“Must I wear this?” Henry tried to keep all traces of panic from his voice.

The calico suit of clothes Isabella’s mother had commissioned lay across his lap. From the fine tailoring and the fabric’s superior heft and finish, she’d paid a premium fee for the three-piece suit, shirt, collar and cuffs, necktie . . . and drawers.

One week remained until Independence Day. He hadn’t the time or resources to come up with anything different to wear.

Isabella’s posture stiffened. Had he offended her?

“It’s nice. Very nice. I’ve never seen a man’s suit of clothes made from calico before.” One shift in the mines, and no one would know it had once been blue-green and flowered. Someone would be grateful for the sturdy construction and multiple layers.

“It is a calico ball.”

He nodded, his shoulders slumping. For this woman, he’d probably wear the blasted suit and express delight the whole time, if only she’d smile.

“And,” she said, her voice lowered to a whisper.

They sat in the parlor of the boardinghouse, and for the moment, they were alone. The widowed boardinghouse proprietor held her role as chaperone for proper young ladies in all seriousness—even if she were younger than Isabella.

“And?” He leaned nearer, his knee bumping hers.

“And Mother took great care to ensure your clothing matches mine.”

So she’d said, a couple weeks ago, when she’d mentioned the crate had arrived by express.

He fingered the polished, smooth cotton. In the fading light of the summertime sun, slanting through the west-facing windows, blinds, and lace curtains, the calico’s flowers and vines intertwined in a small, repeating pattern. The flowers appeared blue, the vines green, and the background colored a mixture of the two.

“They match.” He scrubbed his palm over his jaw, finding more stubble than he liked. He should’ve taken time to shave prior to calling on Isabella. “Guess that means your costume is this same . . . uh, print.”

“My skirt and bodice have this small floral,” she indicated the pattern on his shirt and necktie, “along the center front. The lapels of each are this plain sea green.” She touched the collar and cuffs of his getup.

He knew green. But he’d never seen the sea. Somehow that shade of sky blue didn’t seem right.

“The waterfall and center drapes incorporate the fine stripe of your trousers and coat.”

They two would look like peas in a pod, matching halves of a single whole.

Wearing this suit would announce, loud and long, to everybody in the entire county, the state of their romance.

He’d look like a Vanderbilt in this suit of clothes. Not like the simple man he was.

She assessed him long enough his cheeks heated. “You don’t like it.”

“Now, I didn’t exactly say that.” Would she put words in his mouth now? Tell him how he felt?

She giggled. She clapped her hand over her mouth, the chuckles soon impossible to contain.

“Oh, Henry. I’m so sorry.” Laughter spilled, bright and happy.

Relief eased in with her laughter. He’d escaped the embarrassment of wearing this laughing stock before everyone in the county.

“My mother seems—” she chuckled again—“unequaled in comprehending women’s fashions. But this?” She held up the sleeve of the coat. “Do not misunderstand. Mother’s dressmaker did superb work. But you’re a man of subdued tastes. Plain wool. No highly decorative cotton for you.”

He nodded. Plain wool for him. Plain brown or medium gray with a pale stripe. The two suits of clothes had done him plenty well for the past five years.

“You don’t have to wear it.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know what mother was thinking.”

In the week and a half since he’d begged off wearing the suit, a half dozen reminders had come calling. At least one had blown him ten miles off course.

First, Mrs. Roberts brought all five of her daughters into the office to see Isabella.

The matron had clucked her tongue, made comments about the expense of raising children, and asked for Dr. Pattison to send the bill to Mr. Roberts for payment.

Second, that sum due to Dr. Pattison haunted Henry as he prepared to join Isabella with the Hugheses and the Chandlers to attend the Independence Day Parade, basket dinner, speeches, reading of the Declaration of Independence, and ultimately, hear the whole afternoon regaled by patriotic music.

On the hot noontide of the Fourth of July, small children waved American flags. Some were carried on the shoulders of their fathers. Others ran beside parents, enjoying the festivities.

Ahead, an approaching marching band led the parade with the time-honored tune “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

And he had Isabella on his arm, her white summertime bonnet upon her head, patriotic ribbons of red and blue matching the trim upon her smart suit jacket and skirt.

For the umpteenth time in the past week, he nearly lost the ability to breathe. If he did not change his course, he’d one day soon assume responsibility for this woman’s dressmaker bills.

Yes, her father had paid for every costume until now. With marriage, all bills transferred to a woman’s husband. No man with a grain of honor would allow his father-in-law to continue financial support.

He focused on the parade, the bright and cheery music, the flash of sunlight upon brass as the instruments swept past, carried by bright young men. The band represented two dozen sets of parents who had paid for music lessons and instruments.

How would he afford opportunities, as well as the necessities, of life?

Children squealed, clapping and cheering in their high voices.

Parents enjoyed them, for the most part.

Heady aromas of roasting meat filled the air. Street vendors strolled the parade route with carts, selling cold beer, roasted nuts, and shave-ice snowballs flavored with brightly colored syrups.

I want, Daddy, I want!

How had he never noticed how much husbands and fathers spent on such luxuries?

As the parade wound up and the crowd moved as one down the street and toward the park where the basket dinner would he held, their tidy group of six passed the soda water fountain with its doors wide open.

Not a single stool waited empty at the crowded bar. So many thirsty patrons on this hot afternoon.

“Daddy!” a child yelled behind Henry and Isabella. “I’m thirsty! I want a soda water.”

I want, I want, I want.

Street vendors had emptied their carts of beverages, sweets, and beers, and filled their pocketbooks with the money handed over by fathers.

Hadn’t Isabella said her father had been overly indulgent?

Would she expect to spoil their children? Provide every opportunity, every music lesson, dance lessons—something Henry had missed out on—medicines, new clothing every month . . .

Right before them, an elderly man, dressed plainly, sold three cherry tarts to a well-dressed man. The fellow handed one each to his wife and his twin sons. The boys’ grins revealed central incisors recently erupted, placing them within one year of their eighth birthday.

“Henry, are you well?” Isabella had been tugging on his arm, then she’d stopped.

The old man had pocketed his coin, nodded his thanks, and pushed his cart farther along the street.

The crowd had moved on, swarming around Henry and Isabella. Ahead, their friends turned back to see what delayed them.

“Henry?”

He swallowed, his mouth dry.

He swallowed again.

“Is it the heat?” She looked into the ice cream soda fountain. “Should we go in, out of the sun, sip a Coca-Cola?”

“No.” What ailed him couldn’t be fixed so easily.

He clung to the concern in her hazel eyes. She cared about him now.

But bottom line, he couldn’t afford a wife. Not on his current income.

Precisely why he’d not been courting anyone and had intentionally delayed attachments since he’d floundered everything with Lenora.

How had he allowed himself to be swept along in the day-to-day unintentional courtship of Dr. Isabella Pattison?

He’d never intended to plant expectations.

He’d never expected to fall in love.

Why allow the brisk river of courtship to wash him downstream, ever nearer the inevitable?

He must save himself, immediately, or he’d find himself precisely where he could not be.