The Purple Nightgown Read online

  This had to be too good to be true.

  “I’m not sure I like that look on your face.” Henry slurped his melting ice cream. “What are you thinking?”

  “How would you feel about a drive to Olalla?” She folded the article and returned it to her handbag.

  His shoulders stiffened. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Letting someone starve you seems a little extreme.”

  “She won’t starve me.” Stella firmed her jaw. “And I just want to get a feel for the place. If I’m not comfortable with her regimen, I won’t stay.” His eyes didn’t show a hint of budging. Why was he so much more difficult than Jane or Hartsell? They trusted her judgment, offered support, let her order her own life. But Henry insisted on questioning her at every turn. Wasn’t her family paying him to be agreeable?

  “Tell you what.” He clinked his spoon into the empty dish. “Finish her book and we’ll discuss it. If you still want to see the place after knowing her angle—”

  “Her angle is healing people, and that’s what I need.” Stella rubbed the pain over her eyebrow. “Why must you make this harder than it needs to be?”

  “Because I care about you.” He placed a hand over hers then withdrew it. His gaze dropped to the floor.

  Emotion stirred within her, dissolving her agitation. He was such a good friend. And he hadn’t read the portions of Dr. Hazzard’s book as she had, so it stood to reason he’d be uncomfortable with the woman’s unorthodox methods. Maybe if they read the remainder of the book together, he’d be on her side. She desired his support almost as much as she craved relief.

  She’d prayed for years to find a cure for her headaches. Maybe the Institute of Natural Therapeutics was her answer.

  Chapter Five

  Stella rushed through the front doors, not bothering to wait for Hartsell to open them. How had she let time get away from her? Uncle Weston would be furious with her disregard for the dinner he’d planned.

  Maybe she should head to the dining room without dressing for dinner. She checked the mirror in the vestibule. Her hat rested at an odd angle and windblown hair puffed from beneath the brim. She removed her hat, determined to smooth the mess, but found the task impossible. No, this would never do.

  Her uncle’s voice carried from the dining room. “I’m not sure where she is, but I’ve no doubt she’ll arrive shortly.” While his guest might not have detected the hint of annoyance steeling Uncle Weston’s voice, Stella did.

  She dashed up the stairs two at a time and ran to Jane’s room at the end of the hall. Three raps brought the matronly woman’s answer. When Jane’s gaze fell on Stella, her eyes widened. “My, but you could use some help.” She checked the timepiece on her bodice. “And you’re late.” She exited the room, jerking the door shut.

  Stella hurried to her bedroom with Jane close behind. She tossed her hat on the bed and settled on the stool before the dressing table. “I’m sorry I’m late. Henry and I stopped for ice cream, and—”

  “I’d best come with you next time you ride to the coast.” Jane worked at a knot in Stella’s hair with a hairbrush. “These outings with Clayton may not be entirely proper.”

  Clayton? Oh, of course, Henry. She’d failed to use his formal title.

  But she’d despise giving up their solitary drives by including Jane’s company. As much as she valued the woman, she couldn’t be as much herself as when she was alone with Henry … Clayton. He understood her, listened to her ideas. Of course, his contrary attitude tormented her at times. Although there was something refreshing in the way he didn’t bow to her every whim.

  “Oh, Clayton and I are very proper. And you need time off now and again.” Stella turned in her seat, earning her a tug to the scalp. Ouch. She lifted her hand to the stinging spot.

  “Aye. But I worry for Clayton.” Jane pinned a curl in place.

  What could she possibly mean by that? “Why worry for Clayton?”

  “I’m afraid his time with the family may have given him a taste of a life that isn’t rightfully his.”

  That was more confusing still. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Clayton may aspire to—” Jane frowned. “He may feel it possible to make connections that are above his station.”

  Above his station? Realization dawned, and electricity buzzed across her skin. “You don’t mean—”

  “I do.” Jane secured another section of hair. “And since your uncle would never consider him a proper suitor, he’s bound to be disappointed.”

  “Henry doesn’t care for me. Not like that.” Stella slid her fingers into a glove then pulled the sleeve up to her elbow. But he’d said as much at the ice cream parlor. Surely he meant his words as a token of friendship, nothing more. “I don’t know how he could.” Her cheeks ignited. Jane had a keen eye. What if she was right?

  “You sell yourself short.” Jane finished her hair. “But we shouldn’t talk about it anymore.” She stilled and glanced at Stella in the mirror. “You care for him too, don’t you?”

  Stella lowered her gaze to her lap. Did she? She couldn’t imagine life without him. But she couldn’t fathom living without Jane or ice cream either. “I’m not sure.” She shook her head. He knew her better than anyone. Aside from the man who wrote the letters. If only she knew his name.

  Jane strode to the closet, retrieved a gauzy purple gown trimmed with gold, and took her place beside Stella once more. “It’s best for you both if you keep to what’s expected of you.” Jane flashed an unsteady smile. “Avoid the heartbreak.”

  As Jane fastened the buttons at her back, Stella mulled her words. If she took Jane’s advice, she’d avoid conversing with Henry except to order the motor. But how would she convince him to take her to Dr. Hazzard’s institute? Why couldn’t he take orders like normal drivers instead of demanding a list of reasons why she needed the trip? She pulled on her other glove.

  She’d have Uncle Weston give Henry a firm talking-to. Guilt pricked. No. Henry didn’t deserve trouble. In his way, he was trying to protect her. A smile twitched her mouth. Like he had at Ethel’s apartment.

  “I caught a peek at the young man your uncle invited.” Jane grabbed the amber bottle of Narcisse Noir and dabbed the fragrance behind Stella’s ears. The floral aroma filled her senses. “He’s very handsome.”

  Stella’s thoughts reverted to Henry. Surely her uncle’s guest couldn’t rival Henry. Not with his rigid jaw, or the laughter that twinkled in his hazel eyes, or—What was wrong with her? The memory of his lopsided smile when he’d brushed her saliva from his coat left a strange tightness in her heart. He was so patient, so kind, so—

  “You’re smiling. I’m glad you’re pleased to meet this one.” Jane ushered her to the door. “It’s high time you were settled in a home of your own.”

  Best to play along. Jane needn’t know Stella’s mind had been occupied with the very man she’d been warned against.

  Stella planted a quick kiss on Jane’s cheek. “Thank you for getting me ready.” With the hem of her dress in hand, Stella skipped down the stairs.

  At the closed dining room door, she braced for another evening of awkwardness and boredom. Silverware clinked against china. They’d started without her. No matter. She squared her shoulders and entered the room, not missing the reprimand in her uncle’s eyes as he and his guest stood.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” She eased into the chair the footman held for her. “I wasn’t feeling well, and time got away from me.”

  Uncle Weston sat, gaze softening. “I hope you’re better, my dear.”

  “Much.” She spread the napkin in her lap.

  “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.” Her uncle gestured to the man at the foot of the table. “James Harris, this is my niece, Stella Burke.”

  The gentleman acknowledged her with a nod. A lock of chestnut hair grazed his forehead. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Burke.” His blue eyes twinkled. Jane hadn’t been lying when she said he was handsome. Stella’s heart stall
ed. But now that he’d seen her plain features, he’d not give her a second look.

  She selected a spoon and dipped it into the cream of chicken soup. Though the ice cream had been delicious, she hadn’t realized how famished the fast had left her. In a few bites, she devoured the first course.

  When she glanced at her uncle, his brows hung low over his eyes. His gaze darted to their guest, and Stella sat a little straighten. She should say something to him. But what? The thought of asking about his horse’s lineage before he had the chance to mention it sent a cringe across her shoulders. No sense opening a conversation that would have no end. Before Mama died, she’d always said to discuss the weather or the condition of the roads if you found yourself at a loss.

  “The weather has been very fine.” Her hands fidgeted in her lap.

  “Very.” James smiled. Even his teeth were perfect. “Have you read anything agreeable recently?”

  No doubt she’d misheard him. What man asked a woman of books? She leaned forward, lifting a questioning brow.

  “Do you not enjoy reading?” He set his spoon in his empty bowl.

  “Very much.” Had her uncle coached this man on topics of conversation? “I read an article today about the suffragettes working to give California women the right to vote.”

  Uncle Weston cleared his throat and gave a slight shake of his head as he wiped his mouth.

  “And what are your feelings on that matter?” James lifted a wineglass to his lips.

  “It would be wonderful. We’ve made great strides, but so many things still need to change. The thought of voting with my conscience thrills me to my fingertips.” Her voice shrank. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, I agree. I, for one, would be happy to have a wife cast a ballot. It would be like having two votes.” He set down his glass.

  “And if your wife didn’t agree with you?” A footman stepped beside her with a tray of quail, and the aroma of roasted fowl made her stomach beg for a taste. She served herself and returned her attention to her uncle’s guest.

  “Then I would not permit her to vote no matter what the governor of California should say.” He shook his head. “How is a woman to decide on her own what is best for the political realm?”

  “She could learn.” Stella stabbed her quail with a fork, appetite waning.

  “That’s faulty logic.” James jabbed his fork in the air as if emphasizing a point, then took a bite. “Men and women are very different, you see. While men make decisions based on facts, women let their emotions determine their actions. You can’t deny it.”

  “I don’t wish to deny it.” Stella clenched her jaw. “But don’t you think both fact and feeling should be viewed as strengths? Just as a woman’s understanding can be broadened by facts, a man’s stubbornness can be softened by feeling.”

  Uncle Weston coughed theatrically, ending their discussion. When Stella dared to meet his gaze, he shot her a warning glare. She lowered her head and took to pushing the food around her plate.

  She’d ruined another marriage prospect with her plain face and unpopular opinions. Not a total loss, however. A lifetime with a man who didn’t value her point of view didn’t appeal in the slightest.

  As she lifted a bite to her lips, she counted the days to her twenty-fifth birthday. Thirty-seven days more, and she’d be free to use her money as she willed and have an input in the clothing business. Do something to make a difference. Something more than rattling around in this giant house and breathing sea air. Her father most likely had expected she’d be married by now, allowing her husband to acquire the family fortune in her stead.

  The disappointment in Uncle Weston’s eyes made something inside her wilt like a dandelion in the heat of summer. If Papa were still alive, would she have disappointed him too?

  She shouldn’t speak of this with Henry. But he’d understand how she felt. He always did.

  Henry opened the cover of Fasting for the Cure of Disease and took a seat on the stool beside his workbench in the garage. The scent of motor oil soothed his nerves. Crickets hummed from outside the open door. What sort of crazy blather had Stella read about fasting? He shook off the prejudicial thought. If Linda Burfield Hazzard’s treatments could heal her, Henry wouldn’t stand in the way. Still, unease gnawed his gut. The whole thing carried a stink he wished Stella would stay far away from, but she’d been indulged and given free rein too often to accept his oppositional stance without a concrete reason. Well, if she required a reason, he’d find it in the pages of Hazzard’s own writing.

  He scanned a poem printed on the first page.

  Some, as thou saws’t, by violent stroke shall die,

  By fire, flood, famine; by intemperance more

  In meats and drinks, which on the Earth shall bring

  Diseases dire, of which a monstrous crew

  Before thee shall appear, that thou mays’t know

  What misery the inabstinence of Eve

  Shall bring on men.

  If thou well observe

  The rule of ‘Not too much’ by temperance taught

  In what thou eat’st and drink’st, seeking from thence

  Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight.

  Till many years over thy head return; So mays’t thou live, till, like ripe fruit, thou drop

  Into thy mother’s lap, or be with ease

  Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature.

  —John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Henry rolled his eyes and propped his elbow on the bench beside his toolbox. The woman was a quack if she attributed the fall of man to Eve’s inability to fast. But Stella had brains to spare. She’d see though this tomfoolery no doubt.

  Unless her wish for healing clouded her judgment.

  His brain replayed the events leading to Stella’s headache that morning. Ethel’s husband and the subsequent altercation then interacting with the ragged children on the street appeared to be the catalyst. He craned his neck until it cracked. What about yesterday’s headache? The children at the beach had raised a commotion. Could stress or raised voices be at the heart of her problems instead of overindulgence in food? The thought of Stella fasting for her ailment didn’t sit well with him. She was already rail thin, and the nausea that accompanied her migraines often killed her appetite. In some ways she was fasting out of necessity, and it hadn’t helped.

  But her affinity for Linda Hazzard’s regimen would render his logic useless.

  He flipped to chapter 1, settling in for a long night of reading. The first sentence presented a study in confusion. He turned the book upside down then back again. Though educated by Stella’s tutors, he couldn’t make out the meaning of Hazzard’s jargon. He knew the meaning of each separate word, but they were indecipherable in the manner she’d tossed them together.

  Rustling sounded at the door, and he snapped the book shut. Stella stormed in, hands balled into fists. The gold trim on her dress caught a flicker of light from the oil lamp hanging from the beam, making the beads sparkle. Henry hid the book beneath an oil rag. If Stella discovered his plan to discredit her beloved Linda Hazzard, she’d never forgive him. And he couldn’t bear the thought.

  She huffed, crossed her arms, and leaned against the workbench. A curl fell free of her pins and fluttered into her line of vision. She rammed it behind her ear, loosening the remaining pins. Curls toppled around her shoulders and down her back.

  How could she be so spoiled and still manage to look so adorable in the process? He forced the thought from his head. Her uncle would toss him into the unemployment line if Henry dared speak such a thought aloud. Especially since the man was in pursuit of a perfect husband for his niece. Someone who could meet her needs far better than Henry on his meager salary. Weston’s shifty eyes were always in search of his next money-making endeavor. And the men he arranged for Stella to meet tended to possess values that flowed in the same vein. Thankfully, Stella had acquired her mother’s attributes, and while she was a trifle on the entitled side, she
never failed to offer a generous hand to someone in need. With any luck she’d escape the noose of matrimony a few weeks longer—until her uncle no longer held all her cards. She could do better than those money-grubbing fancy men.

  “I guess your gentleman caller wasn’t the hero you’d hoped?” He thrust his hands into his pockets.

  “Don’t you dare call him that.” Stella jabbed his chest with an index finger, voice low. “He’s not my anything. And he never shall be if I have a say in the matter.”

  Relief coursed through him. Each time one of Weston’s men missed the mark, hope sparked. Though Henry had tried to employ logic to squelch the tender flame, it stubbornly flickered. He cleared his throat. “Want to talk about it?” He hopped off the stool and offered it to Stella with a flourish of his hand.

  She started toward the seat but halted when she came abreast of him. Her eyes floundered then found his. Wide and soft, they pinned him with an unspoken question.

  His breathing stilled as he studied the vulnerability scrawled on her brow. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you—” Her cheeks bloomed pink, but her gaze didn’t falter. “Do you care for me?” Her tone was low, intimate.

  His mouth went dry, and he struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat. How could he answer without losing her friendship or his employment? “Of course.” Why had her simple question acted like a punch in the gut? And his answer, though two small words, hovered in the air between them, riddled with complexity. He longed to tell her he cared for her more than anything. To wrap his arms around her and hold her close, eliminating the cavern of class and family that divided them, and remind her that in all the important things, he was her equal. But he had no right to such feelings or claims. “We’re friends, right? Friends care about each other.”

  Her shoulders drooped. The softness in her eyes deepened to sadness. Had his answer disappointed her? She brushed past him and sat on the stool.