A Reluctant Belle Read online

  “I’m not a schoolteacher! I’m a minister!” He took her hand. “Your intentions are good, but you haven’t thought this through. Those people would be very uncomfortable in our church. I’ll help you in any way I can, but it’s best to move very slowly and carefully. Besides, haven’t you already begun to add a schoolroom onto the Ithaca kitchen?”

  “Yes, but we’re not calling it Ithaca anymore. It’s Daughtry House.” Why couldn’t he remember that? The name Ithaca reminded her of her father. She drew her hand away and folded her arms. “We’ve already started the renovations, thanks to Schuyler.”

  Gil frowned. “He’s just trying to impress you.”

  Joelle snorted. “I doubt that. Whatever his reason, giving us the money was a very generous thing to do.”

  Gil was quiet for a moment, then said, “What about this? Suppose we get the church to take a collection on Sunday and donate it to your school?”

  That was his solution? Taking a collection? “I suppose that would be nice,” she said as enthusiastically as she could.

  She’d been trying to convey her feeling that she hadn’t done enough to help those wronged by her family, but apparently she’d only succeeded in offending Gil. He wasn’t a schoolteacher, and undoubtedly he had more important things to do, running a church—visiting the sick, praying for the dying, preparing to preach God’s Word on Sundays.

  Come to think of it, he had been a rock of comfort to her family in the last two months as they’d dealt with burying their father, getting Selah and Levi married, and convincing Grandmama to return to Memphis. Gil had taken care of a myriad of details, notifying the newspaper, providing transportation, lending a word of counsel just when most needed. And she had taken him for granted.

  Tonight he had gone out of his way to bring her into a social situation that clearly made him uncomfortable. Perhaps she should give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Listen, Gil,” she said slowly. “I understand if you don’t have the same passion for education as I do. Missions has lots of facets, after all. Just please don’t look so scandalized when I take action on something I feel God wants me to do.” She peeped at him from beneath her eyelashes. “All right?”

  He chuckled. “I think you’re a minx. Which is why I’m here tonight.”

  She brightened. “Minx” was a word usually reserved for the effervescent Aurora. Perhaps she herself was becoming a more normal girl.

  Before she could respond—either appropriately or inappropriately—the exterior door swung open to admit a flustered doorman and three well-dressed young gentlemen in varying degrees of sobriety. Schuyler, the one in the middle, never looked up as he shepherded his companions in a lurching path across the lobby toward the stairs. How they managed to make it up to the second floor with limbs and crania intact Joelle would forever after wonder.

  Her stomach sank.

  “Oh my word,” Gil said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to your grandmother’s?”

  Schuyler was vaguely aware of the grandeur of his surroundings as he hauled Hixon through the Peabody’s three-story lobby, trailed by Jefcoat. He couldn’t help but be grateful for the plush Oriental carpet muffling their staggering ascent of the curving staircase and hoped they wouldn’t all be thrown out for public intoxication. After zigzagging down the hall and struggling to unlock their guest room, he cast Hixon, fully clothed and already snoring, upon the four-poster bed.

  Jefcoat wandered in and propped himself against the wall. “Hix won’t like it that he’s missing the party.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have imbibed nearly a quart of Old Dominick’s on top of a meal fit for Belshazzar’s feast.” Sometimes he felt like a nursemaid to two rich, overgrown children. “I suggest you lie down and sleep it off too,” he told Jefcoat as he walked to the mirror to repair the damage to his neckcloth and hair. “Where have you been all weekend? I thought you were going to meet us for dinner before the opera. Even I know it’s not good manners to come in after the intermission.”

  “Had a family matter to take care of.” Jefcoat hiccuped. “Family first, you always say that.”

  “I suppose I do.” Schuyler looked at him over his shoulder. “Have you had anything to eat today? Besides liquor, I mean?”

  “Not since midday. But there’ll be food at the party. Come on, let’s go. I wanna see an opera star in person.”

  “You’re going without me. I promised to meet Joelle in the lobby.”

  “Joelle? The red-haired bookworm?”

  “The very same.” He didn’t know why Jefcoat’s derisive tone was so irritating. He’d called Joelle a bookworm himself on multiple occasions.

  “Pretty girl, if you like ’em tall and silent.” Jefcoat pushed away from the wall, jerking his jacket into place. “Reckon she’s got a speech impediment.”

  “You’re a moron, Jefcoat,” Schuyler said wearily. “Lock the door behind you. I’ll see you when I see you.” He quit the room, thrusting his hands into his pockets to keep from slugging Jefcoat on the way past.

  Halfway down the stairs he started looking for Joelle and found her standing near the door talking to the preacher.

  No, arguing with the preacher.

  Her fists were clenched at her sides, her wrap had slid off one shoulder to hang like a bronze satin table runner down the front of her dress, and cobalt sparks kindled her eyes. She was fairly magnificent, and he couldn’t help wondering what had set her off.

  Unfortunately, he discovered himself to be the culprit. As he approached, Joelle caught sight of him, stepped around the preacher, and stalked toward him. “There you are!” she exclaimed.

  He couldn’t tell if she was angry or excited. Most likely both, he decided. “Yes, here I am. What’s the matter?”

  Joelle walked right up to him and stared into his face. She took a big sniff, turned around, and said to Reese, “I told you he wasn’t drunk.”

  “What? Of course I’m not drunk!” Schuyler glanced at the preacher, who was scowling in deep suspicion. “Why would you think—Oh. Were you sitting here when I came in with Hixon and Jefcoat?” He laughed. “You try hauling a two-hundred-fifty-pound deadweight up two flights of stairs sometime and see if you can do it without leaning a little off-kilter.”

  “You’ll have to forgive my reluctance to subject Joelle to your disgusting displays of bacchanalia,” Reese said in a self-righteous tone.

  “What was I supposed to do, leave him in the entryway?” Schuyler shrugged. “Maybe you treat your friends that way, but I don’t. Thank you for keeping Joelle company. I suppose I owe you a favor. Good night, Reverend Reese.” He took Joelle’s sliding wrap off her shoulder and offered her his elbow.

  “Oh no you don’t!” The preacher stepped between them. “I’m not leaving her alone with you.”

  “Fine.” Schuyler sighed. “Then you come too.” Looping the length of satin about his neck in a jaunty fashion, he headed for the stairs.

  Joelle caught up to him in a skip. “Wait, Schuyler! Is your friend—Hixon, is that his name?—is he all right?”

  Pausing with a hand on the newel post, he looked down at her. The things she paid attention to sometimes surprised him. “That’s his name, and yes, he’ll be fine after he sleeps it off. Too much to drink at dinner. But I swear I didn’t—” He caught himself caring too much about her good opinion. “I needed to keep my head squared away tonight. Mrs. Forrest is an upright Christian lady.” He started up the stairs.

  “Is she?” Joelle sounded curious. “I’ve heard the general is a hard-nosed businessman.”

  “He is, very clever, and he has influence in all sorts of places. I’d like to know your thoughts after you’ve talked to him. I’d thought he might support my father, but now I’m not so sure.”

  She gave him a funny look. “All right. Is that why you wanted me to come?”

  “Partially. Mainly I just thought you’d enjoy the outing.”

  By now they had reached the first mezzanine landing. Sh
e had been silent so long that he looked down and found her smiling up at him. “I am enjoying it. I’ve never been to the opera before. Grandmama seemed pleased to have us visit and was in a charitable frame of mind at dinner. She was disappointed that you didn’t come though.”

  “I’ll go see her in the morning.” Glancing over his shoulder to find the preacher several steps behind them, he leaned in and said softly, “I’m sorry you got stuck with him tonight. I didn’t mean to goad you into—”

  “Schuyler, you didn’t goad me into anything! I invited Gil because I wanted to, and he was very kind to accompany me so that you could take care of Mr. Hixon.” She looked exasperated.

  “The only reason he did was to make me look bad. And to make sure you don’t have too much fun.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She laughed. “I didn’t know you’d gotten so cynical.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “If you could hear these politicians I’ve spent the last three days with, it would curl your hair.” He reached over and tweaked one of the strawberry ringlets bouncing against her neck. “Which would be a sight to behold.”

  “If they’re so bad, why are you wasting your time with them?”

  “My pa has asked me to keep my ear to the ground. I don’t know what he’s so worried about. People talk a lot of loud nonsense, but that’s all it is.”

  “Do you think so?”

  He glanced at her, noting the dainty way she lifted her skirts clear of the stairs, yet the directness and intelligence in her expression. Joelle had always been something of a mystery to him, a challenge he enjoyed unlocking. He sensed there was something doubtful behind her question, but they’d reached the top of the stairs and the suite where the reception for Miss Fabio was to be held. “It had better be,” he said and knocked on the door.

  three

  DAUGHTRY HOUSE WAS BEAUTIFUL in its own way, but the amenities of the Peabody quite took Joelle’s breath away.

  Finding herself in a high-ceilinged sitting room furnished with expensive tables, sofas and chairs, gilt-framed artwork and mirrors—not to mention the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen standing about—she gaped at a graceful wrought-iron staircase that curved up into a balcony railing fronting a row of second-floor bedrooms. The effect was somehow exotic and yet entirely American in its frank opulence.

  As a liveried butler took her wrap and the men’s hats, she made mental notes of what she would describe in her society article to come. Vaguely she was aware of Schuyler speaking to the butler, who pointed out a distinguished middle-aged couple standing under the central chandelier and then bowed himself away.

  “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Forrest and the general,” Schuyler said. Leaving Gil to follow, he offered an arm to Joelle.

  General Forrest, tall and striking in his severe evening dress, his silver-streaked dark hair brushed away from a handsome, hawkish countenance, greeted them as they approached. “Beaumont! Happy to see you made it down, after your friend’s little . . . incident.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry about that,” Schuyler said with a grimace. “Hixon is upstairs sleeping it off.”

  Mrs. Forrest, an attractive woman dressed in sober brown bombazine, smiled at Joelle as Schuyler presented her and Gil. “We’re happy you could come, Miss Daughtry. I’ve met your grandmother a time or two. Reverend Reese, welcome to Memphis.” She looked up at her husband. “Bedford, what do you reckon has happened to Miss Fabio? Our guests are waiting to meet her.”

  The general glanced up at the interior staircase. “Here she comes right now.”

  And a grand entrance it was. What Delfina Fabio lacked in height she made up for in color and sparkle. Hips swaying, she descended on the arm of a portly mustachioed gentleman, her voluptuous form emphasized by the low-cut red velvet evening gown she’d worn for the curtain call. Diamond-studded combs ornamented her dark hair, and garnet sprays dangled from her ears and draped about her delicate neck.

  The company burst into spontaneous applause. Joining in, Joelle glanced at Schuyler, expecting to find him gawking at the beautiful opera star.

  He was, rather, smiling down at her. “Would you like to meet her?”

  “Oh yes! But—”

  He was already approaching the singer with his confident swagger and friendly grin. He bowed low. “Miss Fabio! Mrs. Forrest was kind enough to invite me to be the first to welcome you to the American South. If I had not been an aficianado of the opera before, I certainly am now. Schuyler Beaumont at your service.”

  Delfina gave her escort a twinkling upward glance from her big black eyes. “Why, Poldi, cara, what delicious treats the Memphis Opera has to provide for us!” She dropped the man’s arm to slink toward Schuyler, eyeing him like a tray of candy in a confectioner’s window. “Is a pleasure, Mr. Beaumont. You must meet my manager, Mr. Volker.” The implication was clear: Volker was not her husband.

  Schuyler exhibited no discomfiture at such blatant flirtation. He laughed and shook hands with Volker. “How do you do, sir? I was just about to offer refreshment to my friends, at least one of whom is much more musically literate than I. Miss Fabio, perhaps you’d like to join us? Miss Daughtry is quite agog to meet you.” He turned to wink at Joelle.

  Delfina simpered. “I am happy to meet so educated admirer. Refreshment sounds lovely.” Tucking her small beringed hand into his elbow, she allowed Schuyler to lead her toward the little group under the chandelier.

  How does he do that? Joelle wondered. People simply melted under his charm.

  Well, people except for Gil Reese.

  “I told you she was immoral,” Gil muttered under his breath. “Falling for that load of nonsense.”

  “Shhh!” She bobbed a curtsey as Delfina approached. “Miss Fabio, what a thrill to have seen you perform! I am Joelle Daughtry, and this is Reverend Reese.”

  “Happy to be acquainted, Reverend Reese.” The singer gave him a dimpled smile, then extended both hands to Joelle. “But you and I must be Delfina and Joelle, yes? I feel we shall be good friends, with the music to bind our hearts!”

  Chuckling at this extravagant offer, Joelle returned the clasp of Delfina’s hands. “I’m not sure what Schuyler led you to believe, but I assure you I’m the veriest amateur. Now, my sister’s husband you should meet—our Levi is quite the concert pianist.”

  Delfina released Joelle and pressed her hands together at her bosom. “I wish to acquaint such an artist!”

  “I’m sure we could arrange that,” Schuyler said before Joelle could demur in confusion. “Perhaps when your engagement here is at an end, you would enjoy a short trip south. Miss Daughtry’s family owns a lovely resort near Tupelo, Mississippi, and I feel certain you would find a most comfortable and restful sojourn there.”

  Delfina beamed at Joelle. “I would adore that of the most certain! But you must promise that your Mr. Beaumont would be there as well.” She gave Schuyler a teasing sideways look. “Unless, my dear Joelle, he is perhaps your—your spasimante?”

  “Oh no!” Joelle felt her face flood with color. “We are not betrothed! Schuyler is our family’s business partner.”

  After a thoughtful stare, Delfina smiled. “I see,” she said slowly. “Then I shall not worry to take him for a glass of something cold to drink. I am parched!” She bore Schuyler away to the refreshment table.

  There was something dissatisfying about that exchange that Joelle could not quite put her finger on, but Mrs. Forrest claimed her attention, while Gil entered into a discussion of local politics with the general.

  “My dear, are you feeling quite well?” Mrs. Forrest asked sometime later, her fine eyebrows drawing together in motherly concern. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down while your young man fetches you a plate and a glass of lemonade.” She touched Gil’s sleeve.

  Gil immediately looked around, contrition in his expression. “Of course. I’ll be right—”

  “What?” Joelle blinked, her attention returning to
her hostess. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just . . .” How could she admit that she could not have named one item of any significance the good lady had rattled on about in the last fifteen minutes, but in her head she had created a nice outline of rebuttals to everything Forrest had said. “Well, perhaps I am a bit hungry.”

  As Gil disappeared into the crowd, she edged toward the closest chair and dropped into it. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t even keep up her side of a simple conversation without drifting off into her own head? Resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, she laid her aching forehead in her palm. Maybe she should just ask Gil to take her home and forget this. Schuyler had gone off with the opera singer she came to talk to, and General Forrest clearly assumed she hadn’t enough intellect to participate in a masculine exchange.

  Then a random thought occurred, something that often happened when she was most discouraged. What would her mother have done in this circumstance? The consummate example of social grace, Mama had been adept at navigating difficulties without succumbing to self-pity or panic.

  Find someone who is less comfortable than you and let them feel your love.

  Mama had said it often enough, as the three girls grew up, that Joelle could actually hear the soft, lilting musicality of the words. Joelle sometimes thought Mama directed them specifically at her because she was so inward, so self-contained. Able to play with dolls or paper dolls, or even sticks and leaves in the yard, for hours on end without talking to another soul, Joelle knew her mother worried about her middle child’s social development.

  Nothing wrong with the brain. Nothing wrong with the voice or body. The child is just odd, Papa used to say. And he would laugh.