Читать книгу Mail Order Sweetheart - Christine Johnson - Страница 15
ОглавлениеLouise had dressed and gone downstairs by the time Fiona awoke. She’d stayed up late making sure each survivor had enough to eat and a place to sleep. None of them could tell her if Sawyer lived. Guilt gnawed at the back of her mind even while she helped with blankets, nightgowns and hot tea.
Only when Mrs. Calloway returned in the wee hours of the morning did she get her answer.
“Chilled to the bone,” the boardinghouse proprietress had said. “Won’t surprise me if he catches a cold.”
“But he’s alive.” Fiona had leaned against the wall, exhausted.
“That he is.” Mrs. Calloway had said that with a twinkle in her eye. “No doubt he’ll come a callin’ soon as he can.”
Fiona had made a flippant comment, trying to allay the woman’s matchmaking efforts, but deep inside she was truly grateful. At least she hadn’t caused his death by insisting he rescue her niece, who wasn’t even on the ship.
“But they did manage to rescue everyone,” she’d commented.
“That they did. My Ernie was right there at the forefront, bringin’ them up the dune to safety.”
That must be why she was so relieved. Everyone was safe. Not just Sawyer. Then why did his face keep popping into her mind? Why recall the grace of his fingers moving across the piano keyboard? He never hit a sour note and never touched a piece of music. The first time she’d hummed a tune, and he then played it with harmony and bass notes included, she’d called him a modern-day Mozart. His face had actually gotten red.
She smiled at the memory, but that’s all it was—a pleasant memory between two friends. Nothing more than that.
Reassured, she had retired to the comfort of her stiff and somewhat lumpy mattress. It didn’t even bother her that Louise was already asleep and snoring softly.
This morning, Fiona stretched her arms with a big yawn. Once she’d dressed and completed her toilette—all without seeing a soul—she headed downstairs. Just how long had she slept? The six ladies, who had received the upstairs rooms, were either still sleeping, or they’d been awake for some time.
She got her answer the moment she set foot on the main floor. Giggling and excited exclamations came from the direction of the parlor. They were definitely awake.
“Good morning, Miss Fiona.” Mrs. Calloway breezed from the kitchen with a platter of cinnamon rolls drizzled with sugar icing.
Fiona’s stomach rumbled. “You’re serving breakfast?”
“More like morning tea at this hour, but everyone woke at different hours. You’re the last.”
The last. With a sigh, Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway into the dining room. An older gentleman—perhaps forty or so—and his wife sat across from each other at the table. Otherwise the room was empty.
The man rose. “Good morning, Miss O’Keefe. You look lovely this morning.”
Fiona accepted the compliment with a smile, though she scrambled to recall their names. They had arrived at the boardinghouse not long after she’d settled the young women in rooms.
“I’m sorry I didn’t save a room for you,” she said as she took a seat. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Understandable.” The gentleman settled back in his chair. “The situation was soon rectified. Miss Eaton and Miss Geneva agreed to share.”
So he had taken care of matters himself. Fiona had never excelled as a hostess. Her talents lay elsewhere. Her mother would have realized the need from the start and doubled up everyone. Pearl and Amanda would likewise have assessed the situation correctly, but Pearl was helping the passengers clean up while Amanda manned the kitchen. Fiona assigned sleeping accommodations and distributed nightshirts and nightgowns, but her mind had gotten stuck wondering if Sawyer was alive.
Fiona lifted a roll from the platter with the serving knife and set it on the plate in front of her before passing the platter to the husband and wife. If only she could recall their names!
She forced a smile. “Are you familiar with the young women, then?”
The wife chuckled, but her husband answered. “We are their escorts.”
“Is one of them your daughter?”
“No.” The woman laughed, but again she let her husband explain.
He set down his cup of coffee. “We are escorting them to our community on Low Island.”
Fiona had to admit ignorance. “Where is Low Island?”
The man smiled graciously. “In northern Lake Michigan.”
“I see. Forgive me, but I’m not from this area. I was born and raised in New York City.”
“Is that so?” the man said while his wife made a surprised sound. “I have never been to that great city. How does it compare to Chicago?”
Fiona had no answer for him. “I spent little time in Chicago before taking passage on a steamboat similar to the one you took here.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You were stranded here also?”
“No. Not at all.” She didn’t feel like explaining the mail-order advertisement that had brought her here. “This is...a promising town.” The words stuck in her throat. It might have been if Roland Decker’s glassworks or Carson Blakeney’s new mill had gotten off the ground, but both ventures failed—though for entirely different reasons. Roland could not be blamed. A fire had destroyed his building before it was finished. Carson, on the other hand, was a coward and a liar. She suspected he had little intention of starting a new mill in a town that already boasted two sawmills.
“I was hoping another ship would call here soon,” the gentleman was saying.
She’d gone and let her mind drift again.
“I’m sure one will.” She took a sip of her tea, which was piping hot. Mrs. Calloway always brought scalding hot tea to table this time of year since it cooled rapidly in the colder-than-normal dining room. “What is the name of the community, Mr...?”
The man wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me. I should have realized you couldn’t possibly remember everyone’s name given the frantic nature of matters last night. I am Mr. George Adamson, and this is my wife, Bettina.”
Even while completing introductions, a shriek of joy came from the parlor, followed by exclamations of “mine” and “no, mine.”
Mr. Adamson frowned and set aside his napkin. “My apologies for their unseemly behavior. It will be put to a stop at once.”
Mrs. Calloway, who could hear across town even when standing next to a running saw, breezed into the room with some of her apple chutney. “Never you mind, Mr. Adamson. It’s a pure delight to hear young ladies’ high spirits.”
His frown didn’t ease. “I can’t imagine what they’re carrying on about.”
“Something in the local newspaper, I presume. The weekly arrived bright and early this morning, and they’ve been reading it front to back ever since. Now have a bit of my chutney. I’m rather proud of it, if I don’t say so myself.”
Fiona stared at the departing Mrs. Calloway while Mr. Adamson resumed his seat at the table and dished some of the chutney onto his and his wife’s plates. She had read the Singapore Sentinel many times. There wasn’t one thing over the course of months that would elicit that sort of reaction from young women with no connection to the town. The newspaper typically droned on about the number of board feet cut, who visited whom for Sunday dinner and which ships had called or were expected. It was a perfectly fine medium for inducing sleep.
After the initial outburst, the women quieted. That appeased the Adamsons, but it didn’t quell Fiona’s curiosity. Like a small child, silence brought suspicion, not comfort. Until now, they had made no attempt to hush their voices. Those ladies were up to something.
Fiona finished her tea and rose. “Forgive me, but the day is long and much remains to be done.”
The Adamsons graciously released her, but they could not have known her purpose. Once out of the dining room, Fiona walked to the parlor. There she found all six ladies huddled around the sofa, four of them on their knees, though definitely not in prayer. The newspaper was spread out on the seat of the sofa, and six faces peered intently at the newsprint.
“He sounds wonderful,” the blonde said, sighing.
Her high voice and petite figure only made her youth more evident. If Fiona was to guess, she would place her as the youngest. Other than hair color, height and weight, little distinguished the women, who were again dressed in the matching navy blue dresses.
“More than wonderful,” countered the brunette who’d acted as the leader of the group from the moment they arrived. “He is everything a woman could want in a husband.”
A husband! This sounded very much like they were reading an advertisement for a wife, but there had never been such a thing in the Singapore Sentinel. What on earth were those girls up to?
The other five ladies nodded, hanging on every word their leader said.
“Perfect.” The blonde sighed.
The redhead echoed the sentiment.
“However, he is just one man, and we are already pledged,” the brunette pointed out.
Already pledged? Fiona stared. This was unseemly behavior for women engaged to marry. Moreover, not a one had mentioned traveling with her betrothed. Fiona mentally counted the rescued passengers. There were not enough men of the appropriate age to match to the six ladies. Moreover, the Adamsons said they were escorting the ladies to some island far to the north. This got more and more peculiar, and Fiona intended to get to the bottom of it.
“Excuse me.” Fiona glided across the room, ignoring the guilty looks on the ladies’ faces and their quick attempt to refold the newspaper. “I could not help but overhear. Am I correct that you found an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper?”
The girls relaxed, and the leader reopened the paper. “There it is, as plain as day.”
Fiona couldn’t see it, unless she got on her knees and crouched with the rest of the ladies. That might be all right for some, but not for a star of the New York stage. She held out a hand, and the leader passed the newspaper to her.
It didn’t take long for Fiona to locate the unlikely advertisement. The wording stunned—no, shocked—her.
Up and coming industrial magnate seeks cultured wife gifted in the social and musical arts. Must be willing to entertain and manage a home. Skill in baking highly valued. Prospective groom has brunette hair and a comely visage. Apply at the Singapore Mercantile.
Fiona let out the breath she’d been holding. Industrial magnate? Lover of music? Reasonably attractive? He did sound perfect, but why on earth would someone of that stature need to advertise for a wife? Even if circumstances did prompt such desperation, why seek such a woman in the least likely place? For a second she thought of Carson, but he had sandy blond hair, not brunette. No, this made no sense.
“This must be a joke,” she announced. “There aren’t more than a handful of unmarried women within miles. No one would advertise in Singapore for a bride.”
“Maybe this isn’t the only place he advertised,” the brunette suggested.
Fiona couldn’t deny that possibility, but the result was the same. She refolded the newspaper. “If you are already promised, I suggest you focus on your beau, not some foolishness published in the newspaper.”
She then carried the newspaper—and source of the ladies’ excitement—from the room.
* * *
“What am I going to do now?” Sawyer shook the newspaper in front of Roland Decker. As he’d feared, the advertisement had made its way into print.
Roland shrugged. “It’s a good way to catch Fiona’s attention.”
“I’m not the one bent on catching her attention. You and Pearl are.”
“Now, Sawyer. Anyone and everyone can see that you’ve had your eye on her for a long time.”
Sawyer had no idea he was giving that impression. “She’s pretty but only interested in someone whose wallet is fat.”
“That’s why the advertisement highlighted your potential.”
“Potential?” Sawyer raked a hand through his hair. “Every word is completely false.” Well, not completely. He could be an industrial magnate if he chose to ride on Father’s coattails and obey the man’s every demand, but Roland didn’t know that.
“Then make it true.”
“How? I can’t become a wealthy businessman overnight.”
Roland leaned on the mercantile counter, that grin of his not budging. “I didn’t see anything in the advertisement about being wealthy.”
Sawyer read the offensive points. “Up and coming industrial magnate.”
“Doesn’t say what you are now.”
Sawyer moved on. “‘Must be willing to entertain and manage a home.’ If that doesn’t point to wealth, I don’t know what does. The poor don’t entertain. Moreover, I don’t have a home.”
“You will. Now that you’re manager at the mill you can afford one.”
“But I don’t have one now, and even if I did lease one, none of the houses here are big enough to require managing. That implies a servant at least, possibly a whole staff.”
Roland chuckled. “That’s a stretch, I’ll admit, but can’t you just see Fiona bossing the servants around?”
The problem was, he could. Sawyer let out a sigh.
“Besides,” Roland continued, “there’s no harm done. No one knows who is looking for a wife, only that applications are accepted here.”
The doorbell tinkled, drawing Sawyer’s attention. He lowered his voice. “And you think no one will ask who it is?”
“Not likely.”
Mrs. Wardman approached.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Roland said. “How are you doing this fine day? Anything I can get for you?”
“I’m curious about this advertisement. My girls are far too young, naturally, but I have a cousin over in Allegan who might be interested. I’d write and suggest she send a letter, but I’d have to know who the prospective groom is.”
“Now, that’s strictly confidential, ma’am. You must understand.”
Mrs. Wardman leaned over the counter to whisper, “Is it Mr. Stockton?”
Roland gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You know I can’t say.”
“It is him, isn’t it? Well, I thought that he’d never remarry after losing his wife.” Mrs. Wardman chattered on, never once looking at Sawyer.
Maybe Roland was right. No one would think that the prospective groom was him. Like Mrs. Wardman, they’d think it was Stockton. Wouldn’t the dour entrepreneur think that was funny? Well, maybe not.
Before Sawyer could get another word with Roland, woman after woman came into the store with the same question. Who was looking for a wife? Each bought something, making Roland beam. Apparently this little scheme had at least improved business. It sure didn’t make Sawyer feel good, though.
When the last lady departed, Sawyer asked, “Any of them say they were going to apply?”
Roland’s grin broadened. “Not yet, but it’s early.”
Sawyer groaned. He was ready to make his escape when the doorbell tinkled again. This time Mrs. VanderLeuven walked in. Sawyer stood up straight. The hotel proprietress must be coming back to reopen. Either that or she’d gotten word about last night’s shipwreck.
“Mrs. VanderLeuven!” Roland exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d come back to town.”
She waved a hand. “Soon as we heard about the wrecked ship, we packed up the wagon and drove the old road down from Holland.”
“News got to Holland that quickly?” Sawyer was astonished. Though people often traveled the ten miles between the two towns, the VanderLeuvens would have had to race to get here this quickly.
“They saw it up at the lighthouse.”
That made sense. From the Holland light tower, the keeper could easily see off the shore from Singapore. The wreck hadn’t gone under but sat like a great hulk on the sandbar.
“Though I’ll miss my family in Holland,” Mrs. VanderLeuven was saying, “I had to come help. People might be needing a place to sleep and something to eat.”
While she and Roland discussed what would be needed to reopen the hotel, Sawyer pretended to browse the display of oilskins. The VanderLeuvens’ return could mean resuming the concerts. That meant time with Fiona. Though marriage was out of the question right now, he loved making music with her. He’d never heard a clearer soprano.
When Roland and Mrs. VanderLeuven finished their business transaction, Sawyer caught the woman’s attention. “Perhaps I could talk Fiona into a concert in the dining room to encourage business.”
“I’m afraid I can’t pay,” Mrs. VanderLeuven responded, “not until we’ve started turning a profit.”
That was disappointing. Sawyer wouldn’t mind adding to his savings, but a bit of goodwill might improve business enough for the VanderLeuvens to once again pay them for playing. “Consider it a gift.”
The portly woman’s cheeks flushed. “Why, Mr. Evans, what a kind gesture. Of course we would welcome a concert. The usual time?”
After Sawyer assured her that Saturday evening would be perfect, she left.
Roland’s grin spread across his face. “Not interested in Miss O’Keefe?”
“This is strictly business.” Even Sawyer had a hard time believing that.
* * *
When Fiona overheard the blonde young woman talking about the advertisement later that afternoon, she put a stop to it.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about your fiancé?”
The blonde sighed. “I can’t think on someone I ain’t met.”
The girl’s atrocious grammar and cheap muslin dress marked her as poor. Fiona had once been exactly the same. Changing her speech took practice, but improving her dress took money. She’d worked long and hard before she could afford her first pretty gown. Until then, a kindhearted singer had given Fiona one of her cast-offs for the stage. Away from the theater, Fiona had hidden in the shadows so no one would connect the poor girl with the singer on the stage.
Fiona stared at the young woman. “Are you saying you’ve never met your fiancé?”
The girl shrugged. “Ain’t been no chance to.”
“None of us has met our beau yet,” the bubbly redhead said, “but we’ll meet them soon. We’re going to Harmony to get married.”
Fiona drew in a deep breath. The similarities to her arrival in Singapore didn’t drift past without notice. “You’re all answering advertisements for a wife?” She hoped they weren’t all going for the same man.
The leader shook her brunette locks. “No, ma’am. We each got a husband waitin’ for us.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. “Then you’ve written to them already.”
Again the leader shook her head. “Mr. Adamson chose us.”
“Chose?”
“Yes, ma’am. He held an interview, and we got picked. Dozens applied.”
The whole process appalled Fiona. “Do you know anything about the man you’re going to marry, Miss...?”
“Clara.” The leader straightened her spine. “Call me Clara.” She then proceeded to introduce the rest.
Fiona forgot their names in an instant except for Dinah, the blonde, who wasn’t yet eighteen years of age.
“We all got a description,” Clara finished up. “My fiancé’s name is Benjamin. He’s twenty-eight and tall with dark hair like mine.”
The other ladies then described their future mates, all of whom were older and whose hair color came remarkably close to their own. When their matching dresses were taken into account, there was something odd about this whole situation.
“What do they do? Their occupation?” she asked.
Clara gave her a blank look. “They’re all farmers, of course. We’re creating a community free of strife and vice.” She reeled that off as if quoting something she’d been told to memorize.
Fiona was appalled. “Surely you had another choice.”
Each girl shook her head.
“Marry a drunken bum,” Clara stated frankly. “We’ve been workin’ in the shirtwaist factory after getting thrown out of the orphanage.”
“Thrown out?” Fiona could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Because we’re too old,” the redhead, Linore, explained. “That’s why we’re getting married.”
“Next ta Bleek Street, Harmony sounds like paradise.” Dinah sighed. “No drinkin’ or brawlin’.”
That did sound too good to be true.
“Then they are all upright men of God?” Fiona prodded.
“That’s what Mr. Adamson says,” Clara answered.
Each woman nodded in affirmation.
If what Mr. Adamson claimed was indeed the truth, Fiona could understand why these women had agreed to go to this island community. But what if it wasn’t?
“Can you leave if your fiancé doesn’t turn out the way he’s been advertised?” Fiona would definitely have made certain that option was available. She’d held on to it when answering the advertisement that brought her to Singapore. Even now, that possibility remained, though it would get much more difficult once Mary Clare arrived. She had not set aside the fare for two to travel to Chicago.
The women all stared at her as if she were mad.
Clara vocalized their response. “Why would we leave? It’s better than what we got now.”
Fiona recalled the newspaper that had so gripped their attention. “Then why the interest in the advertisement for a wife?”
The women looked at each other and giggled.
This time the one with the chestnut-colored hair answered, her jaw thrust out. “A girl’s gotta dream, don’t she?”
“Well, I can tell you for certain that this advertisement is only a dream. There’s not a man in this town who fits that description.”
Instead of solemnly nodding, like she’d expected, the ladies grew quiet, their eyes wide, and stood as one, smoothing their plain skirts as if they wore silk. A hush came over the room.
A man cleared his throat behind Fiona.
She whirled to see Sawyer standing in the doorway, hat in hand. “Sawyer! Mr. Evans, that is. I’m glad to see you’re well.”
His complexion reddened as if—no, it wasn’t possible—he were blushing. He stepped from foot to foot, clearly uneasy. “I’m fine.”
“So I see.”
The ladies giggled behind her.
Fiona left the room and led Sawyer to the front porch where they might have a bit of privacy. The chill air bit into her, and she hugged her arms close for warmth.
“You had something to tell me?” she prompted.
Sawyer cleared his throat again, though his eyes darted toward the parlor windows. “I just wanted you to know that the VanderLeuvens are back in town and are opening up the hotel. We can begin the concerts again.”
Fiona breathed out. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss the income she’d received from her concerts. Almost three months without pay had stretched her funds very thin. “That’s wonderful. An answer to prayer.”
“You’ve been praying to have a concert?”
“I’ve been praying for an income.”
The color left his face. “An income?”
“I do need to pay for room and board,” she pointed out.
“Of course.” His color returned, this time to a bright red. He avoided looking directly at her.
“All right. What’s wrong? Spit it out.” Fiona hated when a man wouldn’t express himself outright.
“Um.” Again he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to say that at least for now we’ll have to do them without pay. Mrs. VanderLeuven said she needs to start turning a profit first.”
Fiona’s temper rose. Under that rationale, the VanderLeuvens would never pay them. She’d heard the rumors of unpaid debts and heavy loans on the property. But it did no good to rail at the messenger. It also wouldn’t help pay the bills when Mary Clare did arrive. She needed steady employment. The thought of cleaning rooms or scrubbing dishes at the hotel left a foul taste in her mouth. She’d clawed her way out of poverty. She would not descend back into it.
“I see.” The terse reply was the best she could manage.
“Then you’ll do it?” The hint of hope in his voice gave her pause.
He wanted her to sing at the hotel again. Maybe he looked forward to it. She did too, and not just the singing. Sawyer was surprisingly handsome and charming. And his piano and violin playing made her want to close her eyes and drink it in. Too bad he was only a sawmill foreman. Still, a concert couldn’t hurt. Maybe she could persuade Mrs. VanderLeuven to give them a percentage of profit from the meals ordered that night.
“I will,” she confirmed. “For now.”
The faint sound of women’s giggling reached her ears. She turned to see the ladies glued to the parlor windows. They weren’t watching her. No, every eye was fixed on Sawyer. No wonder he’d looked so uncomfortable. It wasn’t her at all. Drawing the attention of six women left him unnerved.
She glanced back at Sawyer. Granted, he was a fine specimen of masculinity with his broad shoulders, height, muscular build and shock of dark brown hair. Brunette for brunette. That’s how Mr. Adamson had matched the girls. Under that criteria, Clara would go with Sawyer. The woman did have a proprietary gleam in her eye.
Sawyer looked away. “Are those the women we rescued? I didn’t realize they were so young.”
He didn’t say they were pretty, but he thought it. She could tell.
Something fiercely protective rose in Fiona’s breast. “Yes, and they are all engaged to marry. Every last one.”
There. That ought to douse the spark of interest in his eyes.
