Chapter 11.

Two days later at dinner, Victoria read Audra's most recent letter aloud to the family, this one from Venice, and it contained a litany of people she had met and dances she had attended. She wrote of being homesick and growing tired of her European adventure but not tired enough to come home yet. She still had Paris to conquer in the fall and she was looking forward to that.

"Speaking of dances, Nick," Victoria said, looking at him, "Am I to understand you convinced Emily to go to the dance the other night?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm, "I sure did and we had a great time. Well, I had a great time. I think she's worried about being seen in public with me."

Quietly, Heath added, "It's more than that. She told Sarah she's concerned about being too . . . how did she say it? 'Conduct unbecoming of a widow.'"

Nick slammed his hand on the table and proclaimed loudly, "That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. She should be allowed to have some fun!"

"That's what Sarah told her," said Heath. "It's been two years, over two years, and no one expects her to mourn like the Queen of England."

"Well," Jarrod added calmly, "there are certain social conventions but I agree, after two years she should feel comfortable, and fully welcomed, back into normal social functions."

"And who cares what anyone thinks?" said Nick, still loud.

"I think Emily cares, Nick," Victoria reasoned.

"Well, she shouldn't! This isn't Ohio; we do things differently in California!"

"You have a good point, Nick," Victoria stated, and she placed her napkin on the table indicating the end of the meal.

Jarrod stood and excused himself from the table, challenging Heath and Nick to billiards. Heath excused himself, as well, and followed Jarrod out of the dining room.

Victoria was about to leave the room when Nick said to her, "I'm going to have a little talking to with a certain Emily Powell about how we do things in California!"

"Nick," said Victoria, looking into his face with all the maternal authority she could muster, "Don't push her."

"'Don't push her," he repeated. "She needs some pushing!"

"Nick, you push her and you will push her away," she said, matching his intensity. Then she softened and said softly, "Lead her. Encourage her. But let her find her own way in her own time with your support."

Several days later, Emily was practicing at the piano in the Barkley parlor. Victoria was seated nearby working on some mending. It was an especially hot day and the veranda provided enough shade to slightly cool the air that wafted in through the open French doors.

"I understand, Emily, that you accompanied Nick to a dance last week."

Emily stopped making music come out of the piano and folded her hands in her lap. Here it comes, she thought, at least if I did anything wrong, Victoria will tell me without condemnation.

"Yes, I did," replied Emily, spine straight and looking at Victoria. Her planned defense was that she did it to make Nick happy.

"You know," Victoria started, her eyes remaining focused on her mending, "it's perfectly acceptable for you to have a good time with people your own age."

Emily nodded slowly, relieved and appreciative of Victoria's support.

"I've only known a few people widowed at a young age," Emily said quietly, "and I didn't know them well. And it was a long time ago, back in Ohio."

Victoria had stopped mending and was looking at her tenderly. "I'm afraid the West makes a lot of widows and with the scarcity of women here certain rules of propriety, while common back East, become very relaxed here. I wouldn't worry about it," she said.

"Thank you, Victoria."

"I'm glad you went to the dance," said Victoria. Then she added, "And I don't think, no one thinks, you are dishonoring Sam or his memory."

Emily closed her eyes for a brief moment and nodded solemnly. She then went back to trying to play Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody, Number 2. She had never been able to master it before but now she wanted to be able to at least play it competently all the way through because she knew Nick would enjoy the last movements.

Later, alone in her own home, Emily kept recalling Victoria's assurance that she was not dishonoring Sam's memory. She had grieved, and was still grieving, but the pain was not nearly as raw with the passing of time. But was she honoring Sam? Certainly, the time she spent with Nick was not honoring Sam but that was private, between her and Nick. What about her public behavior? All that joyous dancing? Was that showing proper respect for her dead husband for all the world to see?

Sam's mother wouldn't think so and this was the ruler by which Emily often measured herself where Sam was concerned. He was the younger of two boys and his mother's favorite, the one who looked most like her. Emily knew that Mary Powell would have preferred a daughter-in-law who never rode astride, never caught a frog or jumped into a pond from a rope swing. And, without a doubt, Mary Powell would have preferred a daughter-in-law who did not encourage her son to move West all the way to wicked San Francisco. And it had killed him. Mrs. Powell's few letters after Sam's death never said so, but Emily knew her mother-in-law blamed her for Sam's death to some degree. And Emily didn't have a mother to convince her otherwise.