Read Online Corbin's Fancy by Linda Lael Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Lael Miller
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the side of the road, her valise in one hand and Hershel’s cage in the other, to cower in the ditch.
A trail of thin golden light spilled ahead of the team and wagon and a man’s voice rose in a raucous baritone. Fancy closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t be seen, but the snorts of the horses and the squeak of a brake lever forewarned her that God was not hearing the pleas of wantons who coupled in barns and orchards with men who weren’t their husbands.
“Say!” boomed a friendly and totally unfamiliar voice. “What are you doing there?”
Fancy straightened and stepped up out of the ditch, nearly losing her balance, Hershel, and the valise in the process. “Just walking,” she lied.
The outrageous prevarication made the man in the wagon seat laugh. The dim light of the headlamp affixed to the side of his wildly decorated vehicle revealed him to be a harmless looking sort with thatches of thin red hair sticking out from beneath his bowler hat. His suit was an obnoxious plaid and he was a small man, smaller even than Fancy herself. “Just walking, is it? And would you like to ride awhile?”
Fancy paused, studying the man, listening to instincts well-developed by three years of traveling largely on her own. “I don’t know your name,” she said.
“I don’t know yours, either, as it happens.”
Fancy smiled, despite her weariness and the churning pain that ground within her. “Fancy Jordan.”
He doffed his hat in a comical motion. “I am Phineas T. Pryor,” he replied.
Fancy squinted at the side of his decorated wagon and saw that he advertised himself as a man who could both fly and cure a startling array of ills. She supposed that was no more outrageous than her own claim to sing, dance, and do magic. “Are you a gentleman, Mr. Pryor?”
“Oh, indeed. Are you a lady, Miss Jordan?”
Fancy thought of the episode in the orchard earlier that evening, and decided that it was to her advantage to lie. “Yes,” she said.
Phineas T. Pryor climbed down from the wagon box and, after tipping it once more, replaced his hat. He took Fancy’s valise and Hershel’s cage and placed them carefully in the back of the wagon, along with the battered signboard proclaiming his companion’s talents. That done, he proceeded, as if determined to prove that he was indeed a gentleman, to help his passenger up into the wagon seat.
They were well down the dark road before he spoke seriously. “You’ll be safe, you know.”
Fancy had known that much intuitively. “Yes, I know,” she said, all the same.
“Can you really sing, dance, and do magic?” he asked, his gentle eyes on the road ahead. Obviously, he’d read the signboard.
“Can you really fly and cure diseases?” countered Fancy. The loss of Jeff Corbin was a throbbing ache in her heart, but she couldn’t let herself think about him or his proposal or his lovemaking. After all, she wasn’t suited to him, the way Amelie was to Keith.
“I can fly,” conceded Phineas, with a wry grin. “With a little help from my balloon, that is.”
Fancy squinted at him. “Balloon?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s a veteran of the War Between the States, my balloon.”
Fancy was much relieved that Mr. Pryor didn’t believe himself capable of flying under his own power. “I’d certainly like to see it sometime,” she said, with genuine interest.
“It’s a sight you won’t soon forget, Miss Jordan,” Phineas allowed proudly. “A sight you’ll never forget.”
An unbidden tear slid down Fancy’s cheek and she turned abruptly away to hide it. There were other things she would not soon forget, and a balloon was the least of them.
* * *
Fancy yawned and stretched, fully expecting to awaken in the clean, homey bedroom off Keith Corbin’s kitchen. Instead, she found herself in the middle of a carnival. A tent was being raised, concession stands were being assembled. And an incredible orange and white balloon loomed against an ice-blue summer
A trail of thin golden light spilled ahead of the team and wagon and a man’s voice rose in a raucous baritone. Fancy closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t be seen, but the snorts of the horses and the squeak of a brake lever forewarned her that God was not hearing the pleas of wantons who coupled in barns and orchards with men who weren’t their husbands.
“Say!” boomed a friendly and totally unfamiliar voice. “What are you doing there?”
Fancy straightened and stepped up out of the ditch, nearly losing her balance, Hershel, and the valise in the process. “Just walking,” she lied.
The outrageous prevarication made the man in the wagon seat laugh. The dim light of the headlamp affixed to the side of his wildly decorated vehicle revealed him to be a harmless looking sort with thatches of thin red hair sticking out from beneath his bowler hat. His suit was an obnoxious plaid and he was a small man, smaller even than Fancy herself. “Just walking, is it? And would you like to ride awhile?”
Fancy paused, studying the man, listening to instincts well-developed by three years of traveling largely on her own. “I don’t know your name,” she said.
“I don’t know yours, either, as it happens.”
Fancy smiled, despite her weariness and the churning pain that ground within her. “Fancy Jordan.”
He doffed his hat in a comical motion. “I am Phineas T. Pryor,” he replied.
Fancy squinted at the side of his decorated wagon and saw that he advertised himself as a man who could both fly and cure a startling array of ills. She supposed that was no more outrageous than her own claim to sing, dance, and do magic. “Are you a gentleman, Mr. Pryor?”
“Oh, indeed. Are you a lady, Miss Jordan?”
Fancy thought of the episode in the orchard earlier that evening, and decided that it was to her advantage to lie. “Yes,” she said.
Phineas T. Pryor climbed down from the wagon box and, after tipping it once more, replaced his hat. He took Fancy’s valise and Hershel’s cage and placed them carefully in the back of the wagon, along with the battered signboard proclaiming his companion’s talents. That done, he proceeded, as if determined to prove that he was indeed a gentleman, to help his passenger up into the wagon seat.
They were well down the dark road before he spoke seriously. “You’ll be safe, you know.”
Fancy had known that much intuitively. “Yes, I know,” she said, all the same.
“Can you really sing, dance, and do magic?” he asked, his gentle eyes on the road ahead. Obviously, he’d read the signboard.
“Can you really fly and cure diseases?” countered Fancy. The loss of Jeff Corbin was a throbbing ache in her heart, but she couldn’t let herself think about him or his proposal or his lovemaking. After all, she wasn’t suited to him, the way Amelie was to Keith.
“I can fly,” conceded Phineas, with a wry grin. “With a little help from my balloon, that is.”
Fancy squinted at him. “Balloon?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s a veteran of the War Between the States, my balloon.”
Fancy was much relieved that Mr. Pryor didn’t believe himself capable of flying under his own power. “I’d certainly like to see it sometime,” she said, with genuine interest.
“It’s a sight you won’t soon forget, Miss Jordan,” Phineas allowed proudly. “A sight you’ll never forget.”
An unbidden tear slid down Fancy’s cheek and she turned abruptly away to hide it. There were other things she would not soon forget, and a balloon was the least of them.
* * *
Fancy yawned and stretched, fully expecting to awaken in the clean, homey bedroom off Keith Corbin’s kitchen. Instead, she found herself in the middle of a carnival. A tent was being raised, concession stands were being assembled. And an incredible orange and white balloon loomed against an ice-blue summer
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