falsehood, and a falsehood is never to be tolerated. But, if only for the young lady’s sake, I believe it would behoove you to cultivate an interest in—oh—roses, for example.”
Since Will Tate was about the only rosarian extant in the State of Texas at the moment, he nearly laughed out loud. He blinked back the sparkle threatening to give him away and nodded as though she had just uttered the One Universal Truth.
“Good idea, Miss von Plotz.” He hoped Charley Wong, the gardener with whom he had conferred yesterday, wouldn’t be working in the rose garden today.
Emily loved roses. She walked through the rose beds in Golden Gate Park at every opportunity. Today, for some reason, she thought the blossoms looked particularly beautiful.
“Someday I hope to have a rose garden of my own, Mr. Tate.”
The simple confession sounded oddly sad to Will. He subtly steered Emily over to inspect the new polyantha he had taken such a shine to the day before. “What do you think of this one, Miss von Plotz?”
“Oh, Mr. Tate, it’s just lovely.” She leaned over to sniff the perfectly shaped, tiny, soft pink buds, and their powerfully sweet fragrance surprised her. “They smell so wonderful. Yet they’re so small.”
Will had to hold back the information that polyanthas were noted for their heady rose fragrance and clusters of tiny blooms. Instead, he made a show of sniffing at the blossoms, too.
“Well, I’ll be hornswoggled,” he said in an attempt to sound countrified.
“‘Cecile Brunner.’ What a lovely name.” Emily wished she could have a Cecile Brunner rosebush in her own garden. But, of course, she had no garden now that her uncle Ludwig had turned Aunt Gertrude’s back yard into a breeding kennel for dachshunds. Every now and then Emily couldn’t help but wish her relatives were just a wee bit less eccentric.
Will noticed her wistful expression and wondered if it would be polite to ask what he wanted to know. He decided Texas Lonesome would probably take the risk. “Can’t you have a rosebush at your home, Miss von Plotz?”
Emily gave a little start. She hadn’t meant to demonstrate such a transparently hopeful interest in these roses. “Oh, well, you see, Mr. Tate,” she stammered, “it’s—it’s that I live with my aunt and uncle, and—and, well, the yard is being used for other purposes.”
“Oh.” Will thought for a minute. Then he drawled tentatively, “Miss von Plotz, would it be rude for a feller to ask what that purpose is? If a feller wanted to get to know a lady better?” He hoped he sounded sufficiently naive.
But Emily only smiled at him. Her expression was darling, and Will’s heart gave an uncharacteristic leap so strong it startled him.
“Oh, Mr. Tate, of course it wouldn’t be rude. It is always polite to exhibit concern for a lady’s interests and family, as long as you are well enough acquainted to make such an inquiry seem natural.”
Merciful heavens. Aunt Emily was about the most fetching work of nature Will had ever seen in his life. He had to clear his throat before he could speak again.
“Well, then, ma’am, if we’re well enough acquainted, maybe you wouldn’t mind tellin’ me what is your yard being used for, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
Immediately, Emily realized she had talked herself into a tight spot. Then she guessed it didn’t matter much. He’d have to find out about her lunatic relatives sooner or later if her plan were to succeed.
“Well, you met Helga and Gustav yesterday, of course.”
“Yes, ma’am. Couldn’t hardly forget that.” Will smiled.
Emily felt mortified all over again about her uncle’s dogs’ unruly behavior, but she forged ahead. “Yes. Well, you see, Mr. Tate, my uncle, Ludwig von Plotz, believes dachshunds are the coming thing in the dog world.”
Will had no trouble at all in looking astonished at her words. “The coming thing, ma’am?”
Embarrassed, Emily murmured, “I’m afraid so, Mr. Tate. He’s certain he will be able to create a market for dachshunds here in America, since they’re such wonderfully brave dogs. Even though they’re small. In fact, Uncle Ludwig believes their size will be a selling point. People won’t expect such a little animal to be so ferocious, and they’ll also be cheap to feed. He has the idea that dachshunds will soon be used for all sorts of helpful purposes, from protecting banks to herding sheep. He even envisions them guarding strongboxes transported on railway carriages.”
“Oh.” Amazed, Will couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“You see, Uncle Ludwig has spent most of his life in Europe. He lived in Germany as a young boy, and then Austria until four years ago. The death of the Archduke and Crown Prince Rudolf affected him quite deeply, however, and he decided to move to the United States. My aunt Gertrude is his sister. Since she is a widow, she was very pleased that he wanted to join us here.”
“I see.” Will nodded with what he hoped looked like sympathy, wondering who in hell the Crown Prince and Archduke Rudolf was. He decided to pose the question at a later date. “Well, I think that’s just—just fine, ma’am.”
Emily thought it would be a good deal finer if Uncle Ludwig had any concept of the cost of establishing and maintaining a breeding kennel. Or a knack for raising money instead of spending it. Unfortunately, the entire von Plotz family, with the possible exception of Emily herself, seemed to have been born without a single shred of fiscal cunning.
Will noticed her retreat into reticence as they strolled through the rest of the rose beds. He figured she was embarrassed by her uncle’s bizarre interests and had a sudden urge to tell her about his own Uncle Mel. He had the feeling that he and Emily could spend a year or more swapping tales about their respective eccentric uncles, but he held his tongue. It wasn’t time for such disclosures yet.
It was getting on toward mid-day, and all at once Will’s stomach took the opportunity to growl. The fact didn’t bother him, but he decided to use it to his advantage. Maybe he could remain in Miss Emily’s company a while longer if he played his cards right.
He tried to look ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said.
Emily looked up at him, surprised. “You’re sorry??
“Yeah. My belly just grumbled, ‘cause I’m hungry. I ‘spect a real gentleman’s belly don’t never do that.” Will was proud of that sentence.
Emily laughed. She had a sweet laugh, and Will liked it a lot.
“Oh, my, Mr. Tate, I don’t suppose a gentleman has any more control over his stomach than any of the rest of us do. He would, however,” she added in her teacher’s voice, “call it his stomach, and not his belly if he referred to it at all, which he probably wouldn’t. It is considered indiscreet to refer to one’s organs in polite company.”
Will gazed at her in honest appreciation. She had a very kind way of imparting these improving lectures of hers.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Well, ma’am, since my—my organ is empty and we’re here together, would it be proper for me to invite you somewheres to eat? Then you can teach me how to use them forks and knives and such.”
Emily was hungry, too. She usually had bread and butter and water at mid-day because she didn’t want to waste her family’s rapidly dwindling resources. The thought of eating a real luncheon was quite appealing, especially if she could do it in Will Tate’s company and at his expense.
The fact that dining in a restaurant alone, just the two of them, was decidedly improper caused her a stab or two of unease. She also had to suppress a substantial twinge of guilt about the cost by reminding herself he had described himself as a wealthy man. She didn’t suppose buying her lunch would be much of a burden for him.
“Why, I think that’s a marvelous idea, Mr. Tate. Thank you very much for the invitation. And you extended it very prettily.” She didn’t suppose she should quibble about his grammar at the moment. There were too many other things to teach him first.
Will seemed pleased and that made her happy.
“Do you know a place close by to eat at, ma’am?”
“I believe there’s a small chop house on Montgomery Street where one can have quite a nice luncheon at a reasonable price, Mr. Tate.”
Will felt vaguely troubled. He wanted to take her someplace nice to eat, not some dumpy chop house. “Isn’t—” he almost corrected himself and said “ain’t,” but decided it would be too obvious— “Isn’t there someplace a little bit finer, Miss von Plotz? I’m real rich, and I ‘spect I’ll be takin’ my wife to real nice places, if I ever get me one. A wife. Not an eatin’ place.”
Emily looked up at him quickly. The thought of dining at a fine restaurant was so appealing, she nearly succumbed to the evil gremlin tempting her, but her nobler nature won the day.
“I think perhaps we should start on a small scale, Mr. Tate. That way, when you do take your lady to a fine restaurant, you won’t have any reason to be uncomfortable “
Will was a little disgruntled at having his plot foiled so neatly, but he didn’t dare show it. “All right, Miss von Plotz. That’s probably a smart idea. But you have to promise me you’ll let me practice in a fancy place when I get the hang of it.”
Emily had seldom met such a nice man. It seemed almost a shame to trick him. Nevertheless, she needed him—her family needed him—too much to allow her conscience to smite her. If she had to harden her heart and play the coy seductress, so be it. Resolute, she trod beside him to Mrs. Flanagan’s Kitchen.
During their luncheon, Will discovered he enjoyed Emily’s little lessons. He tried very hard give her plenty of material to work on.