Celia Hayes – The Accidental Texan

(Dolph Becker has been kicked in the head by a panicking horse, during a violent confrontation with the fugitive Randall Whitmire at the very door to Jane and Sam’s new atelier on Houston Street . The boy Alf Trotter, who now wants to be known as Tom, was acting as a bodyguard, and in turn killed Randall Whitmire before he could harm anyone else.)

Chapter 28 – The Door Between Life and Death

            Jane set out her little array of tea-cups; it had amused Sam very much that she had never become accustomed to coffee. Tom stood by the the stove, his hands hanging awkwardly.  Jane thought he must be horribly shaken; he looked shrunken inside of his clothes, as if a boy had dressed in a man’s garb. Tom worshipped the ground that Dolph Becker walked upon. It must be a hard thing to kill a man, and perhaps not been able to save the life of another that he reverenced.

“Tom, will you be so good as to bring some more water?” Jane suggested gently. “There is a well by Mr. Knauer’s back door.”

“Yes, Miss G.” Tom gulped. He still looked very green. As she handed him the buckets, she contrived to pat him on the shoulder, by way of comfort and approval. “You did very well,” she said. “You kept your head and shot well and true. Whitmire was a very wicked man – he might have meant to hurt the children, or Lottie – any of us. If Mrs. Becker not caused him to miss his aim and if he had gotten his pistol back again, we might have been killed. He was that close to all of us – and that kind of villain. You’re a true hero, Tom, stopping him as you did. I am sure that Sir would – will be proud of you.”

“I didna think there’d be such a manky mess,” Tom mumbled. Jane swallowed a little of her own revulsion. “Mess or no, it was, bravely done. There – the water now, Tom.” She pushed him gently in the direction of the door, but as she did, it opened from the outside. A man stood there, a diffident and courteous man of middle age who asked, in a softly husky Irish voice as he took off his hat, “May I come into th’ house, marm? They are bringing the poor gentleman upstairs, with every care. Is there a bed where he might be put to rest?”

“Yes,” Jane answered swiftly, “Through this door. The bed is made already. Go fetch the water, Tom,” she added again.

“I would speak with you all, then,” the man continued, “As to what you saw of this unfortunate event. I am Thomas McCall, with the duty of sheriff in this county. I was doing business at the Turner Theater, and came as soon as I heard the ruckus.”

“Jane Becker,” Jane answered. “And this is Tom – who is Mr. Becker’s – that is, Mr. Rudolph Becker’ ward. He protected us all against that madman after Mrs. Becker – that is, my mother-in-law struck his pistol out of his hands …”

“Indade?” Mr. McCall’s mild gaze held a look of respect. “A very brave and composed lady – and excellent shooting, lad, excellent; I will have some questions for you, after I pay respects to the ladies.”

“They are in the parlor, Mr. McCall,” Jane said, unaccountably feeling rather shaky in the knees herself. “Tom, you should join us there, when you have fetched the water. They are composing themselves – and seeing to the children…” she added to the sheriff. “I hope that your questions will not take long. This horrible event happened so suddenly!”

“Ah, the poor wee mites,” Mr. McCall shook his head. “’Tis a sad thing to happen, on such a fine day! Y’r good man has already gone for the doctor; I saw Dr. Herff his very self, as I was passing by the Menger this morning – an’ certain I am that he was still there.” There was a trampling off feet on the stairs, as if a number of men bearing a burden, and Mr. McCall added, “That will be the poor gentleman – he breathes still, an’ that is a good sign. I have seen w’ my own eyes the good doctor working miracles. There are men as good as dead, today walking around hale an’ hearty, thanks to him. When Mr. Rudolph comes ‘around, you must send for me at once, day or night.” Jane noticed that he said ‘when’, not ‘if’; that confidence expressed was bracing. Likely it was bracing for Isobel, too; her face as pale as the sheets that Jane had dressed the day bed in the corner of the studio with. Isobel followed Mr. Knauer, his apprentices and a stranger. Each man bore a corner of a window shutter, hastily pressed into service as a litter. On it lay Dolph, his head roughly bound in a strip of calico cloth – someone’s handkerchief and already soaked through with gore. Jane hoped that Isobel did not notice the erratic trail of blood droplets spattering across the floor. Isobel herself was composed, although her eyes looked bruised.

“Through here,” Jane told Mr. Knauer and Isobel, and ran for another armful of coarse huck towels – clean ones, which she could sacrifice to bloodstains. When she carried them into the studio room, Isobel knelt by the day bed, Dolph’s slack hand in hers. “The doctor is on his way, I am certain. I think we should clean the wound, as best we can. I have sent Tom for more water. And I’ve a pot of tea brewing, then,” Jane added. As hoped, that elicited a faint smile from Isobel.

“The sovereign remedy, Jane?” For a moment, Isobel’s composure nearly broke. “He has neither moved nor opened his eyes, after that horrible blow! How cruel this is! What shall I tell my children – whatever will I do?”

“What you can,” Jane answered, firm and kind. “A single thing at a time; then another. Lottie and Mrs. Becker are in the parlor with the children – I told Lottie that she ought to take them all home, if Mr. Richter does not come for them at once … there is Tom with the  buckets. I’ll bring in some warm water.”

“Thank you, Jane – your hospitality is bountiful, even in emergencies, and so appreciated.” Now Isobel’s resolve firmed and steadied. “I am more grateful than I can say. When Sam returns, I will need him to take some messages to the Western Union office. That old man – he was a veritable bandit king, Jane. I will not let whoever survived him prey on our properties. They all must be warned at once – Seb, and Uncle Fredi and Mr. Inman … and Uncle Richter must know of this.”

“Of course.” Jane was heartened; Isobel was thinking with her mind, not merely following the erratic dictates of her heart. She hurried to the kitchen, found the kettle purring on the stove. The tea she had set to seep was a good color; in this case, the stronger the better. She poured a basin of warm water for Isobel and hurried into the parlor with the pot and a tray of cups. There she found Lottie, the children curled up beside her like kittens seeking the warmth and reassurance of the mother cat. Maggie and Caro were quiet, no longer crying; Lottie had recovered color to her face, although the pale freckles across her nose still stood out. Jane took a cup and wrapped her mother-in-law’s cold fingers around it, saying, “There now – this will do you good, Mrs. Becker.” She didn’t answer, but at least there was some life in her eyes.

Sheriff McCall took a cup with a nod of absent thanks; he was listening with deep attention to Tom explain how Old Randall Whitmire had threatened the Becker cousins over the hanging of his kin for stealing cattle in the Palo Duro all those months ago. To Jane’s vague surprise, McCall did not appear to think this of particular moment, or even that Tom had been nominated himself as a body-guard all this time. He asked a deft question or two, in that soothing Irish-tinged voice, so mild and fatherly as to put Tom entirely at ease. Finally he observed,

“It sounds like a clear case of self defense, lady; so I dinnae think you’ll hear any more about it from the city marshal or mesel’, although I will look to Mr. Richter to confirm what you have said. Ran’ll Whitmire was a wanted man, several times over; I’ve no doubt there is a bit o’ reward in the offing, for the removin’ of a public nuisance. An’ speaking o’ public nuisance, the fellows from the undertakers will be along presently for the remains o’ the late Mr. Whitmire. The city pays for buryin’ th’ indigent, y’know. Dr. Herff will take a moment, I am certain, to certify the death.”

Tom moistened his lips, looking more of his usual self. “Thank’ee, Sheriff. It’s not an easy thing in my mind, knowing I have killed a man.”

“Aye, but knowing he was well-deserving should make it aisier, then?” Sheriff McCall answered. From her chair, Mrs. Becker spoke for the first time. “He was an evil man. Justice was done,” she said, “Perhaps not as customary and as a judge would have allowed – but it has been done. And you were its instrument.”

“Just so, lad,” Sheriff McCall agreed. “Just so; I’ll take m ’leave of you all, then. ‘Tis sorry I am that this happened in our city, to as foine a man as young Becker. You’ll have as many as know him wishing well, lightin’ a candle and sending up a prayer.” Jane saw him to the door, hearing through the part-opened window in the parlor that someone else was coming up the wooden steps. It was Sam, taking them two at a time, gasping, “I found Dr. Herff, thank god – he is on the way. He said that we should take care in moving Dolph – and not to do so any more than necessary. I told him what had happened. He said that he may have to operate at once.”

Jane’s heart sank. “Here? In the studio?” Sam nodded, “He does his cutting and bone-setting wherever he happens to find himself and someone in need. Dolph couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Isobel is with him now,” Jane was braced by Sam’s confidence. “Everyone else is in the parlor – your mother, Lottie and the children. Isobel wants you to send some telegrams – and to fetch your uncle.”

In the studio the afternoon light fell softly across the floor, moved by the shadows of the feathery branches of the cypress trees which dotted the river bank. Isobel knelt by the day bed in a pool of her skirts spread around her, gently sponging the bloody gash on Dolph’s head. The only sounds within the room were the sound of his hoarse breathing and the gentle dripping of water as Isobel rinsed the towel and wrung it out.

“Mein gott!” Sam whispered, as they looked from the doorway. Jane saw that he was suddenly nearly as pale as his brother – this was the first time in her memory that Sam had slipped into his childhood language in speaking to her. He looked at her, stricken. “It is like when they brought our father’s body home. Mama fainted dead away when she saw.  I had not thought of that in years. We built the coffin – Tio ‘Firio, Mr. Brown and Dolph and I – and Mrs. Brown washed and dressed him for the grave.” He turned abruptly from the door way, as if he could no longer bear the sight or the memory that it recalled so vividly. The door to the bedroom closed behind him. Jane thought of the day that her own father died, a day now cushioned and cob-webbed with the passing of many years. She recalled the desolate incomprehension, the stab of grief like a knife to the heart, how she had climbed into lower branches of the gnarled apple tree at the foot of the garden behind the store in Didcot and remained for many hours, while her mother called for her. Within the studio, Isobel lifted her head from the task. “Is Dr. Herff come?” She asked with her eyes desperate with hope. Isobel closed the studio door at her back, and answered, with careful calm. “Sam says he is on his way – he may have to perform an operation. But he will do it here. He is said to be the very best doctor surgeon in the district,”

“I know that!” Isobel seemed to choke on a brief laugh. “He was sent to attend to me, in my confinements. He is a very gruff man, but a most excellent doctor.”

“Has … Dolph shown any sign of returning to sensibility?” Jane asked, and Isobel shook her head. “I thought that he groaned once. I just don’t know…”

“Perhaps he can hear you, just a little,” Jane said. “My aunt told me once of a man having been so ill as to be thought beyond this world – but when he recovered at last, he recalled perfectly those words that had been said in his presence, in spite of not being sensible. Perhaps you should speak to your husband; your voice may hold him with us.”

“I will do that, Jane,” Isobel answered; Jane sensed she was in such desperate hope that she would indeed. “I will tell Sam to carry the message to the telegraph office,” Jane continued. “And then to the Richters’ – to tell them of what has happened, if they do not already know. This is a small town, and the hue and cry will be very great. Is there any one else that Sam should send a telegram to?”

“No,” Isobel answered. “Thank you, Jane.” She swallowed bravely, conquering her fears and uncertainty all over again. “You have been so steady and composed. I do not know how we would manage, without you, as a friend … and a sister.”

“It is my duty to the family,” Jane answered, “And to those in it who have done the like for me, since they held me in affection and esteem – and whom I also love.”

“Sometimes I fear I am not worthy of such devotion and friendship,” Isobel answered Please tell me when Dr. Herff arrives. Bring him here to this room immediately.”

Jane closed the studio door , already hearing Isobel’s low voice. In the bedroom, Sam sat on the side of the bed. He was already struggling to regain his composure. By his eyes, Jane knew that he had been weeping as well.  “There are times, Jane – when I hate this place,” he said. “Times when I wish that Opa had taken all our family to the North, instead of accepting the offer of the Verein…”

“So many wherefores and therebyes,” Jane answered. “What might you have been for this chance? A clerk in a shop in Cincinnati, or not even having been born at all? Your brother might never have come to England, married a lord’s daughter.  So many perhapses!  There is no way to chart them all. In the end, it makes no difference, anyway. Isobel wants you to send telegrams; to Mr. Inman at the Comfort ranch, to Seb, and to your Uncle Fredi; she is afraid that any of the Whitmire gang might strike at the cattle herds – or even at the ranches. You probably ought also to inform Mr. Vining in Austin. He and your brother are so very close… when that is done, fetch your uncle.” She sat for a moment next to her husband, and set her arm around him for comfort. Had it only been a single day since they were reunited at the train station, after a year apart? And only half an hour by the chiming of the bells church bells, since they had come up Houston Street? In the space of those few moments, every assumption and assurance of their lives had been upended. Now Sam leaned a little against her; there was no need for further words. At last he laughed, short and hollow, like a man facing the gallows.

“A good reason to pray for Dolph and for Doctor Herff’s skills … if my brother dies, I’ll have to set aside the painting ambitions, and take his place with Uncle.”

No – Jane wanted to cry. No; think of yourself, of your skills and talent, my dear! But she knew better than to say so. Duty bound Sam to his family and their interests, more than it had ever constrained her, even when it appeared as if she would spend the rest of her life as Isobel’s shadow. Anna Vining, and Lizzie Johnson talked sometimes of the duty that bound women in chains of silk – but their chains were as nothing compared to those which bound a man of honor.

 

Isobel folded a clean towel into a pad, and dabbed carefully at the blood-oozing wound; she could not bear using any but the lightest pressure for fear of causing more harm. The darkening gore matted Dolph’s wheat-pale hair together in a way horrible to look at, almost more horrible than the perceptible dent in the top of his skull.

“I cannot bear this, Dolph,” Isobel whispered. “I cannot bear that you would be taken from us like this. Not after loosing dear, darling Fa. It’s simply too cruel – and your mother; she can’t be asked to endure this again. Don’t you dare give up; not when Caro and Maggie are so little … and Lizzie might never know you at all? She will make up stories in her head, to make up for never having known her father, just like Lottie does. Don’t you dare die like this, Dolph – I won’t have it, and Uncle Richter will be furious. He will storm in here, and order you to stop this nonsense when you have the ranch to run and important matters to see to. Listen to me, Dolph – come back from wherever you have gone. Stay with us, we love you so dearly …”

She went on talking in this vein, coaxing or ordering in a whisper; Dolph lay silent, unresponsive and marmoreal-pale, save for the unnatural blue shadows around his eyes. The minutes ticked past, without change. When Jane opened the door without any ceremony at all, Isobel’s heart near leaped from her breast from relief; behind Jane loomed Dr. Herff, burly and reassuring by his mere presence. His beard was as untidy as a windblown dark haystack strewn across his magnificent waistcoat.

“The doctor’s here,” Jane announced, unnecessarily, as Dr. Herff strode into the room without a glance at any but his patient. He set down his bulging satchel next to the bed.

“How long has be been in this condition?”

“Since it happened … half an hour? No forty minutes past,” Isobel answered, and the doctor grunted noncommittally. He lifted Dolph’s eyelids, first one and then the other, studying each eye for some moments, then parted the front of his short, and listened to his heart with an oddly shaped ivory cone, with an earpiece connected to the top of the cone by a length of rubber wrapped in silk braid. His findings seemed to satisfy him.

“Has there been any sign of returning consciousness?” Dr. Herff demanded, and Isobel shook her head. “Can you do anything for him, Doctor?” she asked.

“I will operate, of course,” he answered gruffly. “There is a piece of the skull bone, you see – pressing upon the brain. Not good, of course – and there is probably hematomeous materiel pressing against the brain; such pressure must be relieved promptly. Otherwise …” the Doctor seemed to recall himself. “Recovery may be impaired significantly. I have called on two colleagues to assist me; they are military surgeons … eminently qualified but somewhat lacking in experience in performing surgery of this degree. I feel that your husband will have the benefit with persons of some skill assisting me, and they will gain some experience in observing.”

“Certainly, Doctor – whatever you need to do that will restore my husband,” Isobel agreed. “What will you need of us?”

“I think that you should leave the room during the operation,” Dr. Herff answered, still gruff but kindly. “I cannot risk a moment of distraction from what I must do – and I fear that you may become distressed. I have become accustomed – indeed, hardened – to the most revolting sights, and think nothing of them, but to allow a gentle lady to witness them … no, no, consideration for tender sensibilities urges me to take such care.”

“I believe I am made of sterner stuff,” Isobel protested, but the doctor shook his head. “No, Mrs. Becker – comfort your children, while I do my utmost for your husband.”

“Come away, Isobel,” Jane urged, helping her to her feet, and led her from the studio. “I have already promised the doctor my own assistance … he thinks me merely the wife of the householder, and thus proof against any megrims and hysterics,” she added in a whisper. “Come away to the parlor; you look nearly as unwell as Dolph.”

Isobel consented to being led away from the studio, now that Dr. Herff had arrived, tut-tutting under his breath as he continued his examination. The doctor’s very assurance was heartening. In the parlor Jane settled her onto the settee and put a cup, of tea in her hands. “I sent the boy with Lottie and the girls, to see them safely back to the Richters’.” She whispered, “But Mrs. Becker would not go with them…”

“I would not,” the older woman answered, clearly composed and recovered from the shock which had taken her. “I am well accustomed to nursing the sick and injured – and this is my son. My place is here.”

“Yes, Mutti Magda,” Jane answered. With a corner of her mind, Isobel wondered where and how by what talent Jane had come to be on such good and familiar terms with the wholly intimidating elder lady. Thinking on it, though – it was obvious; once Isobel considered it for a moment. In that same moment she envied Jane; so much better suited by background to meld seamlessly into their husbands’ family, and to be more comfortable there already than Isobel had ever been in months of seeking her way to it. Certainly, Isobel had never considered calling her mother-in-law ‘Mutti Magda.’ Mama would be horrified – and Isobel reproached herself for even caring a rap what Lady Caroline thought. There was England, and Mama’s world; I never wanted it, so why should I still care, but from old habit? Should my husband not survive – and Isobel considered this with a twist of grief in her breast – I will not return Home, and take up residence in that place that Fa left for me, against expectation of an accident like this. I cannot possibly crawl back into the strait-jacket of Society and their expectations. Not even for love of Upton and the folk there. Dolph did not want that for his girls – and where would I ever feel so free and happy again?

 

Jane hastily excused herself, upon hearing someone coming up the steps – Sam, breathless and panting from the run and the exertion of his errand. “Onkel Hansi is on his way,” he gasped. “The telegrams are sent – is Dr. Herff here, and what does he say?”

“He will have to operate,” Jane answered. “But I think that he is confident – he sent for two of his doctor friends to assist. I don’t know why they delay…”

“Likely they have to come all the way from the new fort, with all of their traps and gear,” Sam answered. “I see that the buggy is gone – did you manage to send all to Onkel Hansi’s?”

“All but your mother,” Jane replied, and Sam sighed in resignation. “No, Mama would remain regardless – if not to nurse Dolph herself, then to see to you and Isobel …”

They sat in the parlor with Isobel and Mrs. Becker for some time; a restless wait for word from Dr. Herff. Sam paced, unable to settle at anything, while Isobel made a pretense of occasionally sipping at a cup of tea, hardly noticing that it was stone cold. Mrs. Becker sat contemplating her own thoughts, the calmest among them. Jane took refuge in pattering back and forth between parlor and kitchen. Dr. Herff had requested that his surgical instruments have the metal parts of them dipped into boiling water, and then laid out in tidy order, on a tray lined with a clean towel. Jane couldn’t even begin to guess, thinking that it must have something to do with the doctor’s well-known fastidiousness in dealing with his patience, although to her own eyes the things looked clean enough. It was almost a relief to hear heavy footsteps on the staircase; thus warned Jane reached the door and opened it, even as the first man had raised his hand to rap upon the door panels – two men, neither of them young, nor absolutely old.  After a moment – so used was she to summoning up people – that they were actually young, not very much above the age of Sam and his brother – but that they looked older, as if several lifetimes had gone past, while they held a surgical knife and the power of life against death in their hands.  They were both clad alike, in blue uniform frock coats. Two other men in similar blue uniforms followed after, carrying an odd contraption of wood and metal between them. The first two – who had rather much more gold braid about their persons, especially on their shoulders – swiftly doffed their hats.

“Beg pardon, ma’am – is this where Dr. Herff is attending on the gentleman suffering a depressed fracture of the skull?”

“It is,” Jane answered, “And he has been waiting impatiently on your arrival … with – whatever is that?”

“Portable operating table, ma’am,” answered the first man, “If you will show us to Dr. Herff, we can get it set up in two shakes,”

“Spares us having to use your kitchen table,” the second officer explained.

“I am grateful for the consideration,” Jane answered, not being entirely certain that they weren’t making sport of her. “The best-lighted room is this way.”

Dr. Herff looked up from where he sat at the bedside; he was in his shirtsleeves, now, and barely spared a glance aside. Apparently he had been examining the wound, touching Dolph’s skull with careful fingers, for his own hands were now dabbled with smears of blood. “Ah, there you are – have your orderlies set up your marvelous contraption, gentlemen, and let’s get to work; there’s a life of a man to be saved and returned to the full usage of his limbs and intellect. The longer we delay, the more damage will be done.” He briskly outlined the nature of the injury to the two younger men, who hovered over the day-bed, utterly fascinated. “I would trouble you for the use of a pair of scissors,” he added in an aside to Jane, and when she produced them, he began clipping Dolph’s hair from around the clotted gash. That done, the orderlies had unfolded the narrow, metal-legged table and set it it before the windows, where the light was best. Dr. Herff directed the other men to carry Dolph from the daybed to the table, “We will begin, as soon as we wash our hands. It may seem to you gentlemen to be an action, of little practical use – but I have long found that scrupulous cleanliness of the surgeon’s hands and instruments reduces the occurrence of wound fever in surgical patients. I am uncertain as to why this would be so, but the practice does no harm, and in my own experience there is a positive correlation.”

Dutifully, the two Army surgeons followed Dr. Herff’s example, and Jane brought the tray of cleaned instruments to the table. Standing at Dolph’s head, Dr. Herff took up the first of them – a long-handled razor with a shining steel blade.  When he began to slice calmly into the edge of the wound, Jane suddenly felt a high-pitched kind of buzzing in her ears. The metallic smell of blood in the room was suddenly oppressive; she hastily excused herself and stumbled to the door. She rather thought no one noticed, so complete was the absorption of all those hovering around that tall narrow table in what Dr. Herff was doing.

In the parlor, the Baron sprang up from the best chair – Jane had not heard him arrive. Sam, pacing up and down, was still the closest to her. Jane gratefully allowed him to steer her to the settee, next to Isobel.

“They have begun the operation,” Jane said. “I thought I could bear to stay and be of assistance, but then I began to feel quite faint.”

“He would not allow me to remain for much the same reason,” Isobel observed. “I am just grateful that he has begun – do you know how long it will take?”

“I don’t know,” Jane answered, frowning in concentration. “He was telling the other doctors that he must lift out a broken piece of skull pressing in on the brain inside – and that there was likely blood underneath that must be allowed to drain. Once the blood drained, and the broken piece was no longer pressing down … that Mr. Becker might very well awake with nothing more than an awful headache. The doctor seemed quite cheerful … as if he did not anticipate anything but success. He also said that Mr. Becker should not be moved, until the broken bone begins to knit together again. ” Jane added. She took Isobel’s hands within her own.

“What must we do now?” Isobel asked; her voice remarkably steady.

“Wait. Until they are done … and then wait some more.” Jane answered. It was already late afternoon – and when the sun dropped behind the cypress trees, Dr. Herff would no longer be able to see as well as he needed to. The birds were already gathering in the cypress branches, swooping back and forth, chattering carelessly together. Across the room, the Baron nodded in grave agreement.

 

 

 

Chapter 26 – News of a Distressing Nature

The fatal telegram arrived two days before Christmas, at Cousin Peter’s sprawling house in Austin. Isobel had begun to fret guiltily, because her husband had not yet arrived – while she and the whole Richter ménage had come safely and comfortably by train, some ten days before Christmas. They had traveled in the luxury of Uncle Richter’s parlor car; this year Aunt Richter came willingly with them.
“Her nerves,” Lottie whispered, as they entrained at the Austin Street main station. “She has been better of late – there were days, months even – when she could not be coaxed to set foot outside, or even come from her room. But she does love your daughters – I think she has consented to come with us because of the girls. She does love children…”
“Children are small, adoring and biddable,” Isobel answered. “But you are correct – she is marvelous with children; she spoils them with affection … she would never consider a harsh punishment, no matter what they did.”

It comforted Isobel, wrapping herself in Aunt Richter’s unquestioning affection, after her talk with Mrs. Becker on the morning that Dolph had taken himself off. At least there was someone in the world, not judging her harshly, or telling her of matters that she had no idea of how to reckon with. When Anna Vining tapped on the door of her room that morning, Isobel thought first that it was because there was a message from Dolph.
“You should come downstairs to the parlor,” Anna’s face was unnaturally grave. “There is a telegram come for you. From England. I think it is bad news.”
“It would be, if it’s a telegram,” Isobel gasped. She gathered her skirts in one one hand, and fairly ran down the stairs, heedless of ladylike dignity. In the Vining’s comfortable, elegant parlor, her mother-in-law waited for her, with Aunt and Uncle Richter hovering protectively.
“This was just been delivered to the house,” Uncle Richter’s voice was heavy, as if he already knew the contents of the little brown telegraph office’s envelope. Aunt Richters’ eyes were already welling up with tears. “You had best sit down.” He guided her to the divan where Aunt Richter already sat, and put the envelope into her hand; it was not sealed. She opened it with shaking fingers and read the few words printed neatly on the slip of paper within.

FA PASSED TO GLORY ETERNAL 22 INST STOP. LETTER FOLLOWS STOP. SO SORRY STOP M STOP.

Isobel had been steeling herself against such news for weeks. Having it incontrovertibly in her hand came as a hard blow. She handed the paper silently to her mother-in-law.
“I could not have journeyed there in time,” she said; her voice sounding flat and dull in her own ears. “Even if I had gone when I wished to.”
“No,” Mrs. Becker agreed. “I am sorry, Daughter Isobel. I know your presence there would have meant much to you and a comfort to your father. But it would not have been possible.”

“No,” Isobel agreed; she was numb at the thought of Fa, no longer in this world but passed to glory eternal. It didn’t seem right, somehow. She could still hear his voice in her ears, close her eyes and see him in his scruffy, smoke-aged study, or out and about on horseback, trailed by his favorite wolfhounds. She wrung her hands together. “I wish now that my husband would be here … he said that his business would not permit us to travel to England at this time, and…” Suddenly, she was aware of Uncle Richter and Mrs. Becker exchanging a look – and that Uncle Richter looked perfectly thunderous. “What is the matter? Has something happened to him?” She demanded in sudden alarm. Uncle Richter made an effort to banish the dark expression from his countenance. “No, nothing has happened to Dolphchen … but that scamp, young Samuel, has decided that the cattle business is not good enough for him – he has written us, saying that he wishes to be an artist! Such ideas as he got for himself now, I wish that we had never consented to his studying in Paris. Now he fancies that he can make a living at it.”

“I think he can,” Isobel moved to defend Sam, in spite of Uncle Richter’s scowl – and the quick warning shake-of-the-head from Mrs. Becker. “He is a very talented painter…”
“Talent doesn’t put food on the table,” Uncle Richter rumbled, at his most magisterial. “I knew some of those artistic fellows, back before the war in Live Oak. Poor chaps – couldn’t make a living at anything. Finally had to go back to trade. I thought your son had more sense,” he added to the senior Mrs. Becker. “More fool him. But this leaves Dolphchen with much more responsibilities … he may not be able to join us here for another week or so. He writes that thinks of going to Galveston to meet Sam, and try and talk him out of this nonsense.”
Isobel opened her mouth – no, Sam likely wouldn’t be talked out of it, but it was useless to try and convince Uncle Richter of this. Instead she said, “I would that my husband were here now.”
“I am sure that he thinks of you often,” Uncle Richter answered, “And wishes to be at your side – but it cannot be helped. Cows, weather and hired men take no care for what a wife may say.”
“I thought he had married me, not the cows and hired men,” Isobel’s tears spilled over, and Aunt Richter put an arm around her and snapped something in angry German to her husband. “I said some horrible things to him,” Isobel added, between sobs. “Things that I am sorry for saying now … I don’t blame him for staying away from us!”

“Then you should write to him,” Mrs. Becker advised, and Isobel thought again with remorse of how she had spoken to Dolph and turned coldly away from. How terribly childish of her; it would serve her right, if he had decided to end any kind of intimacy and to be married to her in name only, like any number of Society couples in England that she had heard rumors about. But he loves Maggie and Caro, she thought – Surely he would not stay away for long! How long could Dolph spin out the excuse of business matters?
“I will do that,” she said at last, wishing wretchedly that it could all have been again as it was in summer at the Becker ranch. What an idyll that had been! She made her excuses to Aunt Richter and Mrs. Becker, and went upstairs to write that letter.
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(Jane Goodacre has accompanied her employer, Lizzie Johnson on a visit to friends in San Antonio. Jane has found fullfillment and friends as a school-teacher, but she cherishes a warm friendship with Sam and Lottie Becker – and a chance reunion at the Menger Hotel brings an invitation from Sam … and an unexpected proposal for Jane.)

Chapter 24 – A Married Woman

            “What did you say?” Jane was startled into unsuitable bluntness – she simply did not believe what she heard. The music now sounded tinny, distant in her ears as she stared at Sam. The dancing in the salon now had spilled out onto the arcade, even to the courtyard; young men and girls laughing flirtatiously. The wings of moths flickered in the golden lamplight, as pale as the colors of the ladies’ dresses.

“I thought we might get married,” Sam answered, and a slight shadow fell on his face. “If you wanted to marry me, that is. Do you?”

“Yes, I would,” Jane answered, without thinking. “I do, very much…”

“That’s it, then.” Sam’s pleasant countenance was ablaze with renewed happiness. “I was hoping you would, Jane. Tio ‘Firio will arrange it all – I’d like to tie the knot right away, Jane. And …” he began rooting through his coat and vest pockets with one hand, as he held one of hers in the other.

“Why would that be … you’re going to Europe in a fortnight?” Jane was still boggled. It seemed to have happened all at once, in the space of seconds. She had always thought that a proposal of marriage would be a momentous event – that a suitor would be kneeling on one knee, and that he would have said a little more by way of asking for her hand.

“Well, that’s the thing.” Unaccountably, Sam seemed a little flustered. Jane found it endearing; he looked like a small boy caught out. “I thought I’d have more time – but I didn’t want to go away for a whole year without saying something … I know how it is here in Texas. You might be courted by any fellow, any time and say ‘yes’ to him. Onkel Hansi, he says he can’t figure out why you haven’t been already – he thinks the men of Austin must all be gel—or something,” he added in haste. “You see, Jane – you’re the cleverest and prettiest girl I know. I need you in my corner, so to speak. More than anything – even over the chance to study in Paris. You’re the one person who really believes I can make a living from painting. Mama says she thinks so, but she is my mother. Lottie, too – but Lottie is my sister. Everyone else says I’m a fool and just wasting my time. I need someone on my side, Jane. Besides,” he drew a deep breath. “If I must support a wife, and mebbe a family – why, then I have to make a success of it. We can go together, man and wife – have you ever been to Paris, Jane?”

“Oh, no – I couldn’t,” Jane answered at once. “I’d be letting Miss Johnson down – and I’d have to give up teaching. A year,” she straightened her shoulders, and frowned thoughtfully. “I couldn’t go with you, Sam – but I think I can save enough so that we’d have a place to live, afterwards. So that you don’t have to go back to your uncle with your cap in your hand.”

“A year is a mighty long time, Jane.” He sounded regretful. He had finally found the thing in his pockets that he had been searching for – a ring, a slender band of gold set with tiny red stones and a single pearl. “But I have a ring … I bought it with the money that Colonel Ford paid me for doing a painting to his order,” he added proudly.

“I think that a very good omen,” Jane said. “I’ll wear it for tonight, as a promise – and then put it to my other hand as a marriage ring.”

With an uncharacteristically solemn face, Sam put the ring on Jane’s hand; he kissed her also, and Jane thought how miraculous this was – a dream from which she hoped never to awake.  “We can be wed before I leave,” he said. “If you wish it. Tio ‘Firio can arrange it, if I ask.”

“I would like that,” Jane answered, her voice barely steady. She wanted him to kiss her again, to hold her even more closely than he held her in dancing. She wanted more than anything to share a bed with him, as Lady Isobel had shared one with his brother, to laugh together, and to make plans for a future. All other considerations were swept aside in the intensity of her desire – or very nearly all. “Very much … but I think we should keep it a secret at first. It’s not thought seemly for a wedded wife to work … and it would ruin everything. When someone holds the purse-strings, they can make you dance to any tune they choose for you.”

“You’re practical, too,” Sam’s expression was wholly admiring. “Like Cousin Anna, and Miss Lizzie. I like that in a woman.” He put his arm around her, and she leaned into his shoulder, reveling in the closeness. The stone bench at their backs still radiated faint warmth from the day.

“I can cook, too,” Jane answered. “And keep accounts. We’ll never starve.”

“Thought that was what artists did,” Sam laughed and Jane giggled.

“You’ll be the first not to, then,” she assured him, and then they were silent for a long moment. Jane contemplated the upending of her future with relative equanimity. She had wistfully assumed she might marry someday, as a matter of course. It was what women did, unless they chose to remain a spinster forever. Jane did not think she meant to teach for the rest of her life – but she certainly had not expected a proposal, or to accept it instantly. It just felt ‘right’ to her, as it had felt ‘right’ to agree to being Lady Isobel’s personal maid. “I will have to tell Miss Lizzie, too,” she ventured at last. “But I think she will approve. Married or not, she thinks women should be more independent. How long a time do we have before you must go to Galveston?”

“A week,” Sam answered.

“Will that be time enough?” Jane ventured. Sam chuckled,

“It will, if Tio ‘Firio has a hand in it,” he assured her. At that moment, Lizzie appeared in the courtyard, laughing and breathless.

“There you are,” she exclaimed. “The pair of you look as if you have been up to no good! What has Mr. Becker been asking of you, Jane?”

“He asked me to marry, and I have said yes,” Jane answered, and Lizzie’s eyebrows arched only slightly. “You are not surprised?”

“Not in the least,” Lizzie answered. “Only that it took him so long.”

* * *

To Jane, her wedding seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, in a queer dream-state that was not quite real. Mid-afternoon of the day after Don Porfirio’s ball, she and Sam stood up before the justice of the peace, in a dusty little office off the main plaza. The sounds of horse-teams outside in the square and the rough voices of teamsters blended with the chiming of the bells from the Cathedral. Don Porfirio, his mustaches shining with brilliantine, stood as witness with Lizzie Johnson as Ellen and Bill Lockhart watched. The voice of the justice, of Sam repeating the solemn vows and of her own voice, low yet firm – all that was real, and the feel of the little ring sliding onto the third finger of her left hand – that was real, too. It was a hundred times removed from the elaborate ceremony of Lady Isobel’s nuptials; Jane wore the best of the day dresses that she had brought with her, and carried a small posy of flowers that Ellen had picked from her garden. And when it was done; she and Sam signed the ledger, Lizzie and Ellen embraced her, teasingly addressing her as ‘Mrs. Becker’ and Don Porfirio kissed her hand. Oh, thought Jane, for the first time – my lady and I have married brothers. That will make it very strange. What will Auntie Lydia make of this? What will Sir Robert and Lady Caroline think?

Don Porfirio, who seemed to fancy himself as a father to them both,  invited everyone to a celebratory meal at his house – including the Justice in that invitation, who answered, “I don’t mind if I do,” as he closed up his desk and took up his hat from a stand in the corner. Don Porfirio’s home was only a short distance away – they all walked, Sam with Jane’s hand tucked safely into his. She stole a sideways glance at Sam’s – her husband’s face. He looked so proud, and pleased, although she had overheard Bill Lockhart teasing him – saying that his happy bachelor days were over. No, Sam answered, as if he had been quoting something: The best is yet to be.

Jane hugged that thought to herself. The best was yet to be, and she would do her very best to make it so.

* * *

Letter from Jane Becker, Austin, Texas

To Lydia Goodacre, Acton Hall, Oxfordshire

10 January, 1878

Dearest Auntie;

You will see from the return address that I have married. Is this what you had expected, dearest Aunt, when you bid me a fond farewell, and told me that things might be very different, in that country that service to my lady might lead me? I cannot help but think that you did, having knowledge of the world that was not vouchsafed to me! Oh, I was such a child, such an innocent! I am certain that you would see my marriage as difficult – an embarrassment, actually, since it establishes me on the same plane – as kin by marriage to the Family! This will be very awkward indeed…Lady Isobel and I have married brothers, but our prospects will indeed be as varied as the brothers are themselves in character and in their perspectives upon the world! The senior Mr. Becker, the husband of Lady Isobel – is the very picture of prosperity; his future and indeed his life as well-settled as any man of property in England. But my husband is a younger son and his unhappiness with the same prospect has led him to strike out on a different path, which he does with my confident support. We could be as well-settled as his brother – but the family business of cattle commerce is not to his liking. He is passionately drawn to art and the life of the mind, rather than commerce. I believe with all my heart that together we might make a comfortable living from his painting – as long as we do this together, for I have some skill in domestic management, and sufficient in savings to invest in some small establishment where we may live together and he practice his art. He has been painting for friends in a small way. His family and connections are widely known and much respected in this place. I believe that once he has achieved the laurels which are bestowed upon an artist known to have studied ‘abroad,’ my dearest husband may draw sufficient in painting commissions that we might live very comfortably, one established. We are not friendless, even now. Miss Johnson has taken our part very decidedly, and Don Porfirio was kind enough to lend us a small house in the old Spanish part of town, that we might spend the first days of our marriage peacefully together.

Dearest Auntie, I wish that you might meet him – he promises that should his journey take him to Oxfordshire, he will visit under the pretense of bearing personal messages and gifts from Lady Isobel to her family. Should he do this, contrive somehow to meet privately with him – and treat him kindly – as I am certain that you will, as you stand in my own mother’s place. I have not written to her with the news of my marriage; I may, when I return to Austin – or entrust a message to you to forward to her. It pains me to have so harsh a judgment with regards to my living parent – but your words to me and your actions upon assessing our true situation have remained ever with me. My mother was no more a true and loving parent to me than my lady’s was to her. I suppose I might seem harsh, unloving and ungrateful in this judgement, but it is a true one nevertheless. Mine and my lady’s mothers thought very little of us and little considered our content and happiness, as I believe a true mother should.

Be kind to my husband, dearest Aunt – for he is the dearest and most gallant of gentlemen, and those qualities of his which I most value were apparent to me as a friend – and dare I say, those of mine to him – and as such we were, long before we ever considered each other as partners of the heart.

Your very loving,

Jane – now Becker

* * *

“I should paint you, as you look to me now,” Sam murmured. It was the last night they would spend together in the little house in the old village, and they lay close-knit together, with Jane’s hair spread across the pillow. A small fire burned in the tiny masonry fireplace in the corner of the room.

“Oh, you wouldn’t!” Jane exclaimed, covering herself hastily with bedclothes. “It wouldn’t be decent.”

“Maybe not,” Sam agreed, “But you should see some of the paintings of naked floozies in cow-town saloons in Kansas – you’d outclass them by a country mile.”

“I’m sure it’s because you’re a better painter than anyone painting indecent pictures of … those women,” Jane replied. Sam sighed a little, and drew her closer. The night was chill, and the shutters were drawn tightly closed over the small, deep-set windows of Don Porfirio’s little house.  On the afternoon of the day they were married, Don Porfirio had driven them there himself, through the tiny winding streets of what had once been a separate little village across the narrow river which threaded like a green ribbon through town. At the door of a certain house in a row of them, all alike and built of heavy unbaked brick with plaster over it, Don Porfirio halted his horses. Sam leaped down and took their small luggage; Don Porfirio had kissed Jane on both cheeks before handing her a heavy, old-fashioned wrought-iron key.

“My children, tonight begins your life together. May God and his saints grant that it be long and sweet, and blessed with many sons and daughters!”

Jane turned the key in the door, but before she could step through, Sam had picked her up, as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather, and carried her across the threshold, laughing and saying that it was an old tradition. And so they spent five nights there, the last of them tonight. Jane wished that either she could slow time and relish every moment as if it were a day of itself … or hasten those moments so as to get the moment of parting over and done with. For the next year, she would be going over each of these precious days and hours, like a miser counting his gold coins. Marriage agreed with Jane very much more than she had expected. It was very like assuming a brand-new – but comfortable and well-fitting garment.

“You could come with me,” Sam said, one more time. “I’d telegram Onkel Hansi and tell him…”

“No,” Jane stopped his lips with the touch of her finger. “We’ve already of this, my dear. We can’t be beholden to your family for any more than you already are. The cost of two passages on a steam-packet to Europe and back … not to mention the costs for us both to live respectably. You may live in any old boarding-house or in rooms, but a man with a wife must spend ever so much more for a respectable place. It’s too much to ask. And you will be studying, dearest Sam – night and day … there will be no time for me. You would resent the time spent away from your precious paints and your studies. I know this – you would, although you would never say so. No man can serve two masters – or even yet, two mistresses.”

“My beloved distraction,” Sam sighed, and tightened his arms around her. Jane settled herself comfortably in the curve of his body, thinking how easily she had become accustomed to sleeping next to him. More – accustomed to sharing the days also; walking through the streets of town, an alfresco luncheon by the spring-fed ponds in San Pedro Park; in part such excursions were partly for the pleasure of it – and part with an eye for the future; a nice piece of property where Sam could establish his studio, and they could make a home for themselves. They had dined once with Miss Lizzie and the Lockharts, once with Don Porfirio – and this evening, they had dined at the Menger, just themselves. In the morning Don Porfirio would return, taking Jane to the Lockharts, and Sam to the new railroad station on Austin Street. “I know – we had agreed … you would go on teaching, and finding us a place here … you’re certain of here, rather than Austin?”

“It’s where all the trade is,” Jane answered. “Now that the railroad has arrived.” Just in those twenty months since she had first come to Texas, it seemed to her that San Antonio had become even larger. Where the station was now established, a hustle and bustle of commerce had sprang up; chop-houses, hotels, warehouses and stockyards. Street after street of modern cottages and small houses climbed the hill to the north of town, where once had been only the bare, grass-covered hills. To the south lay the districts of mansions and grounds where many of the German mercantile barons lived – and now the spaces between the long avenues were steadily filled in. “Your uncle was right to come from the Hill Country to establish the seat of his empire here. I think we should benefit by following his example. I will find the perfect place here – and with Lizzie’s help, I will buy it.”

“Oh, Jane!” his voice broke with emotion, as he cupped her chin in one hand, “I will miss you so much – but this I promise. I will write and send a letter every day that we are apart, even if it is only a line or two about what I had for supper.”

“I’ll do the same,” Jane promised fervently. “And it will make the year pass swiftly, I am certain of it.”

“And for now,” Sam embraced her again, “Sweeting – that is not a lark, but a nightingale. We’ll use those hours that we have together now to best effect.”

* * *

Once returned to Austin and the familiar classroom routine, memories of those six precious, idyllic days with Sam often seemed – as she had thought – like a dream to Jane, save on those days when the post arrived for her, with a fat bundle of letters, stamped and adorned with foreign postmarks and proudly addressed to Mrs. Samuel Becker. True to his promise, he wrote a letter every day, although most often they arrived many at once at one and two week intervals. Jane saved them to read, one by one, just before she went to bed of an evening, for then Sam was in her dreams. Lizzie and Jemima teased her gently whenever the post arrived – but otherwise, things went on as before; most everyone save Lizzie and Jemima still addressed her as Miss Goodacre, although there was no great secret kept regarding her married state. It was just that no one called attention to it. Jane had begun to think that she and Sam had succeeded in keeping the marriage a secret from anyone in the family who mattered, until one Saturday afternoon when Lizzie Johnson met Jane and Jemima as they returned from a visit to the delights offered by various mercantile establishments. Lizzie had such a grave expression on her face that Jemima paled.

“Is it Aunt Hetty?” she gasped. Old Miss Hetty had been in very poor health over the winter, although inclined to totter out to the kitchen when she felt strongest, to make a batch of her peerless biscuits. Jane knew that Jemima feared a message from the Vining house – that her aunt had gone, or was about to fall into that final deep sleep.

“No – my dear, not that news; but rather it concerns Jane,” Lizzie cleared her throat, significantly. “Mrs. Carl Becker and Miss Lottie are waiting for her, in the parlor. They would not say, nor would I ask, what their call concerns. But … I think, dear Jane – that the cat has departed the bag, at least as far as the Becker ladies are concerned.”

“Oh, dear!” Jane stifled a small groan. Jemima gave her a quick and affectionate squeeze of the hand. The door to the parlor was closed: Jane ran into her room and shed her outer garments hastily. She smoothed her hair in front of the mirror, and straightened the lace collar of the plain dress that she wore. A hasty inspection of her skirts revealed no smudges or smuts, especially at the hem; the streets of Austin were not paved to any degree, and the edging of filth acquired along the hems of dresses plagued the ladies mightily. She ran downstairs again, and composed herself at the door for a moment before setting her hand to the knob. Head proudly held high, she opened it.

“Good afternoon, Marm Becker,” she said, in even tones. “Miss Lottie – I am so pleased that you have paid a call. This is most unexpected – I thought you would have gone to Comfort – to the ranch. I did not think to see you in Austin again until Christmas.”

“There was no need,” Mrs. Becker said, in tones as dry as dust and that accent as harsh-sounding as ever. “My son Rudolph and his family maintain their home there now. I do not wish interfering with their lives.”

“I am certain that M… Isobel would not think the worse of you, taking an interest in the children. They must be … almost two years old now. They seem like very dear children – they are a joy to Isobel, and all the family. So she wrote me, some months ago…”

“They are,” Mrs. Becker answered. “But my son’s children are not my reason for this call. Rather – my other son’s wife.” There was a shrewd grey gleam in her eyes, and Jane’s heart sank in her breast. She knew – and the Baron doubtless knew also. Everyone knew that he shared his business confidences with his sister-in-law, rather than his wife – and that everything outside the confines of the mansion in what everyone had begun to call the King Wilhelm district fell into the Baron’s interest. Now Mrs. Becker continued, “I have been told by someone that I trust – that in December of last year you married my son in the offices of a Justice of the Peace in San Antonio. My son Samuel, that is. Is this true?”

“It is,” Jane confessed, with her heart hammering in her breast like a trip-hammer. “We were married there, in front of reliable witnesses…”

“Oh, Jane!” Lottie cried, ecstatic; she sprang from where she sat beside her mother, and embraced Jane with fierce affection. “How wonderful! I so hoped this news might be true – you have no idea!” and she whispered in Jane’s ear, “Sam is the very dearest brother – of all the girls I know, I would have picked you for his bride and my sister! Oh, Jane – I so wish that I had the courage to run away and marry Seb!”

“You are not of age,” Mrs. Becker’s ears hadn’t missed a word, and her voice was stern, reproving. “Lottchen, you are only sixteen, and to marry before you are of age, that I would not allow. Jane is of the age when she might marry without the approval of a parent or guardian. This was the wish of your Opa – that girls might not be hastened to marry before they knew their minds, and of what the world offered to them.”

“Oh, pooh, Mama!” Lottie answered. “I love Seb very dearly – I would marry him tomorrow, now that he has proved himself …”

“When you are eighteen,” Mrs. Becker’s tone was final, even crushing – but Lottie only pouted, brief and prettily, which reminded Jane yet again of the summer at the ranch, when she ate at the same table, and Lottie had been every bit as much of a friend as Sam had been. “Lottchen – this matter is not for you, but about … a marriage, and a family keepsake.” Now Mrs. Becker fumbled within the depths of her reticule; that large leather satchel which had always accompanied her. She stood, with something small in her hand, retrieved from the depths of the satchel, and now she was kind and perhaps a little uncertain – not so severe in her widow-black as she had first appeared.  “This was a gift to me,” she continued, “From a mother to the wife of her son. It came to me on my marriage, the gift of my mother-in-law, although she was long-dead when my husband gave it to me. I did not want to make a gift of this to Rudolph’s wife. She has so many jewels; it would have cut me to the heart, knowing that something I had treasured for so long would be only a simple, paltry thing to her. I think that Samuel’s wife would treasure it as I have done – and so I choose to make it my bride-gift to you, little Jane. You do not have any such – so I think you might treasure it also. It is trusted to you now, to give to the wife of your son, as you choose…”

Jane was struck to silence; she had not expected this. Rising from the settee, Mrs. Becker took the small thing, and placed it in Jane’s hand, briefly closing her own around Jane’s. She ducked her head – tall for a woman, she stood a head taller than Jane – and kissed Jane’s forehead. “There little one – my new daughter: You are one of my family now, one such as I would have chosen as wife for either of my sons.”

“Thank you…”Jane stammered, quite overcome. No, she had not expected such a mark of affection from Sam’s mother, or the bestowing of a family heirloom on her – even if it was only a small thing. She opened her hand; yes, this was the small brooch she had often seen Mrs. Becker wear for best; an old-fashioned cameo a little larger than a three-penny bit, set in a narrow frame of gold and tiny seed pearls. “I will treasure it very dearly … I will write to Sam and tell him. I am sorry that we did not tell anyone that we married … we were afraid that you wouldn’t approve.”

“I have never been able to prevent any of my children from doing that which they truly wanted to do,” Mrs. Becker answered, dryly. “Once they became of a certain age. It is my good fortune that sometimes they inform me of afterwards of they have done. You are fortunate with Samuel … he has always been open of heart. He does not keep secrets, not like his brother. Little Jane, you will always know what is in his mind. But Dolphchen will always do as he thinks best, and then he will tell his wife – perhaps.”

“I still can’t understand why you and Sam kept it a secret,” Lottie ventured. “Auntie Liesel would have had such a party for you – and a proper wedding, like Cousin Marie.”

“Because we…” Jane began. No, she could not lie to Mrs. Becker, to Lottie; the two other women in the family who believed that Sam could make a living painting.  “We didn’t plan anything like that. He wanted to get married at once, before he left for Europe, and I agreed. We decided that I should go on teaching during the year that he is away. Because we will need the money I earn … he wants …to paint for his living, in an atelier … a studio of his own. It is our own enterprise, you see. We do not want to owe the family anything more, after this.” Jane looked at the others, miserable and ashamed. It had once seemed so easy to keep their secret from the family.

“Dolph will not be pleased at all,” Lottie ventured at last. “He was already planning on Sam to manage the home ranch next year. Isobel is having another baby, you know – and I think he wanted to take her and the children traveling.” Her mother was already nodding in agreement.

“Hansi – he has plans also. He has been saying that this is only a year, a young man sowing his … how to you say, wild oats? I tried to tell him otherwise,” she snorted, almost scornfully. “But men – they think they know better, always. And the longer they go on thinking so, the harder it may be to tell them otherwise.”

“That’s it,” Lottie agreed. “Dolph will be furious that Sam kept this secret for this long. What should we do, Mama?” Suddenly, Lottie appeared very young and anxious – and Mrs. Becker had rather more of a grim expression on her own face.

“I think it best to say that Sam and Jane have entered into an understanding,” she said at last. “And say to everyone on his return, that they are now married. The other matter – that Sam wishes now to pursue art… I think to say nothing to Hansi and your brother until he returns in January. There will be a storm, of course, but I would have him face it and speak for himself. But I will quietly suggest the possibility in the next months. Perhaps they may become more accustomed to the possibility.”

“I do hope so!” Lottie’s exuberance returned. “Oh, Jane – I am so happy for you! Promise that you will come to visit often. We missed you very much, and I know Isobel did. It must be rather odd, though,” and Lottie’s words echoed Jane’s own thoughts. “That now we are all sisters. It will seem very strange to folk in the old country, won’t it?”

“Doubtless,” her mother agreed. “But many things in Texas seemed odd to them. One more will not make a difference.”