Territorial Bride. Linda Castle

      “At the next stop I want to send a wire home,” Ellen continued. “My dressmaker is a treasure. We must ask Aunt Patricia if you may come to my house straightaway. Miss Baldwin can get some dresses made for you and nobody will know what we are up to…not until we are ready.” Ellen put the brush aside and clapped her smooth white hands together. “It will be delicious. We can have a party and introduce you properly.”

      “Do you really believe it will work?” Missy crinkled her nose with doubt.

      “Of course,” Ellen said confidently. “I can’t wait to see the look on everyone’s face when they see the transformation. And then you can teach me to ride and my papa will have to see that I am not a frail child anymore.” Ellen cast a sly look at Missy when she spoke.

       Chapter Five

      Brooks tried to keep up with Missy and Ellen, but the crowd at Grand Central Station closed around him like a living wall. A sharp blow to his ribs sent the air rushing from his lungs in a painful hiss. He spun around on his boot heel, ready to do battle with his attacker, only to find a prune-faced woman over seventy wielding an umbrella like a cavalry saber.

      “Excuse me, ma’am.” Brooks reeled back half a step and touched his finger to his hat in apology. Evidently she was unimpressed by his show of good manners, because she harrumphed loudly and seared his flesh with a dour look before she moved on. By the time he turned back around, the feather on top of Missy’s borrowed hat was disappearing into a hansom cab. Before he could utter a word of protest, the carriage departed, its yellow wheels winking in the bright spring sunlight as it rolled out of the station.

      “Damnation.” He dragged off his Stetson and slapped it against his thigh in exasperation. For three days he had been struggling to find an opportunity to talk privately to her, and now she had escaped him one more time.

      “Are you talking to me, or to yourself?” Rod stood beside Brooks, attempting to balance an array of boxes, bags and parcels. “If you are through accosting elderly matrons, I could use a hand.”

      Brooks stuck his hat back on his head. Then he took an octagon-shaped hatbox that had been awkwardly perched beneath Rod’s bony chin. “Why did Ellen and Missy run off like a pair of scalded cats?”

      “Scalded cats?” Rod repeated incredulously. “If a cat is scalded, does it run? And where on earth did you learn such a ridiculous expression?” Rod peered at his brother over the bulk of a string-tied bundle, only one of the purchases their mother had made at various stops on the way home.

      Brooks rolled his eyes heavenward. “All right, I’ll rephrase my question. Why do you suppose dear cousin Ellen and Miss O’Bannion fled the station as if it were on fire?” He tilted his head to see if his new query better suited Rod.

      His brother shrugged and hailed a passing cab, obviously unimpressed by the question and its delivery. “No reason for them to wait for us.” The hansom cab rolled by without stopping and Rod swore softly under his breath.

      “They could’ve shared their carriage. That is a logical reason,” Brooks snapped. “Why on earth hire two cabs?”

      “I understand they are headed in the opposite direction. It would be silly to go to Ellen’s house and then double back to the brownstone.”

      “Ellen’s house?” The hair on the back of Brooks’s neck prickled. “What do you mean, they are going to Ellen’s house? I thought the whole idea of this little visit was so Missy could spend some time at the brownstone with Mother.”

      Rod stretched to peer over the crowd. “I heard Ellen telling Mother that Missy is going to spend some time with her first.” Rod smiled victoriously when a hansom cab responded to his hail. He hurried over and started handing bags to the driver. “Come on, Brooks, don’t stand there with your mouth open like a carp that has been landed. Help us load this baggage.”

      Brooks stifled the sharp retort that bubbled up in his throat. How could he have been so thick as to allow Missy to come to New York? And on the heels of that thought, another more-sobering notion flitted through his brain. There wasn’t a damn thing he could have done to stop her.

      

      Missy tried not to gawk, but she had never seen so many people in one place in her entire life. A sound engulfed her, almost like a thousand spring peepers and katydids droning their tuneless songs. She leaned back against the padded leather seat and closed her eyes.

      “Are you ill?” Ellen’s voice broke through the fog in Missy’s mind.

      She opened her eyes.

      Ellen was peering at her with concern etched in her pale face.

      “I—I don’t know what I expected, but it’s awful big.”

      Relief flooded Ellen’s face. “Oh, is that all? You had me worried. I thought you might be coming down with something. You’ll get used to the city quickly, I promise.” She smoothed her skirt and stared idly out the window, the very picture of serenity and confidence.

      Missy couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever possess that kind of poise or if she was chasing rainbows by even trying. But she had accepted the challenge, and now, for good or ill, she was set on her course…There could be no turning back, not when Brooks was waiting for her to fail, like a hungry hawk waiting for a rabbit.

      No. She could not fail—her pride would not allow it.

      

      Missy and Ellen were lingering over a cup of creamed tea when the downstairs maid appeared at the parlor door. She carried a silver tray in her hand. A solitary piece of paper rested in the center.

      “Pardon, miss.” The maid bobbed a little curtsy.

      Ellen leaned over and glanced at the envelope. “It is from Aunt Patricia.”

      “How can you tell?” Missy asked, frowning. The outside of the envelope was as blank as the expression on the maid’s face.

      “It’s her stationery.” Ellen scooped up the paper and nodded as the maid curtsied and left the room. “See the watermark?” Ellen held it up toward the light streaming in through the French windows. The outline of a fancy crest within the fibers of the paper became evident.

      “Oh.” Missy ducked her head in embarrassment. Another thing she didn’t know, but if Ellen thought anything about her ignorance she did not show it as she busied herself opening the envelope.

      “Well, this is unexpected.” Ellen passed the paper to Missy, who read the neatly printed words and felt her stomach lurch.

      “A party?” she gasped. “Mrs. James is throwing a party—for me?” Desperation rang in every word. “But I’m not ready.” She stood up and started to pace. “I’ll never be ready.”

      Ellen studied her face for half a minute, and then she brightened. “Nonsense. It will be fine. Aunt Patricia will only invite family and close friends. Actually, this will be good for you. We will ease you into New York society by degrees.”

      “Do you think so?” Missy stopped pacing and looked at Ellen.

      “Absolutely.” Ellen picked up a delicate china cup painted with yellow primroses and leaned back in the wicker chair. “Now that I think of it, it’s a wonderful idea.”

      Ellen seemed completely confident, and if she wasn’t worried, then Missy decided she wouldn’t be, either.

      

      The night of the party was hot and sultry from two days of uninterrupted rain. Then, as if the heavens knew that Patricia James would be displeased if her guests were inconvenienced, the sky cleared. A handful of bright stars twinkled overhead as Brooks stepped out the French doors with a glass of cognac in his hand.

      “Well, well,