Violet Fire by Brenda Joyce Page A

sent her as he rode away was somehow both mocking and bitter.
    â€œHow are you, Allen?” she said, still clasping his hand, tearing her gaze from Rathe with difficulty.
    â€œJust fine, Grace. I’ve been counting the days like a schoolboy.” He grinned.
    Grace attempted a smile in return as he helped her into the buggy. Allen climbed in after her, spotting Rathe for the first time. “Hello, Rathe. A beautiful day, isn’t it?”
    Rathe’s eyes had drifted from Grace, who looked fetching even with the silly spectacles, dressed in a green print gown, to Allen, puffed with pleasure, arranging a wicker basket and red checked tablecoth on the seat between them. He stared at the picnic basket a beat longer before managing a slight smile at Allen. “Allen, I didn’t know you were acquainted with Melrose’s new governess.” His drawl came out thicker than usual.
    Allen beamed, taking one of Grace’s hands in his. “Grace and I share a bit of history,” he explained cheerfully. “In fact,” he shot her a warm look, “one day I hope she’ll do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
    A heavy silence, filled with the scent of magnolias, the whisper of the dining-room fan, and the drone of bees, descended. Then Rathe smiled. “Well,” he drawled, “the best of luck to you both.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Allen asked as they departed. Grace silently watched Rathe swing down from the stallion, clad in his indecently tight doeskin breeches. She hastily averted her gaze from the sight of his hard buttocks and thighs, flushing. She had never before thought men’s breeches indecent.
    â€œHow do you know Rathe Bragg?” she asked carefully.
    â€œWhy, he’s an old friend of the woman I board with,” Allen replied. “A family friend, I believe. I’ve chattedwith him a number of times. He’s an interesting man—but no progressive thinker, as far as I can make out.” He shifted his eyes from the Melrose driveway toward Grace. “Are you all right?”
    â€œOf course,” she responded too quickly. “Allen, I wish you hadn’t said that—about marriage.”
    He looked at her. “But it’s how I feel; and I’m proud of it.”
    â€œYour wanting to marry me should be private, just between the two of us.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Grace.”
    They traveled without mishap down a long, shady thoroughfare, the elaborate planters’ homes giving way to more modest clapboard ones. Allen amused her with stories of his students and Grace found herself telling him about her own remarkable pupil, Geoffrey.
    The church service seemed interminable. Grace fidgeted, eager for it to end so she could get to work and begin organizing the ladies. She hadn’t mentioned her plans to Allen, but she was positive that she would have his support. As soon as the service was over she hurried outside and hovered by the exit.
    â€œGrace, what are you up to?” Allen demanded.
    She smiled at him. “I just want a chance to meet a few of the ladies.”
    He looked at her. “You told me you were going to stay out of trouble.”
    â€œOh, Allen,” she cried. “I just can’t sit back and do nothing!”
    He sighed. He knew her so well.
    A middle-aged couple emerged. They smiled at Grace, and she beamed back. The congregation filed out and began milling about the churchyard sociably. Neighbors chatted with those they hadn’t seen all week. Grace waved at Martha Grimes, the woman she had met on the train, who was standing with another woman, undoubtedly her daughter. “Allen, mingle with the men,” she ordered, and he shook his head but went off to do her bidding. Shewent over to three women chatting animatedly in the shade of a huge magnolia tree. “Hello.”
    â€œHello,” said a plump, matronly woman. “You’re new in Natchez, aren’t