If Scott had placed a bet on Kinsey hibernating in her nest of quilts and pillows until the noon hour, he would have lost the wager but with no regrets. It was a relief finding her camped out in a corner of the hotel lobby - signs of night terrors undetectable. Her sunny disposition matched the rays cascading through the paned window, which provided a spotlight for her dramatic reading of a Bradstreet poem as he pulled up a chair.
“Be still, thou unregenerate part, Disturb no more my settled heart, For I have vow'd (and so will do) Thee as a foe still to pursue, And combat with thee will and must Until I see thee laid in the dust.
Extraordinary! Scott, thank you! How did you know? Anne Bradstreet’s poems speak to my very soul. The verse I read just now - what does it say to you?”
Scott snagged the book from his cousin’s hand and studied the passage. “It says...two eggs over easy, bacon, biscuits, orange marmalade and several cups of freshly brewed coffee.” Squinted eyes scrutinized the page. “Wait. This poem is talking to my stomach - not my soul.”
Rolling eyes responded as Kinsey held out her hand for Bradstreet’s return. “You're hopeless.”
“No.” A raised eyebrow and dimpled grin cleared up the confusion. “I’m hungry.”
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Scott found himself at Martha’s Cafe, sitting at a table, eating breakfast and reading the Omaha Daily Bee. However, this time he need not share food with an unexpected companion. She busily consumed her own breakfast. At least, that was the guess based on the munching sounds - both cousins were buried behind their own sections of the newspaper. The image brought a smile to Scott’s face. We must look like an old married couple instead of newlyweds gazing into each other's eyes. Yep. The honeymoon is over.
“Bloody moron.”
Scott lowered his paper and peered over its top - allowing him to focus on the mumbles filtering from behind Kinsey’s paper.
“Uneducated, closed-minded baboon.”
Scott set aside his newspaper. “Is there a problem...my love?”
“Listen to this! It exists in the concurrent opinion of civilized mankind generally that such an extension of suffrage would be a practical unsexing of our mothers and wives and daughters; and that woman’s true sphere is not at the hustings but in the household. There she has duties to perform far more sacred and equally important to the republic. There let her remain; and there, we are sure, she should remain. I ask you, what idiot would print this nonsense?”
“May I?” With concern, Scott gestured for Kinsey to hand over the paper. Once in his possession, it was folded and placed at his side.
“What are you doing? I was reading that!”
“And now you’re not.”
“Scott -”
“Look me in the eye, young lady, and tell me your next statement was not starting with I have a good mind to visit the newspaper office.” Silence confirmed he had hit the nail on the head. “You demonstrated your refined, subtle nature when taking on Will Jenkins and the Green River Gazette. You’re not blessing Omaha’s newspaper editor with the same experience.” Shuffling through the sections, he found the one in mind and passed it across the table. “Here. Read this.”
“The social page?” Kinsey made the word - a word which not so long ago ruled her universe - sound as if Satan himself had penned it.
Spreading marmalade on a biscuit, Scott made the obvious observation. “Less likely for you to discover controversy.”
“Scott Garrett.” Kinsey’s glare would melt the ice on Boston’s bay. “Are you a husband who will stifle his wife’s opinions and silence her voice?”
“No.” Taking a bite, Scott returned the stare while chewing - refusing to be baited. Swallowing, he continued. “I am a husband who will wholeheartedly support his wife and assist her in choosing her battles on higher ground. I will also attempt to show her how silence can speak louder than words and patience is a virtue. Considering how much practice I’ve had on these topics while guiding my little cousin, I should excel in the role of a husband and father. And - come to think of it - as an excellent mentor to the man who marries Kinsey Rose Furlong. He’s already in my prayers.”
Popping the rest of the roll into his mouth, Scott’s smirk was laced with marmalade.
A female snort of disgust, a bite of bacon and the Omaha Daily Bee social page became the new landscape in Scott’s line of sight. A sip of good coffee rewarded the conquering hero. However, his victory was short lived.
“Engine company number two is having its firemen’s ball tonight!”
Paul Revere couldn’t have announced the arriving British with more enthusiastic urgency. Scott decided to put silence speaks louder than words to the test. Another sip of coffee was his only reply to Kinsey’s proclamation as he returned to his newspaper refuge.
“Shoaf’s Hall has been finely decorated by the lovely ladies of the Mt. Hope Methodist Church.”
Scott crunched away on his last piece of fatback.
“A wide range of musical selections will be provided by the Omaha Volunteer Firemen’s Orchestraband.”
Orchestraband? Additional coffee was needed to ponder that one.
“The gala’s opening ceremony will feature our esteemed mayor and his charming wife gracing the ballroom floor with the first dance.”
Scott’s knife scooped up the last of the orange marmalade to grace another biscuit.
“The hall will be comfortably warmed.” An exaggerated sigh of longing floated over the top of Kinsey’s newspaper. “I simply can’t remember the last time I attended a gala.”
“Green River’s Town Hall Dance.” Crossing his arms, Scott sat back in his chair. “Surely you remember kicking aforementioned editor - now mayor - Will Jenkins in the shin while calling him a hard-headed, ignorant, stubborn, sorry excuse for a mature male that sends his species back to the Stone Age where he should be living in a cave and hunting with a club.”
Kinsey raised an eyebrow as she neatly folded her section of the paper. “I have a vague recollection of describing the gentleman as such. I believe he deserved my evaluation of disapproval.”
“Agreed.”
“Excellent!” Kinsey stabbed the last of her eggs and plopped them in her mouth. “Itle-b-funn.”
“Whoa.” Scott leaned forward. “What will be fun? The dance? Oh no. Not so fast. I was agreeing to your assessment of Jenkins - not our participation in a comfortably warmed firemen’s ball.”
“But Scott -”
“Kinsey, listen carefully. No, dance. No, gala. No, soirée. We board our train in the morning - 9:53 - on the dot. Until then, the rest of our stay in Omaha will be undisturbed - untroubled - uneventful. End of discussion.”
*******
“Two tickets to Engine Company Number Two’s 4th Annual Firemen’s Soirée.” The front desk clerk beamed. “Compliments of the Grand Central Hotel.”
Scott concluded it was an unachievable goal to pass through the hotel lobby without conversing with this man.
“Oh, Mr. Winston! How thoughtful!” Kinsey placed a hand on her chest as if to catch her breath. “Isn't this thoughtful, darling?” As the tickets crossed the counter to Kinsey, she batted her eyes.
No. She didn't. Scott shook his head. Dear God. “Thoughtful.” Scott’s forced smile did not reach his eyes. “But unnecessary. Thank you, sir.” The tickets were removed from his cousin’s hand to travel back across the counter.
Winston remained congenial. “Oh, but I insist.” The tickets returned to the intended receiver. “It's an event not to be missed.”
“Darling, it's an event.”
Undaunted, Scott plucked the tickets from his cousin’s hand and slid them towards Winston. “A gracious gesture, sir, but one we must regretfully decline. Thank you.”
Before he could hustle her away, Kinsey delivered a soulful glance which hit the clerk right between the eyes. “I've always dreamed of going to an event.”
What a little actress! Scott’s jaw tightened as Winston’s attention zeroed in. The damage was done. The gentleman’s expression conveyed his newly formed opinion of Mr. Lancer - Cad. Defeat was imminent and unavoidable.
“My love, if you truly want to go -” Scott picked up the complimentary tickets and gently handed them to his delicate flower. “Then we shall go.” Leaning slightly over the counter, Scott whispered to his front desk confidant. “I was simply trying to spare Mrs. Lancer the embarrassment of having two left feet.”
Kinsey’s eyes widened. “Scott!”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Lancer.” Winston offered an encouraging nod. “The mayor’s wife can't dance either.”
*******
All afternoon Kinsey insisted she had nothing to wear and found the need to go shopping imperative. She had won the battle to attend the event. But, by God, he won the skirmish of no shopping when, after an hour’s search, he finally unearthed his shaving kit from under a mountain of petticoats. No harm done in setting his foot down. Glancing at his cousin as he escorted her through the ball’s main entrance, Scott decided he had one of the prettiest ladies gracing his arm tonight. His opinion was a biased one, however, no less accurate.
It was apparent the lovely ladies of the Mt. Hope Methodist Church had spared no expense when decorating Shoaf’s Hall in patriotic colors of red, white and blue.
“Extraordinary.” Kinsey’s whispered expression of awe barely rose above the murmur of the gathering guests.
Scott had to agree. Extraordinary. Banners and bunting livened walls and windows throughout the large room. Omaha kitchens had been busy, resulting in tables laden with silver trays of finger sandwiches and butter cookies. The large crystal punch bowl dominating the refreshment area was guarded by Mt. Hope’s oldest, most pious-postured female member. No spiking of the punch tonight, gentlemen.
The women showed off expensive gowns which had patiently waited in steamer trunks for the gala season to begin. Scattered throughout the crowd, the volunteer firemen were easy to spot - dressed in their finest regalia of dark blue tunic jackets trimmed in red with “spit-shined” brass buttons.
“Oh Scott, the men are so striking in their uniforms.”
Kinsey’s statement dusted off the memory of a gala held for himself and George the night before they left to join their unit. Scott Lancer, you look striking in your uniform. The phrase repeated itself throughout the night from the lips of every young lady present. Striking, indeed… right up to the moment a man sets foot on a battlefield.
“The orchestraband!” Musicians warming up their instruments brought him back to the present. Scott’s melancholy moment dissipated quickly from just saying the word. “The evening will not be complete, young lady, until our curiosity is satisfied. Let’s take a look.”
Between the afternoon debates regarding the devastating effect not having a new dress can have on a female, the discussions centered around “orchestraband.” What instruments comprised an orchestraband? What venues featured orchestrabands? What selections did orchestrabands most often play? Was orchestraband a real word?
Slowly working their way down one side of the room, the cousins came upon a sight which answered their questions. Scott leaned over and whispered in Kinsey’s ear. “I believe an orchestraband does it all.”
Omaha’s Volunteer Firemen’s Orchestraband consisted of three violins, a banjo, a guitar, one cello, two trumpets, a piccolo, one bass drum, a french horn and the biggest, shiniest tuba Scott had ever seen. He guessed half the members considered themselves a band - the other half rose to the status of an orchestra. Thus, fending off a city divided, the word orchestraband was created.
One violinist glanced their way, did a double take, smiled and bowed low at the waist.
Scott felt a squeeze on his arm.
“Look!” Kinsey waved. “It’s the gentleman who plays for the hotel dinner guests. May I go over to say hello?”
“Of course!” Patting his cousin’s hand, he released her from his arm and motioned her forward. “I believe he wants the pleasure of introducing you to the other musicians.” Holding back a few steps, Scott listened as Kinsey’s notoriety of being “Canon D’s Mrs. Lancer” was established.
A flash generated from the gala’s photographer brought attention to the center of the room. The mayor and his wife prepared to grace the dance floor. First, however, the city’s elected official blessed them with his wit.
“The reporter asked me a moment ago...Sir, doesn't’ it make you dizzy to waltz?” The community leader paused to build anticipation for the punchline. “Why, yes, I said to the reporter. But one must get used to it, you know. It's the way of the whirled.”
Polite laughter and applause echoed throughout the hall as the cousins rolled their eyes and snickered.
“So, Mrs. Lancer...” Scott held out his hand. “Care to wager a silver dollar that joke makes the front page of tomorrow morning’s paper?”
Kinsey upped the ante “Make it two silver dollars, Mr. Lancer - however, the joke must accompany a photograph of the mayor.”
“You’re on.”
The evening did whirl by with lively tunes, festive dancing couples, flashes of light from the photographer and the cousins’ amusement of people-watching - all of whom were evidently returning the favor to them both.
“I overheard a few young ladies around the punch bowl speaking of the tall drink of water with the blonde hair.” Taking a rest from dancing, Kinsey smirked as she sipped from her crystal cup.
Scott casually turned his gaze in the direction of the bowl. “Is that a fact?”
“It is. They were complimenting his fine features. His warm blue eyes. His dazzling smile. His strong chin. His broad shoulders -”
“Kinsey, if you say the word derriere, we’re leaving.”
“Oh.” Another sip was taken. “I see. Then let’s stop at broad shoulders, shall we?”
Predicting a struggle to leave the gala early in order to get a good night’s sleep for the trip home, Scott had a strategy. “Stay put, Freckles.” A walk to the orchestraband, a few words with the violinist, a smile, a nod and his plan was put in place. The beginning stanza of Pachelbel’s Canon D rose to fill the air - now much richer and fuller with the additional instruments.
Approaching his cousin, Scott bowed and held out his hand. “Mrs. Lancer, honor me with our final song of the evening?” Seeing Kinsey’s eyes dance before her feet stepped out on the floor confirmed his idea was a success.
“Mr. Lancer, the pleasure is mine, sir.”
A flash from the photographer captured the moment.
*******
Old Engine No. 7 steamed and hissed as it fired up for its morning departure. Mounting the steps to their designated Pullman car, Kinsey stopped abruptly and turned around. “The bet! Scott! We need a morning paper.”
“Not now.” Scott placed a foot on the first step. “We’re about to leave.”
“Oh, I see. You're afraid you lost.”
Dammit. Scott spotted the newspaper stand only a few yards away. “Fine. Locate our compartments. I'll be right back.” Hurrying to the stack of newspapers, his eyes scanned the front page while digging in his pocket for the correct change. Disbelief soon stopped his mission. It wasn’t the mayor’s smile featured in the photograph. Instead, two familiar faces stood out - identified as Mr. Lancer and his lovely bride among gala attendees.
*******
“Where’s the newspaper?”
Scott plopped down in the seat across from his cousin. “They were sold out.”
Kinsey raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Likely story. You lost the bet.”
A chug and a jerk forward caused the train station to begin its roll past their window. Scott was never happier to be heading home.
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