His Prairie Sweetheart. Erica Vetsch

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      Raleigh, North Carolina

      August 1887

      The humiliation. That’s what the gossips of Raleigh were calling it. Rehashing it with delighted horror in the tearooms and front parlors of the city.

      Savannah Cox kept her chin level and marched down the church steps, careful to slant her parasol to keep the August sun off her face...and if she was honest, to block out the looks. She put on her most remote expression, a reflection of the cold numbness that surrounded her broken heart. Agony at the core, a shell of ice around the pain, and proper manners covering all.

      After all, a lady’s pain was like her petticoat; she must never let it show.

      Three weeks ago she’d ascended these same steps arrayed in bridal white, eager and naive, surrounded by bridesmaids and anticipation. Shame squeezed tighter than her corset. Would it always hurt this much? Would she forever walk in the ignominy of being a jilted bride?

      Perhaps, but she wouldn’t do her walking here.

      Savannah climbed into the family carriage, ignoring her younger sisters’ chatter. Aunt Georgette patted her neck and temples with a lace hankie. “Poor Savannah. You’re being so brave. I’m just glad your dear mother isn’t here to see...” She tapered off with more fluttering and patting.

      Next to Aunt Georgette her sister, Aunt Carolina—broad, mannish and practical to her marrow—crossed her arms. “Nonsense, Georgette. Think for one moment what you’re saying. You’re glad Bettina is dead? Savannah will survive this, and the sooner everyone stops feeling sorry for her, the sooner things can return to normal. I, for one, think she made an expedient escape. If Girard Brandeis was so callow as to bow out at the eleventh hour without so much as an explanation, then he doesn’t deserve our Savannah. Now, let’s talk about something else.”

      Savannah stiffened. This was her chance. She’d dreaded introducing the subject, but she was running out of time. Inhaling a breath for bravery, she blurted out, “I wanted you all to know I’ve accepted a teaching position in Minnesota, and I’m leaving Raleigh the day after tomorrow.”

      Her sisters stopped nattering, Aunt Georgette dropped her hankie and a spark of something—was it admiration?—lit Aunt Carolina’s eyes.

      The coach lurched as the driver slapped the lines and the horses took off, harness jingling, wheels whirring.

      “You’ve what?” Aunt Georgette found her voice first.

      Savannah spoke with more conviction than she felt. “I said I will be teaching school this fall. In Minnesota. I leave on Tuesday.”

      Aunt Georgette blinked, and her face crumpled. “This is tragic. Think of the scandal. Savannah Cox, of the Raleigh Coxes, running off into the night to nurse her broken heart. Whatever will I say at the garden club, or the Aid Society, or at Priscilla Guthrie’s soiree next Friday?”

      “I imagine,” Aunt Carolina drawled, “you’ll say whatever gains you the most attention, and that you’ll say it dramatically and with great frequency. Now sit back and be quiet. I suggest we wait until we’re at home before we get further explanations.”

      Savannah shot Aunt Carolina a grateful glance, but she knew a reckoning was in her future. Father might be the titular head of the family, but not much happened without his sister Carolina’s blessing. What if she forbade Savannah to leave? Did Savannah have the courage to defy her? What if she encouraged her to go? Did she have the courage to follow through on her plans?

      Houses flashed by, and the horses’ hooves clopped on the cobblestones. Aunt Georgette dabbed herself, her brows beetling, her lips moving as if rehearsing what she wanted to say. Savannah’s sisters, Charlotte and Virginia, whispered behind their fans.

      Church had been a nightmare, the first service since...the humiliation. Savannah hadn’t heard a word the preacher said, had only mouthed along to the hymns and stared straight ahead the entire time, feeling the eyes on her, the speculations swirling.

      Oh, Girard. Why? What was wrong with me that you had to run rather than marry me? What did I lack? Did you ever really love me? How did this happen? All the same questions ran round and round in her head like a waterwheel, tumbling and splashing and getting nowhere.

      When they arrived at the house, mounting the steps to the three-story Italianate mansion the Cox family called home, Savannah headed straight for the room they jokingly called “headquarters”—Aunt Carolina’s sitting room.

      One of the servants had closed the tall shutters against the sun, and the tile floor and soft colors made the room the coolest in the house. August in Raleigh was brutal. Because of the wedding, they’d put off their annual trip to the coast, and Savannah missed the cooling sea breezes.

      Right now she was supposed to be on her honeymoon, a month-long sailing trip up the coast to New York City. She shoved that thought from her mind.

      Aunt Carolina glided into the room—she never walked anywhere—and rang the brass bell on the desk. The maid came in, followed by fluttering, scuttling Aunt Georgette.

      “Clarice, bring some lemonade.” Aunt Carolina took the pins from her cartwheel hat and eased it from her piled iron-gray curls. “I’m perishing in this heat. And tell the cook luncheon will be late.” She eased her comfortable bulk onto the settee and tugged off her lace gloves. “Sit, child, and start at the beginning.”

      Savannah removed her own hat. She’d known a confrontation would be coming, but now that the moment was here, she wondered if she should just take it all back, pretend she’d never said it, claim temporary weakness of the mind. Aunt Carolina skewered her with a “get on with it” stare. Savannah swallowed and wondered where to start.

      “She’s distraught, that’s what.” Georgette fussed with her fan. “She can’t be held responsible for anything she says or does when she’s in such extremis. Poor thing. I mean, the humiliation.”

      The mention of that word steeled Savannah’s resolve. This was why she had to leave. She was smothering under a blanket of pity. Words popped into her head...or maybe poured out of her heart.

      “I am not distraught. Nor do I have a nervous condition, though I might develop one if people don’t leave me alone.” Savannah dropped into a chair. “Aunt Carolina, I answered an advertisement I saw in the newspaper. You remember that client of Daddy’s who came to dinner, the one from Saint Paul? He had a copy of the Pioneer Press with him, and the moment I saw that classified advertisement, I knew I should apply. I have to get out of Raleigh, at least for a little while. If I don’t, I’ll forever be known as the girl who got left at the altar.” She clenched her hands in her lap, pressing against her legs through all the layers of fabric and hoopskirts to still the trembling in her muscles.

      Clarice entered with a tray of glasses. Ice tinkled in the pale yellow liquid as she poured. Savannah loosened her fingers to accept hers, careful to hold it securely given the condensation already forming on the outside of the glass. She sipped the tangy sweetness, letting the cool lemonade ease the tightness in her throat.

      “You’ve never taught school a day in your life. What makes you think you can now?” Aunt Carolina asked over the rim of her own glass. “And why Minnesota? If you want to teach, why can’t you find a school in Atlanta or Richmond or Charlotte? We have family and friends in those cities with whom you could stay. You wouldn’t be so alone that way.”

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