Page 63 of Beyond Montana's Sky
Edith took a letter opener from the secretary, sliced open the envelope top, and then pulled out two pieces of paper. She glanced down at the signature for verification.Cai.
With a deep breath, she read through the letter, half-laughing and half-shaking her head, hearing his drawl in her mind. Then she read the letter again, more slowly this time, savoring all the nuances of his sarcastic communication, and feeling her cheeks heat at his description of her.
When Edith finished, she let out a sigh and held the letter to her chest, thinking. Ever since her debutante debut, she’d received notes and poems and letters from her swains. Some lamented her lack of interest or response. Those only made her toss the letters and have little to do with the writers.
But never before had one made her smile the whole way through. Never had she received such a clever scold. Never had she been complimented in such a lovely and interesting a way.
Devious man.
Her spirits had been low lately, the press of the Graysons’ grief weighing heavy on her. Cai’s letter making her smile and laugh felt sogood.
Oh, how she wanted to answer him.
What could it hurt to correspond with Cai? He’s more than half the country away. A little flirtation by letter.
How odd, when Edith thought she’d lost her taste for flirtation, a rugged cowboy made the feminine part of her feel alive.
Very well, I’ll correspond with him, and I won’t skimp on words.
Edith drew out a fresh piece of stationery and began to write.
* * *
Friday evening, to her surprise, Edith discovered she was the belle of the Hamilton’s ball. Leading up to the party, she’d hoped for a night of magic and entertainment, an evening to forget the Montana rancher who persistently remained in her thoughts.
The setting was romantic, with the double doors fully opened between the formal drawing room and the ballroom in the Hamilton mansion to reveal rooms decorated in sumptuous green and gold.
In the ballroom, enormous crystal chandeliers hung from ornate medallions in the vaulted ceiling. Flower arrangements on pedestals, potted palms, and Hepplewhite chairs lined the pale-green walls. An orchestra played on a small dais in the corner, not far from the large fireplace in the middle of the wall. Glass doors led out to a terrace.
Feeling at ease in this wealth and splendor, Edith knew she looked her best in the pink gown she’d worn for Caleb’s wedding. She’d dabbed on her favorite perfume to entice.
More than a few gentlemen tried to catch her eye, undeterred that she arrived on the arm of Uncle Atticus. Her dance card was soon filled.
Most were expert dancers, so her feet were spared the trampling and fear of collisions and she could relax and talk. She waltzed with various second and third cousins, former suitors, and newly introduced men.
In between, Edith chatted and laughed with some of her extended family and acquaintances, enjoying the ball immensely. Soon she began to think moving to Boston was the right choice, after all…until, from habit she found herself sending searching glances around the enormous room.
Who am I looking for?
With a sharp inhale, Edith recalled how at social events she and Nathaniel would meet each other’s eyes and exchange smiles, just checking in with each other or sometimes sharing a private moment of humor.
Nathaniel’s not here. We’ll never again exchange those glances.
With another ache of loss, she recalled having a similar awareness of Cai Driscoll at the wedding—a knowledge of where he was at any point. Although in that instance, hurt because he hadn’t sought her out, she’d been carefulnotto look at him.
The grief of missing that connection pressed so hard against her chest that Edith fled the ballroom, walking through the drawing room, avoiding anyone’s gaze so she didn’t have to stop and talk. She hurried across the large black-and-white tiled entryway, seeking some privacy to catch her breath and reclaim her composure.
She discovered her refuge in the parlor, empty of guests. The room, done in garish reds, was too cluttered with bric-a-brac for her taste.
A large portrait of a much-younger Laurence and Elizabeth Hamilton caught her eye, and she moved forward to study the subjects. Both siblings were tall and attractive, with blond hair and blue eyes. Laurence’s hand was protectively placed on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Edith recognized the long pearl necklace and earrings, which Elizabeth often wore for church and other social occasions.
From their youthful faces, and the style of Elizabeth’s white lace dress, Edith judged the portrait was painted at the time of her friend’s debut, when she would have been about eighteen. “I’m sure you never thought you’d end up in Montana,” she said aloud.
“So much has changed since the time that portrait was painted,” said a female voice from behind Edith.
She whirled to see Sylvia Markham, a plump and pretty matron a little older than Edith, wearing a seafoam green gown and carrying a lacy, gold fan. “I’m surprised Eugenia has kept that portrait up,” she said in a wry tone. “For once, Laurence must have put his foot down.”
Sensing a kindred spirit, Edith moved closer to the newcomer.
