Louisa Rawlings by Forever Wild Page A

for you to do.”
    “I’d best get my hat and gloves.” Willough stood up and smoothed down the pearl-gray cashmere overskirt of her gown, fluffing out the large pouf in back, which had become creased from the hours of sitting on the train. There was nothing to be done about the pleats of her brown silk underskirt; they were quite crushed beyond repair. Perhaps Mrs. Walker would have someone at the rooming house who could press the skirt for her before she wore it again.
    Brian scowled. “Is that all you have to wear?”
    Willough looked down at her costume. She thought it a rather handsome dress herself. The snug gray bodice was trimmed with lapels and cuffs of the brown silk, and the fullness of the skirts, with their rather high bustle and pouf, accented the slimness of her waist. “It’s the very latest walking suit,” she said. “Don’t you like it?”
    “Too plain. I want the world to know Brian Bradford’s women can dress well!”
    She thought, I’ve disappointed him again. “It’s the best gown I’ve brought.”
    He waved an impatient hand. “Well, fancy it up with something,” he muttered. “I ought to shop with you. I don’t like what you pick out. Not enough…frills, frou-frou…you know.”
    “I’ll see what I can do,” she said quietly. She traversed the length of the parlor, nodding to Keller as she passed him working in the galley, pulled open the heavy door, and went into the narrow corridor that led to the bedrooms. The train rattled around a sharp curve; she steadied herself against a wall before opening the door to her bedroom.
    Quickly she stripped off her basque jacket and threw it across the olive-green velvet of her coverlet, then turned about and ran a bit of water into the marble basin tucked into a corner of the room and connected to the water closet by shiny brass pipes. She splashed at her face and bosom, taking care to pull her corset cover low enough so it wouldn’t get wet. After she dried herself, she dabbed on a bit of cologne. She put on her jacket again, eying herself critically in the large mirror on the wall. Too plain, Daddy had said. She thought for a moment. She had a lavender silk sash that she’d packed to wear with the only evening gown she’d brought. Rummaging through her valise, she brought out the sash and tied it into a large bow; another quick search produced a cameo pin with which she attached the bow to the collar of her suit. Very fetching, she thought. It was a pity she wasn’t in Saratoga—she had several lavender silk flowers there with which she might have trimmed her hat. Well, the gray hat with its brown silk leaves would have to do. She anchored it firmly on her black hair and picked up her gloves. At the last moment she remembered a white batiste handkerchief with a delicate edging of lavender lace; she fetched it out and tucked it into the cuff of her jacket so the bright lace peeped out and echoed the color of her bow. She nodded in satisfaction at her reflection and went out to join her father.
    The small public coach they boarded at Crown Point was a far cry from Daddy’s private car. Rickety and old, its green plush seats worn thin, it reeked of train smoke, stale food, and perspiration. But the track was narrow on this line, which serviced the mines and the ironworks in the region, hauling loads of pig iron and ore as often as miners and foundrymen. Too narrow for Daddy’s car, which had been sent back to Saratoga to be restocked and cleaned, awaiting its next summons to Crown Point.
    Well, it would be only an hour’s ride to MacCurdyville. While her father dozed in the seat beside her, Willough stared curiously out of the window. It had been years since she’d been to the ironworks. Her only memory was a vague recollection of the glow of the furnaces at night—the sense of awe and mystery and romance, knowing that somewhere beneath those flames which mounted to the heavens was the raw ore that was magically being converted into