Barrie told the truth—the townspeople would frown at her. Some of them had already started. It was something she’d have to get used to…until she was able to leave.
“Men can’t be trusted,” Sheridan said, believing what she’d been told for so many years.
Barrie studied her for a moment. “That’s true. Some can’t, but there are a lot who can. Take Marshal Goodrich, for instance.He’s a good man, Sheridan. He loves his wife and daughter. He helped us when Josie got hurt, going after the man who hurt her. He comes by often just to check on us.” She drank more of her tea then reached for her hand and patted it, making Sheridan flinch once again.
“Then there’s Doctor Ben. Another good man. He makes sure all us girls are healthy, and never once does he look down on us because of what we do. As for Mr. Wyatt MacLean, I’ve always heard he was a good man, too. Kind. Decent. Hard-working.” She let out a sigh, but her smile was still bright. “Why, I can list a whole lot of men who are good and decent.” She stopped speaking, her smile suddenly fading. “Someone must have hurt you to make you think men can’t be trusted.”
Sheridan shook her head. “I should never have come to Serenity. It was a mistake.”
“Don’t say that.” Barrie patted her hand once again.
Sheridan pulled her hand away under the guise of picking up her teacup.
“Give yourself some time. Stay here for a while. Get to know us and the town. It’ll be all right.”
Sheridan didn’t believe her. She placed her still full teacup on the tray, then rose. “Thank you for trying to help.”
“Sure thing, honey.”
Sheridan took the grand staircase upstairs to her room and closed the door, which did nothing to drown out the sounds of what the men and women were doing in the other rooms up and down the hall. She stuffed wads of cotton in her ears, as she’d done on her first night, but that didn’t help. Not at all. She could still hear everything…the giggles, the moans and grunts, the springs of the beds squeaking, the startling shouts of triumph. She placed her hands over her ears, then stepped outside onto the second-floor veranda that ran the length of the house, knowing she would find not peace, but a little quiet.
She picked up a blanket from the chair and spread it around her shoulders, then sat down and stared into the darkness, counting the stars that winked in the black-velvet sky. So much had changed in the past few weeks—almost too much. She felt undone, no longer in control of either her emotions or her circumstances, which was unusual and very disconcerting.
Unbidden, Mr. MacLean’s charming smile, and it was charming, flashed in her mind as did his unusual tiger’s eyes. He was a handsome man, even if he had been arrogant, and maybe, that’s how everyone was in this small town. Or maybe, she simply assumed he was arrogant because she had no experience with men. At all.
Bouchard’s was run by women. The teachers were all women, too. Her grandmother never spoke about her late husband. As if the man had never existed, except to leave her with his fortune when he passed, and giving her two daughters. Aunt Estelle had never married and had no intention of doing so. It was no secret they didn’t like—or trust—men, as they’d made abundantly clear, warning her to stay away from them.
Her mother seemed to be a different story, though. She, apparently, liked men and knew what they wanted and needed, judging solely by the popularity of her parlor house.
She shivered and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders, then shook her head, trying to dislodge Mr. MacLean’s smile from her mind, and concentrated on solving her problem, which was her mother’s business. The only thing that would help would be to sell, so she could go back home to New Orleans, and yet, she couldn’t leave, not yet. There was so much she wanted—needed—to know about Josephine DuBois. But she could still try to find a buyer for the house. That would take time. Hopefully, not too much time.
CHAPTER 3
Sheridan closed the door to her room—her mother’s room—and walked down the hallway toward the grand staircase. Even after being here for a week, she was still feeling out of place and uncomfortable. Except for occasional forays into the kitchen to have a cup of tea with Mrs. Gallagher, or to play the baby grand piano in the parlor, she’d been holed up in her room, afraid to run into any customers, especially Wyatt MacLean. She’d even been taking her meals in her room.
She was hiding, but she couldn’t stay hidden forever. She couldn’t pretend she was somewhere else. This was real, and she’d never learn about her mother by hiding. As Mrs. Gallagher told her, the best way to get to know her mother was to talk to the girls, and it was time she did.
She stopped at the top of the stairs and listened, hearing voices, though not the usual moans and groans she normally heard. Someone made a bawdy comment downstairs—which made her ears burn—then she heard peals of feminine laughter. She almost turned around to head back to her room but stopped herself.
A little courage goes a long way, Sheridan! You’re never going to know if you keep hiding.
Fortified with common sense and a little bit of courage, she proceeded down the staircase but stopped midway, surprised to see all the women of the house, including Mrs. Gallagher, enjoying a formal tea in the parlor.
Lily glanced up and smiled. “Sheridan, please, join us.”
She hesitated. While she was beginning to like these women, she didn’t know them well, and she wasn’t particularly good at making friends. Lily, Barrie, Susannah, Valentine, even Mrs. Gallagher, were warm and generous. The complete opposite of the women she taught beside at Bouchard’s, and they seemed open to the possibility of getting to know her better, too, though that made her uncomfortable. Then again, a lot of things made her uneasy, more so now than before. At least when she’d been teaching, she knew what to expect, knew what her position in life was and planned accordingly. All that had changed with her mother’s death.
“Yes, please join us.” Susannah lifted the teapot from the tray and gestured with it. “The tea is perfect.” She nodded toward the cook. “And Mrs. Gallagher has outdone herself with these petit fours.” She nodded toward the desserts on delicate China plates next to little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. “The sandwiches are wonderful, too.”
“They ain’t nothin’ special,” Mrs. Gallagher murmured, but still her face brightened, and her smile widened.
Sheridan descended the rest of the stairs and entered the parlor, lush with green plants and comfortable furniture around the Aubusson rug, the colors a muted mix of Wedgewood blue, ivory, and pink, which matched the heavy draperies over the windows. Those draperies were open now to let in bright streams of sunlight on this lazy Sunday afternoon. “Oh, thank you.”
She made herself comfortable on one of the upholstered wing-back chairs, the cushion soft and deep, and accepted the teacup upon its matching saucer from Susannah.
“Mrs. Gallagher said you wanted to know about Josie.” Valentine broached the subject, rather bluntly.
Every muscle in her body tensed as she stiffened. She forced herself to relax, certain Valentine didn’t mean to be so brusque, but still blurted out, “Her name was Josephine.”
