Ariadne closed up the shop at five, washed the dishes, set everything to rights, and then raced up the stairs. What should she wear . . . She and Regina had brought several nice things from England, but they hadn’t been able to bring everything, and now she found herself wishing for her lavender gown, or her sky-blue one, or her buttercup yellow . . . But steamer trunks could only hold so much, and girls traveling around the world had to be choosy. She settled at last on her pink dress and her braided straw hat. She would look neat and composed, but not too fancy, as looking for butterflies in a meadow was likely not the daintiest task.
She wondered for a moment if it was proper to go out in a meadow without a chaperone, and grabbed up her parasol as an afterthought. Julianne Fontaine was often asked to repeat the story of how she’d fought off a mountain lion with her parasol, and if Julianne could protect herself from a wild animal, surely Ariadne could fight off an amorous man.
She probably wouldn’t object to a respectful kiss, though. With a giggle, she changed her dress, then played with the angle of her bonnet. The goal was to look sweet and approachable, but not too approachable, as she didn’t really want to attack anyone with her parasol.
At five minutes to seven, she went downstairs, purposely not looking out the front of the shop. She was not going to be one of those girls who hid herself behind the curtain when expecting a caller, ready to peek out at the slightest sound. She did have a bit more dignity than that.
Her heart did jump when she heard horse hooves a moment later, and when a tapping came at the door, she had to swallow a few times.
She opened it, and there in a nice suit, carrying a single daisy, was Wendell Thurgood.
He swept off his hat. “Good evening, Miss Stoker. Thank you for coming out with me this evening.”
She was utterly at a loss for words. “What a lovely flower,” she said after a long minute, unable to think of anything else to say. What was happening? Why was Mr. Thurgood looking so expectant, and where was Thomas?
“I hope it didn’t wilt on the way over,” Mr. Thurgood said, holding it toward her.
“No, it seems fresh. Please wait a moment while I put it in water.”
Taking care of the flower gave her a moment to step away and try to reason it through. The letter hadn’t been signed—she had no actual evidence that Thomas had sent it. She thought over its contents—it had mentioned speaking to her the day before, and yes, she had spoken with Mr. Thurgood. She closed her eyes and rested her hands on the counter. Oh, gracious. She’d gotten herself all worked up for no reason. Once again, she’d prepared for Thomas and gotten Mr. Thurgood instead. Why did that keep happening? What sort of silly joke was fate trying to play on her?
And once again, she realized that Mr. Thurgood didn’t deserve to be treated unkindly. It wasn’t his fault that she’d set her sights on someone else. He was making an honest effort, and she didn’t want to crush him. That didn’t mean that she was obligated to go on this outing, but as she thought about it, she realized that she would like to go. She’d been curious to see the butterflies after reading about them in the letter, and it sounded like a lovely way to spend an evening. She’d be careful, though, not to let Mr. Thurgood think that it meant anything romantic. She wouldn’t get his hopes up, now that she was finally beginning to understand what his hopes were.
And she felt foolish for not realizing it before.
“I’m ready,” she said with a bright smile, meeting him at the front door, where he’d been waiting patiently. “Tell me more about the butterflies. I’m mostly familiar with the varieties that live in England.”
He held her elbow while she climbed into the buggy, and then they were off. “I’ve studied butterflies and moths since I was a boy,” he said as he guided the buggy along the road. “I used to imagine that they were fairies with elaborate wings.”
“You did?” she asked, disarmed. It was difficult to think of him as ever having been a small boy, but she very much liked the fairy idea. “Were you disappointed to learn otherwise?”
“I might have been, if I believed it,” he said, turning to her with a smile. “I much prefer to keep thinking of them as fairies.”
She laughed. “And why not? It doesn’t do anyone any harm.”
“Exactly.” He turned down a secondary road, and she noticed the sound of cicadas out in the bushes. “If you look at one closely, you can see in what ways they might resemble a fairy. After all, we only know what fairies look like from storybooks, and the exact details might have gotten lost over the years.”
“I must say, Mr. Thurgood, how much you’re surprising me,” Ariadne said. “I would never have guessed that you have such an imagination.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, looking a bit sheepish. “Just ramblings, really.”
“I like your ramblings. I wonder if you’ve ever considered writing children’s stories.”
He shifted a little bit on the bench. “I did write a few several years ago, but I never showed them to anyone. They weren’t very good.”
“If you never showed them to anyone, how do you know they weren’t very good? We can be our own harshest critics. Perhaps you should let someone else see them and listen to their opinion.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. He paused for a long moment, and she wondered if she’d been too pushy. She was about to apologize when he said, “I struggle to put my thoughts down on paper the way I’d like. The letters I wrote you . . . well, it took me quite a while to get them written.”
“But they were lovely,” she replied, realizing as she spoke that she meant it. “The way you described the butterflies made me want to see them for myself. You do have a way with words. You just need to trust yourself more.”
He didn’t reply, but she could tell from the look on his face that he was pleased.
After a moment, he brought the buggy to a stop and pointed off to the right. “There,” he said.
She followed the length of his arm and saw a tiny little gathering of butterflies flitting and fluttering over the tall waving grasses. “Oh, they’re lovely,” she said, watching in awe. “A whole flock . . . herd . . . um, what do you call a group of butterflies?”
“A kaleidoscope,” Mr. Thurgood replied.
“Really? That’s lovely.” She watched as the butterflies dipped and rose again, catching the breezes and making them their own.
“Let’s get closer. With any luck, we’ll catch one, and you can see the colors I mentioned.”
He helped her down, and she decided to leave her parasol in the buggy. She simply couldn’t imagine having to defend herself from him, and she wanted both hands free to carry her skirts while they walked through the grass. They approached slowly so as not to startle the butterflies, and he coached her as they drew near.
“Don’t touch or grasp them,” he said, taking her elbow when she stumbled a bit on a bump in the ground. “Instead, hold out your hand, and they might land on your finger or arm. If you touch them, you could injure their wings and make it impossible for them to fly ever again.”
“Oh, that would be horrible.” She paused and watched as one came closer to her face, then darted away again. “They . . . they don’t bite, do they?”
She expected him to laugh, but he answered her kindly. “No, they don’t bite. They are some of the gentlest creatures on earth. They live on nectar, which they drink from flowers, and tree sap. Some caterpillars eat rotting animal matter, but we don’t need to dwell on that for long.”
“Thank you. I’d rather not.”
They stood nearly motionless for a moment, Ariadne all but holding her breath, praying in the back of her mind that she might be allowed to hold a butterfly just for the smallest bit of time. It wasn’t something she’d ever thought of before, but now that she was presented with the possibility, she wanted it so much, it was nearly an ache. She held out her hand, watching as the butterflies danced here and there and everywhere, but not landing for a visit.
“Here,” Mr. Thurgood said, reaching into his breast pocket. “Take this gumdrop, lick it, and rub it on your finger. Butterflies love sweet things, and if they smell the sugar on your finger, they might come to investigate.”
Ariadne took the gumdrop and did as he said, then held out her hand again. Nothing happened, and she was becoming discouraged, but then one small butterfly came and landed there ever so gently. Ariadne gasped. It was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to her.
“Look at the markings,” Mr. Thurgood spoke softly near her ear. “Do you see how on the top, it resembles a monarch, but underneath, it has a distinct look all its own?”
She brought her hand closer to her face to get a better look, and thankfully, her little visitor didn’t take off. “Amazing,” she whispered. The vibrancy of each hue was unbelievable, as though God had taken a paintbrush to each and every one of them and created a masterpiece.
They stood there, living in the moment, until the butterfly decided it was done investigating and flew away. Ariadne pulled in the first deep breath she’d taken for several minutes and laughed. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Thurgood. I’ll never forget that, not as long as I live.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome. I’m so glad you didn’t find it boring.”
“Boring? Oh, no, not at all! I held a butterfly. What could be boring about that?”
They made their way back to the buggy and he helped her inside. She was still exulting in the moment—in all her life, she’d never experienced anything that felt so freeing. It was almost as though she’d grown wings of her own and had taken to flight.
“I hope I haven’t kept you out too late,” Mr. Thurgood said as the sun dipped behind the mountains. “The butterflies are the most active at certain times of day, you see, and in certain weather conditions.”
“This is fine,” she told him. “I would have gone earlier or stayed later to have this experience—it was well worth it. Have you ever seen fireflies? They don’t live in England, but I’m told they do here.”
“Not in Colorado, but they do farther east. I’ve never seen one personally.”
“Well then, perhaps we should find someone who has and make them tell us all about it.” She realized that she’d lumped the two of them together as though they were some sort of couple or a unit, and that wasn’t what she had intended, but then she had another realization—she wouldn’t at all mind calling Mr. Thurgood a friend, and friends could definitely talk to other friends about fireflies. There was nothing at all wrong with that.
They passed Mr. Wells as they came up the road. He was walking toward the boarding house, and he tipped his hat when he saw them. Ariadne responded with a nod, feeling just a bit embarrassed to be seen in another man’s buggy, but she shoved the feeling aside. After all, she’d just decided that she and Mr. Thurgood were friends, and she could never have too many of those.
***
Wendell helped Miss Stoker down from the buggy and saw her inside, then closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks before returning to the horse. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed, but it certainly seemed called for in that moment. He’d just spent a wonderful evening with the sweetest girl he could imagine, and it never would have happened without Miss Chapel’s help. He would have messed it all up in some way, he was sure, but now he could safely say that they were getting to know each other, and she seemed to appreciate the little odd things about him that he didn’t share with just anyone. He couldn’t believe he’d told her about the fairies, but it had seemed natural and right, and she hadn’t laughed at him. Amazing.
He returned the horse and buggy to Otto’s livery, then walked back toward his apartment. As he went, he noticed that Mr. Wells was still standing just about where he’d been earlier, but now he was talking to a man—a man who kept his face turned away as though he didn’t want to be seen. Wendell wasn’t about to get in someone else’s business, but he did notice that the man looked an awful lot like Wade, a hooligan who had been accused of blowing up a mining shack a short while back, along with some other things, and had been waiting trial in the jail cell inside KC Murray’s office. But it couldn’t be Wade—why would he be out of prison?
It wasn’t any of his concern, so Wendell passed by without comment and went home. Curiosity kept itching the back of his brain until he finally turned his thoughts to something much more pleasant—the look on Ariadne’s face as she studied the butterfly on her finger. She was simply angelic, as though she had feathered wings of her own. He chuckled for a moment—he’d never seen wings on Miss Chapel, and he wasn’t about to ask about them. All he knew was that Ariadne was most certainly a gift from God, and now it remained to find out if she was a gift meant for him.