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The Courtship of Miss Loretta Larson (The Covington Chronicles) (Volume 2)

By Mary Lou Cheatham

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Prologue
Near Pickens, Mississippi
August 1, 1888

The view from the west window of Papa’s library resembled a fine painting. Flowering cotton plants stood ready to bear their white fruit. The long rows extended to the curve of the earth, where a pink and gold sunset glorified the background.
“It’s going to be a season that will require strenuous labor.” At his massive desk in the middle of the room, Papa drew charts showing how many workers he needed for the harvest, how much the hands would cost, and the number of bales he could anticipate. “I’ve calculated these sums not only for my needs, but also to teach you to manage the farm.”
Half hearing him, I hummed “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s Rigoletto. The loveliness of the music swept over me.
“Loretta, pay attention.”
That Wednesday evening the surrounding draperies became the curtains of a stage in a New York theater, the orchestra dropping its volume for me to begin my aria. Through the start of tears, I changed the blushing cotton blossoms into an audience dotted with pink chiffon. My beloved sat in a conspicuous box, where I could pitch my music to him.
The passion of the music rose from within me, but I could do no more than hum softly under Papa’s scrutiny.
Why didn’t he love opera the way he appreciated other expressions of culture?
Papa told me once again, “Child, you’re wasting your time trying to sing.”
What I wanted to say to him, I dared not. If I’m singing out of tune and don’t realize it, please tell me. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.
“Yes, sir.” I stopped in the middle of a muted phrase. To run away . . . go to a place where I’d be understood . . . live with one of the families in shanty town . . . come up with some believable tale so they’d take me in—fleeting impulses helped me go where Papa couldn’t push and prod me like a ball of clay into a vessel I didn’t wish to become.
I walked across the room to him. I didn’t really want to run away from him or Mama. Besides, I loved Beulah, who was more a mother to me than Mama, too much to hurt her. One day in the not-too-distant future I’d marry my beau, Trent McIntyre. Then life would be perfect.
I leaned over Papa’s shoulder and tried to study the work on his desk. How did anyone ever focus on dull papers covered with numbers? The shoulder I leaned against was sloping downward in a new way. At close range a bald circle showed through the back of his white hair.
“Sit here.” Papa pulled a mahogany chair covered in mauve velvet near him.
I obeyed. After half an hour passed, Papa must have sensed I could endure no more of the plantation organization session. He wiped his eyes, laid down his spectacles, and walked over to Mama, where she sat next to the window so she could knit without straining to see.
“Kate, let’s throw a party while there’s still time.” He pulled Mama into a hug.
“Watch it.” She let her work fall to a side table. “You’ll make me drop a stitch.”
“Loretta, you’ll be the loveliest belle at La Belle Terre.” He extended an arm and invited me to join the hug. With his limited compliment, he reminded me I could never be as pretty as Shellie, the one who lived in Texas, the daughter who inherited his features.
That night I went to bed with Shellie on my mind. Texas seemed farther away than I ever hoped to go. She always kept herself distant from me.
Shellie, what have I done to offend you? I fell asleep. Maybe I did something when I was too young to know. I slept in fits through the night with the question I wanted to ask her awakening me every time I turned in bed. Why did Shellie hate me?
The next morning with no time to waste, we accelerated our activity despite the oppressive heat. Mama directed the household servants in a frenzy. Papa insisted I ride with him on excursions to make arrangements for the help he’d need.
“It isn’t seemly for a girl.” Mama frowned up at him. “Besides, I need her here to help plan the ball.”
“We have no choice. I’ll take good care of Loretta.”
Even if I had tried, I couldn’t be the boy Papa would have preferred. In his eyes, it was my fault I wasn’t a son, and he had a way of making me feel guilty about it. Sometimes he complained because I was born late in his life.
He seemed to blame me because Shellie had not married the son of a local landowner. How had I prevented him from having a son-in-law who could help manage his vast acres of delta land?
A spirit of strife blew an ever-present undercurrent through La Belle Terre. Although nobody ever accused me, I was a source of pain. On the occasions when I was with only one parent, the storm dissipated.
The day with Papa would be good once he and I left the enigmatic reminders of whatever beset him and Mama. He’d make clever remarks and smile when I was expected to laugh. I selected a drab dress—the kind backwoods women wore—and covered my head with my bonnet.
Papa and I rode to the sharecroppers’ cabins, which stood in a row on the other side of the west field. My mind drifted into dark wondering. How did these people live? In each dwelling as many as fifteen resided in two tiny rooms.
Papa tipped his hat to an elderly brown-skinned woman, who stood holding a brush broom. “We’re going to need extra help this year picking cotton. Line up your kinfolks to come help. You know I pay more.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Ted.”
He drove toward a sprawling shanty camp on the west edge of town. These houses were even smaller and less substantial than the sharecroppers’ homes.
“Pay attention to everything I do, Loretta.”
“I try, Papa.” I pulled myself away from the perplexities surrounding us.
“We never know what the Lord has in store for us. One of these days my health will fail. I thank God he gave you to us. You’re all we’ve got. If anything happens to us, you’ll have to carry on.”
“Shellie—”
His voice became abrupt. “Don’t say anything about Shellie.”
My throat tightened. Arriving at the first shanty brought the relief of a distraction. A thin Italian man with white hair and deep-set wrinkles stepped into the yard. While Papa talked to him about the need for workers, I sat and held the horses’ reins. A dozen little children with curious faces peered at me from across the grounds.
After a few moments he hopped back into the surrey. “Drive us back home.”
With Papa settled into his seat next to me, I clucked gently to the team and flipped the reins. I held back because children were running all around. Dogs barked at our wheels.
When I turned onto the main road, I coaxed Papa’s fine team of horses to fly. The faster the horses clopped down the road, the more I was able to release my pent up anger about the people starving in crowded hovels. And when the wind blew hard onto my face, it didn’t matter that Papa loved Shellie more or didn’t think I could sing.
“Slow down, sister.” Papa clenched my arm with a firm hand.
The team snorted, but the three of us obeyed Papa. When we reached the front door of La Belle Terre, I jerked the reins back to a halt and jumped out so fast I tore my skirt. Running to the door, I yelled behind, “Got to go help Mama.”
Inside, Mama had all sorts of things to show me. “We’ll move the furniture out of the way so we can dance the Virginia reel. The band will take up this corner . . . let’s use the sterling punch bowls.” Mama talked so fast she ran out of breath.
Over the next few days, I switched roles as needed from Papa’s assistant to Mama’s girl.
Every day we started early and finished late readying the house for the party. Some of the guests planned to spend the night. As August closed, we concluded our preparations for an elegant soirée. It was exciting because I’d get to see Trent, the tall blond-haired boy I’d loved since I could remember.
When the evening finally came, the noises of expectation reverberated throughout La Belle Terre. The mixture of food aromas—jelly-roll cakes, apple pie, pear preserves, salted pecans—wafted throughout the house. Every vase contained an arrangement of fresh flowers. The pitches of instruments being tuned tickled my ears. The warm breezes flowing in through the windows seemed to say, “We want to come inside and share the celebration.”
In my bedroom Beulah, who had resided in our house with living quarters in the basement, stood behind me and brushed my hair. “Which ribbon do you want?”
“That wide one.” Rose-colored satin.
Mama walked into my room. “A sensible choice. It emphasizes your thick chestnut colored hair.”
“You want me to pin it up on your head?” Beulah lifted my straight hair. “That way you wouldn’t get it tangled up in your fancy dress. Besides it’d be a lot cooler.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
She ran her fingers through the long strands. “I know. I know. You claim it won’t stay fixed.”
“Wish I knew where I got this.” I tossed my head. Nobody else in the family had such a thick, unruly mane.
A silent communication passed between Mama and Beulah.
“You’re my little chestnut haired girl.” After laying the ribbon over the top of my head, Beulah tied a knot underneath. “Thick and straight. So pretty.”
“Hurry,” Mama said. “The first guests could arrive anytime.” Smoothing her skirt as she walked, Mama rushed out.
I sighed. “Thanks, Beulah. I need to get into my dress now.”
She held up my silk frock so I could step in. “Don’t let your ma know I told you this, but Miss Shellie can’t hold a candle to you. You’re sweeter—nothing but goodness.”
At these words, I warmed inside. In my pink and rose gown with its sweeping skirt and sweetheart neckline, I felt like a princess, Trent’s princess.
“I’d have taken you in and made a home for you if nobody else would’ve.” Beulah was sniffling.
I glared at her. About that time, I heard guests laughing on our front lawn.
What did she mean?
As surreys from miles away filled the lane, I lifted the hem of my skirt and rushed into the foyer, where I found my place next to Mama.

Chapter One
Wedding Preparations

In the sweltering summer of 1908, I celebrated my thirty-seventh birthday in solitude.
Valuing my privacy, I’d told no one the date on my birth certificate. Instead, I sat in my porch swing and reminisced all afternoon about Trent McIntyre. Would that life could always be as lovely as it had been before the plague. Sometimes there were fiery times back then, but most days were splendid.
I had spent entire days dreaming about love gone by. For twenty years my companion had been the guilt over not being home to help when I was needed. I should have died along with the others.
Instead, I stayed in New Orleans while my loved ones suffered.
To anyone walking past my porch, I must have appeared to be a pleasant spinster staring with vacant eyes. By me on the swing lay my old bonnet, which I’d pulled out of the bureau drawer. I kept it wrapped in tissue. Beulah, my nanny since before I could remember, had quilted it for me. Underneath it was a large envelope. I didn’t open it because the paper was crumbling. Besides, I’d memorized the love letters from Trent.
The echo of my father’s scolding words when I sang resonated in my ears. Why did he want to extinguish the flame of my dreams by convincing me I lacked what I needed to become a singer?
The recollections taunted me, how I’d failed. Beulah—I’ll always grieve for Beulah. I could have nursed them, but I stayed in New Orleans. Their heads split with agony. Their backs ached until they would have screamed if they weren’t so weak they could only whisper. Survivors at the funerals delighted in lambasting me with details of how my dear ones writhed in agony. Chills with fevers seared their skin until they blistered. When the pain in their bellies became unbearable, they vomited up black blood. Their skin and eyes turned yellow.
Me? What did I do? Stayed at Sophie Newcomb, where I made pottery and studied voice.
That day as I sat on my swing in front of my house on the main street of Taylorsburg, I became satiated with my sad recollections. I’d punished myself enough.
It was time for me to move out of my grief. A courtship would have brightened my lonely life the way romance had blessed my two best friends and the way love had been so tender when I was seventeen. I was ready to move on.
But first I wanted to find a suitable beau.
In the meantime I needed to do more things to help people. Caroline and Jake’s wedding date was scheduled one week after my birthday.
The day before the ceremony, I set up a massive cooking operation. My kitchen responded to my hands as a solo musical instrument until the squeak of the front door announced a visitor.
“Come in.” I didn’t take the time to glance toward the parlor.
“It smells like heaven in here, but it’s too hot.” My neighbor Chad Clemons, the father of the bride, rambled back to the kitchen. “You haven’t opened your windows yet.”
“Too busy to play with the windows.” I pulled a loaf of bread from the oven, the warmth seeping through the oven mitts. “I’m surprised to see you here at five.”
“No time to waste today.” He opened every kitchen window. “That’s better.”
“Help yourself to some coffee. If you want some bread, cut a slice off that loaf.” I pointed toward the one with a broken crust on the counter.
He cut two thick slices, which he slathered with blackberry jam and arranged on breakfast plates. Then he poured two cups of coffee and dosed his with cream.
“Sit, Lorrie.” Chad stationed himself on a stool by my worktable.
“No time to sit.”
“I’m ordering you to take a breather.” He patted the stool next to him.
“Yes, sir.” I was surprised that it felt good to sit. I hadn’t realized I was already tired.
“You’d make some man a fine wife.” Chad licked the jam from the knife.
“Thanks, but there are no husband prospects.”
“If a man smelled your bread, he’d fall in love. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.”
I’d never marry. I’d promised myself to look around for a beau, but I wouldn’t find anyone—life would never change. Courtship worked out with a happy conclusion only for people like Caroline Clemons and Jake MacGregor or when I included a romance in one of my novels.
I consumed the slice of bread, chomped into it the way I’d liked to have gnawed into Chad’s soul. What did he know—this man who had buried two wives—about how it felt never to be married? He’d been floating over to my house the last few days like he owned part of it, or part of me. Sometimes he ridiculed me because of my lack of love from a man. No doubt he didn’t know that I’d tasted true love twenty years before. One day I’d tell him about things he didn’t understand.
As I finished the bread, the reality of our situation moved back to center stage. “In thirty-three hours, you’ll have a son-in-law. It’s time to get back to work.”
“What do I need to do?” He cut another slice of bread.
“Can I trust you to take some bread over to your house?”
“Let me finish this piece. I believe so.”
“We’ll slice the bread for the reception when it cools.”
“You’ve assembled a plethora of fig preserves, blackberry jam, wild grape jelly, and mayhaw jelly in my pantry. A chef would be proud of the way they taste.”
“You’ve just been looking, but you didn’t sample anything. Did you?”
He lowered his face, etched with a grin.
“Chad, you didn’t open any of those jars?”
“Sylvester did.”
Before I realized what I was doing, I slammed my fist on the work table.
Chad dipped his finger into the butter and smeared some on the tip of my nose.
Too shocked for words, I wiped it off with a dishcloth.
“How dare you accuse me of my brother-in-law’s crime.” Chad laughed.
“Sometimes you act like a child, and so does Sylvester. How can we manage with you two boys misbehaving?” I was too busy to get into a butter fight with this childish father,
Mahalia, the sister of Chad’s first wife, and her husband Sylvester were in town from New Orleans. They’d worked hard all week to prepare for the wedding. It was strange to have Mahalia staying in the bedroom where Hortense, Chad’s second wife, had lived and died.
“It’s been fun preparing for the wedding with you.” Chad loaded his arms with bread. “I want you to know how much I appreciate all you’ve done.”
“I love Caroline.” Against my will, I grinned. “Seriously, Hortense was my friend.”
“No matter how she acted?”
I nodded. “It’s hard to believe Hortense died only two months ago.”
“You were one of the few friends still speaking to her toward the last.”
Someday I’d ask him why he and Hortense remained married but lived in separate residences. Maybe I’d ask Caroline why Hortense hated Mahalia for no reason I knew.
If Hortense had been alive, she would have taken charge of the wedding, which wouldn’t have taken place in the Clemons house. From the grave, Hortense couldn’t control what went on.
Jumping to his feet, Chad pulled me back into the moment. “I’m out the door with this, but I’ll come back for another load.”
I nodded toward him as he turned around and looked at me. Then he walked out. Not a bad looking man, Chad Clemons. Why did he turn again and smile before he walked away? Grateful for my help?
After he left, I pinched off more dough, kneaded it, and shaped it freehand as Italian bread. Pinkie, my cat, kneaded her fluffy white body against my leg.
“In two or three days Chad will return to work in Jackson.” Pinkie always heard everything. “I don’t expect to see him again for weeks. I’m glad we’ve become comfortable friends. I never talked to him before Hortense died.”
Pinkie purred.
“Hortense would have enjoyed the festivities. Even though she was the epitome of an evil stepmother, she would have loved seeing Caroline being married in style.”
Pinkie pawed at my skirt.
“Naughty kitty.” I stopped my cooking operation long enough to pour milk into her bowl. “Until Hortense lost her grasp of reality, everyone depended on her to organize social events. She would have lined out the menu and assigned cooks from both churches to help us. I just hope the churchwomen coordinate the foods they bring for tomorrow afternoon without her supervision. It would have all been so different though. The wedding would have been at church with a party on the grounds.”
Rushing to check the bread in the oven, I turned over a pitcher of milk, which Pinkie helped me clean. “You know, Pinkie, if I’d become an opera star, somewhere along the way, I would have needed to go to charm school. Sophie Newcomb tried, but I’m still ungraceful.”
Working at a feverish rate, Pinkie soon cleaned the mess just in time for Caroline, Jake, Mahalia, Sylvester, and Chad to arrive. They came and went throughout the morning. Six more hours of cooking brought me closer to my goals, but the list on the worktable still had many items waiting to be checked off.
As I plunged into creaming butter with sugar for the jellyroll cake, the front door opened.
“Come in.” Chad again. I kept working the butter until the grainy sugar smoothed into it.
No, those were not his footsteps. Johnson, my banker, who pretended he was my boyfriend, swaggered in. “We need to talk about your account.”
“Not now. I’m busy.”
“This is important.” With his nose raised and his upper lip pulled down tight, it was evident he planned to antagonize me.
I didn’t have time for his absurdity. Wiping my hands, I marched to Mrs. Barker’s door. After a gentle tap, I opened the apartment door to a crack. “Johnson Daniels is here.”
Mrs. Barker wasn’t home, but he didn’t need to know.
“Come back in here and let me go over your ledger.” Johnson pushed my basket of eggs aside to make room for the long book.
I moved the basket away from the edge. “Can’t you see I’m mixing a cake?”
“That wedding tomorrow.” He shrugged. “You’re not a Clemons, and you’re not a MacGregor. Let them manage their own business.”
“The money conversation will have to wait a few days.”
“Why does this wedding mean so much to you?” He sat without invitation.
I gave him a sidelong glare as I whipped eggs into the smooth butter and sugar. I wasn’t going to tell him what was in my heart. He didn’t need to see my vulnerable side. For that matter, nobody needed to know the hurts inside me. I wanted to help give Caroline and Jake what I never had—would never have. Losing myself in this vicarious experience had taken me a step away from my grief. Furthermore, I loved them as if they were my little brother and sister.
Where they were concerned, money was no object. I would have paid a generous fee if I’d found anybody in Taylorsburg capable of all this cooking and preparation to my satisfaction. Even if I could have found someone, Caroline wouldn’t allow me to bring in a caterer and a florist from Laurel.
“It would look bad for Papa,” she’d said. “He’d lose votes if people thought he was wasting money by bringing in outsiders. Jake and I want to keep the wedding simple.”
Johnson in my house when no one else was present frightened me. The school board members would have frowned on such behavior, but I didn’t care much about their disapproval. Granted, Johnson had a community position as bank president, and he was allegedly my suitor. But being alone with him made me shudder. Showing my fear would have been dangerous.
“Pour yourself a glass of sweet tea.”
He held the pitcher up to the light coming in through the windows. “Looks clear.”
Johnson poured half a glass and swirled the liquid. Eyes rolling in his head, he held a swig in his mouth a few seconds before swallowing it.
“If you think something is wrong with the tea, why don’t you just go?”
He lifted his chin, set down his tea, and marched out the door.
That afternoon I walked east along the street and across to Chad’s home. We went to work immediately slicing and wrapping bread. The frenzy of the day lasted until it was time for the lamplighter to make his rounds. Chad said, “I’ll walk you home in the gloaming.”
For some reason unclear to me, my face grew hot.
“You need to stop going out by yourself in the dark.” As we stepped onto the front porch, he held out his elbow.
I inserted my hand into the crook of it. “In Taylorsburg? Nothing ever happens here.”
“You’re right. Get some rest, Lorrie.”
“You too. I’m tired enough to sleep, but I’m too excited.” I stood facing him, my hands folded in front of me.
He touched my shoulder.
Surprised that he placed his hand on my shoulder in a friendly gesture and frustrated that the touch made me tingle, I backed away and bounded up the steps.
Chad, matching my pace, followed me as I walked across the porch to the front door.
“Good night.” I tried to sound pleasant. I dared not let him know he made me feel foolish.
“Good night, Lorrie.” He turned back toward his house.
I let myself inside, closed the front door, and changed into a cool cotton gown.
Exhausted, I plopped into bed with Pinkie.
Lord, you know how I feel. I want a man in my life, someone who’ll love me the way you love your church. Send me a husband who will let me be who I am.
Otherwise, send me a sign I’m meant to be content in my single life.
Don’t make him perfect because I’m far from perfect. I’m trying to trust you.
Sleep came.

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