Hill Country Christmas. Laurie Kingery

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      “Miss Delia?” A familiar voice intruded as she read the twenty-third verse. Delia looked up to see a landau parked outside the fence and Charles Ladley coming down the stone-flagged walkway, one hand using a carved mahogany walking cane, the other clutching a bouquet of velvety red roses.

      She jumped to her feet, hardly able to believe her eyes. Her abrupt motion sent the china cup clattering off the arm of the rocker. Fortunately the cup didn’t break, for it had fallen into the folds of the shawl she had shed as soon as the coffee had warmed her, but it was still half-full. With dismay, Delia saw the brown liquid splash against the hem of her everyday calico dress and soak into the dark folds of the shawl.

      “Oh! Charles! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t s-see you coming!” she stammered, horribly aware of the untidy picture she made. Her hair was still in the plait she had braided at bedtime last night, with tendrils escaping it and curling wildly around her face. If only she was wearing something better than the dress she had donned to go feed the chickens! She had planned to change before her trip to town. Hopefully she had no feathers clinging to her….

      “No, it’s I who should apologize for intruding on a lady in the midst of her devotions,” he said with that smile that was like a thousand lit candles. “I just came to bring you these,” he added, extending the hand that held the roses, “picked from my mother’s garden this very morning—with her permission, of course.” He winked. As if to testify to the truth of his words, the crimson petals sparkled with dewdrops in the sunlight.

      “Thank you so much,” she said, wanting to surreptitiously pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Charles Ladley had just brought her flowers.

      “Won’t you have some coffee?” she said, accepting the roses with a hand that she prayed wasn’t trembling with the delight that she felt. How heavenly it would be to sit on the front porch sipping coffee with Charles Ladley, for all the world to see! Wouldn’t it be fun if nosy neighbor Mrs. Purvis peeked out of her kitchen window and saw them!

      Charles’s smile dimmed with regret. “I’m afraid I can’t stay—I must attend the Committee for Civic Improvement meeting that’s due to start in—” he reached down and turned the face of the gold pocket watch on his waistcoat so he could see it “—just a few minutes. I only came to bring you these, to let you know we were thinking of you, Father, Mother and I, and to ask you if you’d consent to go with me to the church social on Saturday night. I know it’s disgracefully late to be asking you—you’ve probably long ago agreed to attend with some other beau, one of your many admirers…” His voice trailed off as if he was uncertain of her acceptance.

      Delia was conscious of an urge to laugh at the very absurdity of his suggestion that she had a string of other beaux. “Why, no, Charles, I’m happy to say I haven’t,” she said, remembering not to admit no one else had asked her. “I always used to go to these occasions with Grandpa….” Her voice trailed off.

      “Ah…I didn’t mean to make you sad, Miss Delia,” he said, leaning over to wipe away the stray tear from her eye. “If you think it’s too soon since his passing to attend a social event, I’ll understand.” His face was a study of disappointment.

      “Oh…oh no!” she said quickly, alarmed that Charles would think she was still too full of grief to be good company. “That is, I think Grandpa would want me to go and have a good time.”

      Ladley’s face cleared. “Then we shall go,” he said, “and lift our glasses of punch in his honor. I’ll call for you at six, if that’s agreeable, Miss Delia.”

      “That would be lovely.” Then she had a sudden thought. “Charles, you know that…that is, you won’t mind that I—I must wear black, will you?” She had longed forever to be invited out by Charles Ladley—now she had been and she was forced to wear that lifeless color! How she wished she could don some bright, festive color—anything but black! But she could imagine how tongues would wag if she violated the ironclad rules that governed mourning.

      “Of course not,” he responded. “Miss Delia, I’ve always admired your virtuousness, your—” he seemed to struggle for the right word “—moral excellence. I will be proud to be seen with you, even if you choose to wear a flour sack—dyed black, of course.”

      Delia couldn’t help but chuckle with him at the thought. “I solemnly promise I will not be wearing a flour sack when you call for me on Saturday night.”

      He pretended to mop his brow in relief, causing her to laugh again. “Very well then,” he said, bowing, as courtly as any European prince. “Six o’clock on Saturday it is.”

      He turned to go, and as Delia watched him walk away, she saw that he was favoring his left leg slightly, leaning more heavily on his cane when stepping onto his left foot.

      “Charles, you’re limping.” She was touched to see him pause and turn back toward her, seemingly as loath to leave as she was to see him go. “Is your war wound bothering you?”

      Everyone in Llano Crossing knew the mayor’s son had marched off to join the first Texas cavalry regiment formed, and that he had been wounded and sent home in the middle of the war.

      “Miss Delia, you are kindness itself to notice,” Ladley said. “But don’t concern yourself. Yes, the old wound aches whenever it’s about to rain. With any luck it’ll be better by Saturday, and I can leave this cane at home.” He waved and continued down the walk to the waiting landau. Delia’s heart warmed with compassion as she saw how he strove to conceal a grimace of pain as he climbed up onto the platform.

      With Charles’s carriage out of sight, she allowed herself a celebratory twirl of delight, hugging herself with sheer joy. Charles Ladley had asked her to the church social! He said he appreciated her virtue and her moral excellence!

      Well, she might have to wear black to the church social, but it didn’t have to be that borrowed, ugly bombazine she’d worn to Grandpa’s funeral! She’d seen a black moire silk dress with satin ribbon trim at the neck and cuffs in the window of Miss Susan’s shop, but the price tag had been one that had made her walk regretfully on. Perhaps, if she hinted to Miss Susan that she was about to come into some funds, the seamstress would extend credit to her and agree to make any needed alterations, so that Delia could go to the party, resplendent in a beautiful new dress—even if it was black!

      Was it going to rain? Delia studied the sky and was surprised to see clouds forming up in the west. She must have been oblivious to them developing while she and Charles had been talking. Would she have to wait until later to do her shopping?

      Absolutely not! That’s what umbrellas were for! She was Miss Delia Keller, who was about to become a very rich young woman—what were mere raindrops to her? As happy as she felt, she wouldn’t even notice them!

      

      The dress fit as if Miss Susan had known she would be the one wearing it. It clung to Delia’s figure, enhancing her curves without being at all revealing, and the lace trim at the waist emphasized Delia’s lithe frame.

      “It will only need,” the rawboned, horse-faced seamstress opined, “a slight shortening of the sleeves and a few tucks in the waist, since you, Miss Delia, are one of the few ladies in Llano Crossing who don’t need to be tightly corseted. It would be a joy to see my creation on you, Miss Delia.”

      Delia thanked her. “Would you be able to have it ready by Saturday afternoon? I would like to wear it to the church social.”

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