A Vote of Confidence (15 page)

Daylight from the open doorways chased the darkness of the barn into corners. The air smelled of dust and hay and animals.
Cleo paused long enough to grab a cloth, some bandages, and a bottle of liniment before heading for the nearest stall. Inside
it was a sorrel horse with a blazed face, sorrowful eyes, and a bandaged left foreleg.

“What happened?” Morgan asked as Cleo entered the stall.

“She tangled with some barbed wire. For a while, I thought we might have to put her down, but she’s coming along. I don’t
think she’ll be any good for herding cattle, but she’ll make a good kid’s pony.”

Morgan leaned his arms on the top rail of the stall and watched as Cleo squatted next to the mare’s leg and removed the soiled bandages.

“Bet the first thing you’d like to know is how Gwen and I turned out so different from each other.” She looked over her shoulder
at him. “Right?”

A more direct woman he’d never met. “Yes, that would be a good place to begin.”

“When Gwen and I were two, our mother decided she didn’t want to live in Idaho, so she up and went back to New Jersey to live
with her parents. She took Gwen with her and left me with our dad. Of course Dad didn’t think she would stay back there for
long, but that’s how it worked out. Gwen didn’t get to return to Idaho until she was twenty-one, right after she finished
college.”

“And your mother?”

“She still lives with our grandparents in Hoboken.” Cleo reached for the liniment. “And she’s still trying to convince Gwen
to come back to civilization, but so far Gwennie hasn’t listened. I don’t reckon she’ll have much time for traveling once
she’s mayor either.”

Morgan didn’t rise to the bait.

Cleo stood and looked at him. “My sister’s a whole lot more than beautiful and refined. She’s smart too. Don’t go thinking
she’s not.”

“I won’t.”

She pointed her finger at his chest. “And don’t you hurt her. Because if you do, it’ll be me you’ll have to answer to.”

“You have my word. I won’t hurt your sister.”

Evening had cast a soft shadow over Bethlehem Springs by the time Morgan left Gwen at her door. She stood on her porch and
listened to the sound of his motorcar until it faded into silence. When she could hear it no longer, she went inside the house, dropping
her hat and duster carelessly over the nearest chair.

Cookie had sent her home with a few pieces of cold fried chicken and a biscuit, but exhaustion had stolen her appetite. She
put the leftovers in the icebox, then went outside to feed and water Shakespeare.

“Hello, boy.” She laid her cheek against the bridge of the horse’s nose while scratching his throat with her left hand. “Did
you miss me today?”

Shakespeare snorted.

“Well, I missed you.” She sighed as she drew back, looking into the horse’s big dark eyes. “It was a miserable afternoon.
I’ve never been so miserable, and Dad and Cleo were no help at all. They
like
Mr. McKinley. I can tell they do.”
Even I like him. A little. Just a little.
“Oh, I never should have agreed to ride to the resort with him in his automobile. I should have let you take me up there.
Then I wouldn’t have been forced to spend a minute more with him than I wanted.”

The horse pawed at the floor of his stall.

“I know. I know. You’re hungry.”

She brought hay to the stall and dropped it into the manger, then grabbed the bucket and took it to the pump, where she filled
it with fresh, cold water.

“He asked me to give him piano lessons. Can you believe that? He’s building a resort, running for mayor, and he wants to add
piano lessons to the mix. And I agreed! Why did I do that? What was I thinking?” She hung the bucket once again on the hook
inside the stall. “I don’t need his twenty-five cents.”

Shakespeare chomped on his hay, unmindful of her dilemma.

Gwen rested her hands atop the stall rail, then placed her chin on her wrists. “Of course, I don’t have to give him lessons. I could cancel, couldn’t I?”

Yes, she could cancel. She
would
cancel. First thing tomorrow, she would let him know she couldn’t give him those lessons after all.

Gwen arrived at Morgan’s home at three minutes to the hour the following Tuesday afternoon. She had meant to cancel the lesson.
More than once she’d begun a note to tell him she couldn’t do it. The notes had ended up unfinished in the trash.

A woman wearing a black dress and matching apron answered her knock. “You must be Miss Arlington.” The woman opened the door
wide. “Mr. McKinley told me to expect you. I’m Mrs. Cheevers, the housekeeper. Please come in.”

“Thank you.” Gwen stepped into the entry hall. “I believe we’ve met before, Mrs. Cheevers. At the Humphrey girl’s wedding
last year.”

“Oh. Of course.” The housekeeper motioned with her right hand. “If you’ll make yourself comfortable in the front parlor, Mr.
McKinley will join you soon. He’s in a meeting with Mr. Doyle.”

Mrs. Cheevers led her into a beautifully appointed room with a high ceiling and tall windows that afforded a view of the town
and the mountain range to the south. The piano, which stood near one of those windows, had been polished to a high sheen.

“May I bring you some refreshment, Miss Arlington?”

“No, thank you.” Gwen made her way to the piano and slipped onto the bench.

Her grandparents owned a grand piano similar to this one. Her own lessons had begun on that instrument when she was six years old, before her hands could properly span the keys. She recalled
many an hour in the music room of her grandparents’ home in Hoboken, practicing her scales over and over again.

Mr. Kirby, her teacher, had been a strange-looking little man with thick glasses that rode the tip of a birdlike nose. “Do
it again, child. Concentrate this time,” he’d told her.

Sometimes Gwen had cried in frustration, but her tears hadn’t moved her mother. Elizabeth Arlington had wanted Gwen to learn
to play and learn to play she would. A musical ability, she’d told Gwen repeatedly, was one of the social graces. Every young
lady of quality played an instrument.

Her mother couldn’t have guessed that Gwen would one day be paid to teach others.

“Poor Mother,” Gwen whispered as she placed her fingers on the ivory keys. “What a disappointment I am to her.”

She heard men’s voices and twisted on the bench an instant before Morgan and Fagan Doyle came into view.

When Morgan saw her through the parlor doorway, he smiled. “Ah, you’re here already.” He stepped into the room.

“It’s now past three o’clock.”

“Is it?” He checked his watch. “I hadn’t realized. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Fagan,
you remember Miss Arlington. She’s here to give me a lesson on the piano.”

Gwen slid to the end of the bench as the two men approached.

“’Tis a pleasure to see you again, Miss Arlington.” He gave her a broad wink. “Be patient with Morgan. I wouldn’t call him
daft, but still…” He shrugged as his voice faded to silence.

“Be on your way, Fagan.” Morgan feigned a scowl.

Fagan laughed. “He has no sense of humor, that one. None at all. Have a care, miss.”

“I will, Mr. Doyle.” She grinned at him, enjoying the easy banter of the men. “Thank you for the warning.”

As Fagan left the room, Morgan looked at Gwen and in a stage whisper said, “I most certainly
do
have a sense of humor. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t survive having Fagan for a friend.”

His eyes, she thought, contained so much life, and his laugh was deep and rich. Had she noticed that before?

Swallowing hard, Gwen reached into her bag and withdrew the sheet music she’d brought with her. “We should begin your lesson,
Mr. McKinley.”

“Of course.” He moved to the left side of the bench and sat beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers.

It was quite warm in the room. Perhaps she should ask that a window be opened.

Morgan put his fingers on the piano keys, his left little finger resting on lower C, his right thumb resting on middle C.

Gwen gave him a sharp look. “You’ve had lessons before.”

“Yes, but that was years ago.”

“But I thought — ”

He pressed middle C with his thumb, three times in quick succession. “My parents and I heard Percy Grainger play in the London
recital that established his reputation as a virtuoso. I’ll never forget it.” Slowly, Morgan played the notes of the C-major
scale with his right hand. “I was twenty years old at the time. Percy Grainger was nineteen. I remember wanting to learn to
play just like him.”

How easily he spoke of his travels in England and Europe, of the grand hotels and spas he’d visited, of seeing one of the
great pianists of their day perform in London. Morgan had led the sort of life her mother could only dream of, the kind of life she’d wanted for her daughter if only Gwen would have married well.

Poor Mother.

Gwen’s maternal grandparents were well-to-do merchants in New Jersey. Part of the
nouveau riche,
their money had opened many doors for Elizabeth and Gwen. But some doors at the highest echelons of good, long-established
society had remained firmly closed. Gwen hadn’t cared, but her mother had.

What would Mother think if she could see me now?

Morgan’s left hand began the scale, moving from left to right, but he struck a sour note as he crossed his middle finger over
thumb. He stopped, chuckled, then looked at her. “As you can tell, I’m no virtuoso.”

Gwen swallowed again. “You’ll get better.” Her heart beat an uncertain rhythm in her chest. “It only takes practice.”

How easy it would be to lean to his right and kiss her lips. Morgan longed to know if she tasted as sweet as she looked.

As if she’d read his mind, her eyes widened and color infused her cheeks. She slipped from the bench and stood beside it,
clenching her hands at her waist. “Please play that scale again, Mr. McKinley.”

He shouldn’t be thinking about how easy it would be to kiss her or how sweet she looked. That wasn’t why he was here. He concentrated
again on the piano keys. His playing felt awkward, his fingers stiff. How many years had it been since he’d sat on a piano
bench, his fingers touching ivory? Too many.

“Do you know your C-major chords?”

“Yes.” He positioned his hands, hearing the notes in his head even before he played them.

“Now the G-major scale.”

He thought about it a moment. Ah, yes. F-sharp. He played the scale, first with one hand, then the other, and finally together.

Gwen moved to the bend in the piano beside the open lid. Her expression was grave. “You deceived me, sir.”

His fingers stilled.

“You let me believe you were a beginner.”

He wished he could deny the accusation, but he couldn’t. Though he hadn’t lied to her, he also hadn’t revealed the whole truth.
Sometimes omission was the same as a lie.

“How well can you play?”

“Not as well as I’d like. That’s why I asked for the lessons.”

She studied him with a narrowed gaze.

“I didn’t intend to deceive you, Miss Arlington, but I did and I’m sorry.” He stood, shoving the bench away with the back
of his knees. “I apologize. Please forgive me.”

Seconds passed like minutes as she appeared to weigh his words. He felt like a prisoner awaiting the verdict. Would it be
freedom or the gallows? Would she remain or walk out the door?

At last, she spoke. “Tell me about the instruction you’ve received.”

“I had a few lessons when I was a boy of about ten or so, but like I said, my father had other aspirations for me.” He shook
his head, envisioning his father. “Don’t misunderstand me — he was a wonderful man. But he held strong opinions about the
proper roles for men and women. Musical interests were not for his son.” He chose not to tell Gwen what his father would have
thought of a woman running for mayor. “I was twenty-six when he passed away. I hadn’t lost the desire to learn to play the
piano, so I hired an instructor who taught me the basics. But then my mother’s health worsened, and I started traveling with her. I played whenever I could. I even mastered a few songs, but my technique wasn’t good.”