He lowered the glossy fabric, his lips downturned in a pronounced pout. “I can’t smell her anymore. She used to smell like roses.”
“She must have worn rosewater. I do sometimes, but the scent doesn’t last long.”
He shoved the dress aside, scooted up to the headboard and leaned against it, his arms folded. He narrowed his eyes and shot daggers at Tess. “I don’t wanna help.”
“Hush now. I don’t want you to wake your sister. You can just watch, but I would like your help with one thing. I don’t know which of these dresses were your mama’s favorites. Do you?”
He shook his head, but the telltale twitch around his mouth was a clear indication he wasn’t being truthful. She held up the crimson silk, a gown so exquisite she wondered where the woman would have worn it. “Do you remember her wearing this one?”
Luke’s expression didn’t change, so Tess set the dress aside. She worked her way through a burgundy brocade, a scarlet satin and a vermillion velvet. Not one of the ornately trimmed garments—none of which showed wear—evoked a response. She reached for a calico the color of cherries generously kissed by the sun that had obviously seen a season or two, and Luke jerked his head. Three more calicos, two lawns and a red-and-white checked gingham elicited similar responses. Tess added the dresses to the growing pile.
Trudy Abbott had owned far more clothing than a small-town housewife needed. If Tess were to venture a guess, she’d say the woman had come from a family of means. If that was the case, how had she ended up married to Spencer and living in a remote community like Shingle Springs? Someone of her tastes generally gravitated to Sacramento City or San Francisco.
Luke inched forward, casting surreptitious glances at Tess. She averted her gaze but kept him in her peripheral vision. When he reached the pile of his mother’s everyday dresses, he leaned over and sniffed one as he’d done earlier. He beamed. “I can smell her!”
Tess didn’t have the heart to tell the dear boy she’d dabbed herself with rosewater before leaving her room at the boardinghouse and that some of the scent must have come off on the clothing. “How nice.”
He clamored off the bed and darted out of the room, making little sound in his stocking-clad state, for which Tess was grateful. Moments later he returned clutching his crib-size quilt. He rubbed a corner of it against his mother’s dress, put the fabric to his nose and drew in a deep breath. Seemingly satisfied, he lay on his side, silent but watchful. And still.
By the time Tess had folded the dresses and stowed them in some crates she’d found in the barn, Luke had fallen asleep with the quilt pressed to his cheek. She’d never seen him as relaxed, even in slumber. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his brow.
An idea struck her. She located the bottle of rosewater that had belonged to Luke’s mother and flicked several drops of the floral-scented liquid on Luke’s quilt. The fragrance, although strong now, would fade quickly, but perhaps smelling it again would help lock the scent in his memory.
Now to make good use of the unexpected hour while both children slept. She could spare them the pain of witnessing the removal of their mother’s things from the house.
Working quickly, Tess stowed the items from the dressing table in a crate. She opened the bureau drawers Spencer’s wife had used and removed an impressive selection of nightwear and unmentionables, including several pair of expensive silk stockings.
She picked up a stack of corsets, and a bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon fell at her feet. Letters exchanged between Mr. Spencer Abbott in California and Miss Trudy Endicott of Houston, Texas. Love letters most likely.
Unsure what to do, Tess added them to the crate. Spencer had said he didn’t want to talk about his late wife’s things, but she had no choice. Surely he’d want to save something so special. He might not be up to reading the letters now, but in time they could serve to bring him comforting reminders of his courtship.
Letters were important. Those she’d taken to writing to her someday fiancé on her birthday each year brought her solace in the midst of her loneliness. She used her real name, Faith, when she penned them. Somehow it seemed fitting that the man she hoped to marry would be the only person to know the name—along with the sensitive side of her that she kept hidden. She certainly wouldn’t want to lose those letters.
She carted the crates downstairs and added Trudy’s hats and cloak from the foyer, her aprons from the kitchen and her sewing basket from the parlor. Tess didn’t have the heart to remove anything more than the most obvious personal items. She stowed the crates in the attic, where they would available should Spencer or the children want to see Trudy’s things again someday.
Her task complete, she moved from room to room. Although the changes were subtle, the removal of the ever-present reminders of his late wife might lessen Spencer’s pain. Would he notice the difference?
Spencer’s steps slowed as he neared the house. Trudy used to have their son watch for him each evening and alert her when he approached so she could greet him, but Tess involved Luke in the supper preparations. Spencer missed the warm welcome.
He entered, reached up to set his top hat on the shelf above the coat hooks and froze. Trudy’s cloak was gone, as was her profusion of fancy bonnets. His slouch hat and Tess’s monstrosity were the only hats remaining. His hat rested on its crown to keep the brim from losing its shape, whereas hers, with its frothy fabric and feathers, sat right side up. It was a wonder the massive thing didn’t fall off.
Apparently Tess had wasted no time clearing out Trudy’s things. Considering her belief that doing so would help Luke, her haste made sense. Clearly she cared about his son.
Spencer marched upstairs to his room, threw open the wardrobe doors and stared at the empty space. True to her word, Tess had removed every last one of Trudy’s dresses. His few items looked lost in the large clothes cupboard. He yanked open the drawers on Trudy’s side of the bureau and found gaping caverns. Tess was not only fast. She was thorough.
But why, if she’d whisked away all of Trudy’s things, did the room smell so strongly of roses, as though his wife had been there moments before? He had to do something to clear his head. Now.
As quickly as he could, he changed from his work clothes to ranch wear. He shut the doors of the wardrobe with more force than he’d intended and stormed down the stairs, not stopping until he reached the barn. Inhaling deeply of the scents of his childhood—horses, straw and leather—his senses were restored.
Spying his ropes, he knew what to do. He grabbed his favorite one and entered the pen. With the coils of his lariat in his left hand, he spun the loop with his right and let it fly.
* * *
Tess wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and stepped out the back door. What was Spencer doing? She’d worked hard to have supper ready when he got home, but he’d raised a ruckus in his room overhead, with doors and drawers slamming, and stomped out of the house a good ten minutes ago. Evidently he was angry about the changes she’d made, even though he’d given her permission.
Regret settled in her stomach like a rock. In her desire to help Luke, she’d neglected to take Spencer’s feelings into consideration. What was done was done, but perhaps she could find a way to show that she understood his pain and assure him she was only trying to ease it.
She followed the wraparound porch to the north side of the house where she could see the barn and stopped, her chin dropping. Never had she seen a man work off his anger by lassoing things. She stood transfixed as Spencer spun his loop and threw it.
He roped fence post after fence post, not missing a single one. His form and prowess were awe-inspiring. She could watch him for hours. If only he hadn’t started his roping before supper.
Supper!