Читать книгу Mail-Order Bride Switch - Dorothy Clark - Страница 15
ОглавлениеGarret popped the last bite of his buttered bread in his mouth, shrugged into his work jacket and squinted through the dim light to make out the face of the pendulum clock in the corner. A little less than two hours until the first train. He frowned, pulled on his hat and gloves, grabbed the lantern off the shelf and hurried through the hotel lobby to the front door. It inched outward and stopped. The snow fell through the narrow crack into a small pile. He lowered his shoulder and shoved the door against the snow until he could slip through the opening, then grabbed the lantern and pushed his way out. He brushed the pile of snow back out onto the porch and closed the door.
Light from the oil lamps that had burned all night flickered. Gray puffs of hot breath formed small clouds in front of his face and hovered there. Not a breath of wind stirred. That was good. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with blowing and drifting snow. The cold nipped at his face and neck. He cast a thankful look at the copse of pines at the end of the building that had acted as a windbreak and kept the snow from billowing and piling in deep swells in front of the hotel. He tugged his collar up, grabbed the shovel he kept handy by the door and cleared a path across the porch to the steps. It was the work of a few minutes to shovel his way down them and clear his short walkway to the road.
“Morning, Garret!”
The hail carried sharp and clear on the still, cold air. He straightened, swiped his jacket sleeve across his forehead and looked over a high drift between his hotel and Latherop’s General Store. Blake Latherop stood beside a lantern, his legs splayed and his hands folded on the handle of a shovel standing upright in the deep snow.
“Morning, Blake. You figuring on shoveling a path to the depot?”
The store owner nodded, tugged at his gloves and lifted his shovel. “There’s no choice. I have to get the mail. And I’m expecting supplies for the store.”
“I’ll help. There may be some passengers who will want to stay over. That is if the trains are running.” He frowned, glanced toward the surrounding mountains. “I was wondering if they might get blocked by drifts in some of those high passes.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“Would you gentlemen like some help?”
He looked beyond Blake to the dark form trudging up the road from the parsonage, a lantern swinging from one hand, a shovel leaning like a weapon against one narrow shoulder.
“Good morning, Pastor. Blake and I were about to start clearing a path to the station.” He tugged his hat closer over his ears, then grabbed his shovel. “How about if I go first and scoop off the top ten or so inches, then you scoop off another shovelful, Blake, and you can clean and even the path, Pastor. That sound all right?”
“Lead on.” Blake grabbed his lantern and shovel and trudged through the snow to join him. “Let me know when you get tired, Garret, and we’ll switch places. We ought to make it all the way to the station in good time doing that.”
“Fair enough.” He whacked the snow off to the side ahead of him with the flat of his shovel and set the lantern on the firm surface, then scooped up a shovelful of snow and tossed it aside. Blake did the same. They fell into a rhythm, their heavy breathing and the swish of the shovels against the snow the only sound.
“If we’re going to...have snow like this...” Blake’s huffs and puffs came floating over his shoulder in small gray billows “...I’m going to...have Mitch make me a...snowplow. One I can hitch behind my horse to...clear the road.”
He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at his neighbor. “Smart man.” He scooped up more snow and cast it aside. “You’ll be using your horse, Blake...so I’ll pay for the snowplow. You plowing the road will...benefit the hotel, as well. That suit you?”
“Sounds...fair enough.”
“And a whole...lot easier!”
“Well spoken, Pastor!” Garret chuckled, drove his shovel into the snow and straightened to catch his breath. Blake followed suit.
“I have...my moments.”
Like last night, when you performed my wedding? He watched Konrad Karl smooth out the path they’d shoveled, then turned and looked ahead. It was still too dark to see the depot, and there was no sign of a road to guide him, only flat white snow in every direction. He took a deep breath, pushed his shovel into the white powder and hoped he was on the right path.
* * *
Virginia bolted upright, startled by a whistle that sliced through the stillness and quivered on the morning air. “Oh!” She scrambled out of bed and grabbed for her dressing gown, her heart pounding. The train. No. She had reached her destination last night and—she was married!
Her knees trembled. She sank down onto the edge of the bed and looked around the strange room, casting back to yesterday and trying to order her thoughts. There was a snowstorm...
An image of Garret Stevenson standing strong and solid in swirling, blowing snow flashed into her head, followed by one of him kneeling in front of her and removing her boots. She shivered, fastened her dressing gown and looked at the small heating stove. The sleepy fuzziness in her head began to clear. He had taught her how to tend a fire. Yes.
She glanced at the stovepipe. She wasn’t to touch that handle. She bent to open the small door on the front of the stove, remembered the smoke that had puffed out into the room and took a step back. No smoke. She glanced at the pulsing red coals, scooped coal from the box and piled it on top of the hot embers. Now she had to adjust the draft to burn hotter for the day...no more than halfway...she had done it! Her lips curved into a smile.
She stepped into her slippers and gathered her toilette items. If she remembered correctly, the dressing room was a short distance down the hall. She opened the door and peeked out. The way was clear. She ran on tiptoe, eased the dressing room door closed and slid the bolt, then hurried to perform her morning ablutions so she could get back to her bedroom before anyone came. She didn’t want to miss Garret’s maid.
There! Virginia turned before the long mirror fastened to one of the doors on the wardrobe. Her dress looked quite acceptable. She tugged the hem of the bodice into place at her narrow waist, shook out the long skirt, then checked to be sure the back of the high collar was in place. Memory stirred and her hands stilled.
Garret had slid his hands beneath her long curls and shook them. His spread hands had kept the snow from melting on her neck and sliding down her back. Her husband was a thoughtful man. So far.
Her face tightened. He was no stranger to ladies, for certain. Not given the practiced way he had removed her boots. The memory came bearing the sound of his laughter. It was infectious. She’d have laughed with him if she hadn’t been so frightened. And she’d been even more so a few moments later when she’d mentioned Millie. He’d been so angry. Had accused Millie of betrayal. And not only Millie.
Had Garret suffered the unfaithfulness of a woman? Would he be cruel? She shivered and rubbed her upper arms, where Emory Gladen had squeezed so hard she’d had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Her face paled. Her eyes darkened with fear. He always had a charming reason for his “excesses;” as he called them—he loved her so much he forgot himself, he didn’t know his own strength...
She whirled from the mirror, rushed to the bedroom door and hurried into the hall. She would breakfast early today. Garret’s maid would be in the kitchen. Maids began their work early.
The sitting room was still dark, but for the flickering light from the fire. Outside the windows on the back wall, the sky was beginning to turn gray. She started across the sitting room, stopped when a log collapsed, sending sparks rising up the chimney. The fire needed wood. She moved to the wood cradle, lifted a small log, placed it on the fire, added another and poked them into place. The embers shot out tongues of flame and licked at the new fuel. The muted sound of stomping feet came from the front of the building. She turned toward the door.
“Good morning.” Garret came into the room, tossed his hat and leather gloves onto the shelf and shrugged out of his jacket.
“You’ve been outside already?”
He nodded, rubbed his hands together briskly, then sat in the chair. “For a couple of hours.”
“Whatever for?”
He tugged at one of his boots. “I had to shovel a path to the station in case the passengers want to come to town.”
“You! Where is your help?”
He tossed his boot onto the small rag rug, rubbed his foot and looked up at her. “Blake Latherop—he owns the general store next door—and Pastor Karl helped me.”
She stared. Last night he’d looked like a businessman who might be welcome in her father’s club. Today, in a coarse-woven blue cotton shirt with a narrow band for a collar and a placket with buttons—one missing—he looked like a laborer. If a handsome one. “I meant your hired help.”
He pulled off his other boot and stood. His brown twill pants were damp from midcalf to his knees. “Whisper Creek is a town in the making, Virginia. There is the general store, my hotel, an apothecary shop and soon-to-be doctor’s office, the church and a sawmill so far.” He came to join her on the hearth, held his hands out to the fire. “I suppose you can add in the railroad station and the laundry a Chinese family has out in the woods, though they’re not rightly part of the town. The point is, the owners run their businesses. There’s no one in town to hire. Mitch Todd—the sawmill owner and town builder—lures his construction workers from the railroad crews passing through.” He grinned, obviously amused at Mr. Todd’s ingenuity.
Uneasiness spread through her, made her stomach flop. There’s no one to hire.
“Fire feels good. Is there coffee?”
“I don’t—” The unease turned to full-blown apprehension as understanding dawned. She took a breath and shook her head. “I thought you had a maid.”
Anger swept over his face like a cloud and settled in his dark blue eyes. “Millie Rourk was to cook and clean for a wage, in addition to a good home and living.” He blew out a breath, shoved his fingers through his hair and fixed his gaze on her. “It’s getting late and I haven’t shown you around the hotel yet. I’ll make coffee when we come back. Have you breakfasted?”
“No. But I can wait until—”
“Follow me.”
He headed for the kitchen. She looked down at the poker she’d been gripping, put it back in its place and trailed after him. Guilt tugged at her. He was right; Millie would have been the perfect wife for him. She on the other hand—
“Have a seat.”
He motioned to the table and chairs along the back wall she’d noticed last night, pulled out an end chair and held it for her. He’d turned up the oil lamps hanging above the massive table in the center of the kitchen. The light gleamed in the polished wood of the bare table in front of her. She glanced up at the window—also bare.
“Here we are.” He set two small plates, napkins and flatware on the table, left and returned quickly with two glasses of water and a towel-covered basket. A small crock dangled by its bail from his little finger. “I’m sorry there’s not time to have a real breakfast, but this is delicious bread. Ivy Karl bakes it, and she’s kind enough to sell me some.” He handed her the basket, then sat in the chair at the other end of the table.
She unfolded the towel, and a mouthwatering aroma of freshly sliced bread rose. She placed one of the slices on her plate, handed him the basket and picked up her knife to dip into the butter in the crock he’d opened. The first bite of bread was better than the smell. She took another bite.
“Be careful of the water. It’s from the waterfall and icy cold.”
“There’s a waterfall?” She took a tentative sip from her glass and shivered.
“On the mountain out back.” He took another bite of his bread and nodded toward the window. “That’s why John Ferndale located the town here in this valley. If you like, I’ll take you to see it one day when the weather warms.” He took another bite of his bread and glanced at her plate.
He was in a hurry. She applied herself to finishing her slice, wished she had time for another. “I’m ready for the tour of the hotel.”
“Time is getting short. We’ll leave these dishes here.” He rose and came to pull out her chair. “I’ll show you what you need to see for today. The rest can wait until later tonight or tomorrow. We’ll go through the kitchen. This dining table is for the help—when I have some.” His lips curved in a wry grin that tugged her own lips into a responsive smile, even while her stomach sank. She had ruined Garret Stevenson’s plans.
“This room is huge.”
“It will need to be when the hotel is full. There are twenty-six rooms. Add in mates and children, and that’s a lot of people to be fed.”
It was indeed.
“And then, of course, there will be those who come only to dine. Passengers first, but residents, too, as Whisper Creek grows.”
He would need to hire a cook. And meantime...her stomach tensed. He ushered her to the door she’d peeked through last night, and they entered a large dining room. She caught her breath at the beauty of the Hepplewhite servers, tables and chairs. A corner cupboard, painted a darker gray than the dove-gray plastered walls, stood on the outside wall on her left. A long banquet table and evenly spaced small tables filled the room. Extra chairs sat in the corners. Red-and-white patterned china and a pewter chandelier and sconces added bright touches that caught the eye. But it was the paneled fireplace wall that held her gaze. The workmanship quality was equal to that in her father’s library. “It’s a beautiful room, Garret.”
Pleasure flashed across his face. “I studied some of the best hotels and restaurants before I left New York. I want people to be so comfortable in my hotel they don’t want to leave.” He pushed open one of the doors flanking the fireplace and stepped back.
She entered the hotel lobby and looked around to orient herself. In a cozy corner on her right was a game table and bookshelves. On her left was the fireplace with two padded chairs facing it. Beyond that was the hotel entrance. An aura of welcome and comfort impressed itself upon her.
She moved ahead to stand by the long paneled desk, her hems whispering across the polished wood floor.
“Are you familiar with the procedure for staying at a hotel?”
“I know one must register and pay. I’ve never done so.”
He gave her a measuring look. “Your maid registered for you, while you were escorted to your room by the concierge.”
She treated his statement as a question. “Yes.”
His face went taut. “This is where the guests sign their name and address. Like this...” He opened a leather register resting beside a bell and a pewter pen and ink holder, and turned it so she could see.
She glanced at the few names entered and nodded.
“The fee is one dollar and a half per night. When they pay they are assigned a room, their money is placed in the till on the shelf under the counter, and they are given the key to their room. The keys are there.” He pointed behind the desk to numbered cubbyholes holding keys. “Duplicate keys are in my office—through that door under the stairs.”
“Your office also has a door from the hall in your private quarters.”
“Yes. It’s convenient to be able to enter or exit from either side. Now...any additional charges for the guest are noted beside their name in the ledger, and a note specifying the charge is placed in their box. Also, any messages they may receive during their stay are placed in their boxes. This—” he turned a small leather folder her way “—contains all of the other services offered by the hotel along with their costs.” His lips lifted into that wry smile that was so contagious it pulled the corners of her own mouth upward. “You’ll note there are few at the moment.”
She glanced at the list of services, her mind playing with an idea. Perhaps she could act as a hostess. She was skilled at that. She had performed that service for her father often.
Hotel
Meals served in your room: 5 cents
Checking daily for telegrams or posts: 1 cent
Maid service—bed made, rooms swept or dusted: 2 cents per service
Fresh towel: 3 cents
Dining Room
Breakfast served at six-thirty
Dinner served from twelve o’clock until three o’clock
Supper served from six o’clock until eight o’clock
Meals: 50 cents
Extra dessert: 5 cents
“I’ll show you the upstairs rooms later. That way...” He motioned her toward the stairs, which turned and ran a short distance to an arch in the opposite wall.
Her breath caught. Her fingers twitched. She stopped and stared. Close to the front corner of the room stood an upright Steinway piano. A padded settee and several chairs were clustered around the instrument.
“Is something wrong?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s only...do you play the piano?”
“Not so anyone would want to hear.” His eyebrow lifted, his gaze fastened on hers. “Do you play?”
She tipped her head and answered him in kind. “Well enough that people like to listen.”
He chuckled, a low masculine rumble that made her smile. “Good. You’ll be able to entertain our guests.”
At last, something she could do to repay him for her escape from Emory Gladen. The cost of the ticket and the money she had used weighed heavily on her. The tension across her shoulders lessened.
“This hallway leads to the guests’ dressing room—” he gestured toward the door at the end of the hall on their right “—and two guest bedrooms. These are the rooms I want ready in case any passengers decide it’s too dangerous to travel farther and choose to stay overnight.” He opened the doors. “I tended the fires earlier. You’ve only to make up the beds and set out the towels in the dressing room. You’ll find the linens in the cupboard in the hall. I’ve got to finish shoveling. Oh, and when you finish the rooms, you’ll find beef stew in the refrigerator to be heated for dinner.”
She stared after him, wanting to tell him she didn’t know how to make a bed or cook. But the thought of the anger that shadowed his face and eyes whenever he mentioned Millie held her silent. What if he annulled their strange marriage? She had nowhere to go. And she was indebted to him for the ticket and money she had used.
Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t helpless. Surely she could make a bed. She would worry about the cooking later.
She opened the cupboard in the hall, stared at the shelves piled with sheets and blankets and pillowcases. She closed her eyes and thought about her bed at home, then filled her arms with the items she needed and carried them to bedroom number one. She dropped them onto the seat of a chair and faced the bed. What did Millie do?
Tears welled again. So did her anger. One thing was for certain—Millie didn’t cry. Was her maid more capable than she? Of course not! It was only a matter of applying oneself. She blinked the tears away, pulled the coverlet off the bed and tossed it over the chair back. First she needed a sheet for the guest to lie on. She pulled one from the pile, laid it on the bed and unfolded it. It was too big. She folded the extra length out of her way at the bottom, but that did not work on the sides; they simply fell down. She let them hang, and unfolded the second sheet on top of the first and repeated the process.
It looked quite good.
She smoothed out every crease and wrinkle, unfolded and placed two blankets on top of the sheet. A smile curved her lips. This wasn’t so difficult. She stuffed the pillow into the case, remembered Millie pummeling hers, and punched and fluffed it. The blue-and-white coverlet finished her job.
She stood back and examined her work. There was not a wrinkle showing anywhere. She let out a long, relieved sigh and hurried to the cupboard in the hall to get the linens for bedroom number two.
* * *
Garret stomped the snow from his boots, wiped them on the rag rug and hurried across the lobby. Finally, he was through shoveling for possible guests. With all the narrow connecting paths, the town looked like a rabbit warren. But at least people could get around. He opened the door to his private quarters and froze. Smoke! He bolted for the kitchen.
“Oh...oh...” Virginia stood in front of the stove waving a towel through the air. Smoke billowed and curled from a large pot sitting on the front burner plate. The smell of burned stew mingled with the stringent odor.
He leaped forward, snatched the towel from her hands and lifted the pan off the hot surface.
“Oh!” She whirled around, bumped into him and rebounded toward the stove.
“Careful!” He grabbed her with his free hand, pulled her against him and backed toward the sink, bringing her with him. He set the pan in the sink and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed out and covered the burned stew. The pot hissed. The smoke stopped. He looked down into her watering eyes. Tears? Or stinging smoke? “What happened?”
“I—I don’t know.” She placed her hands against his chest and pushed away. “I—I put wood in the stove, then found the refrigerator and the stew in it.”
She found the refrigerator?
“I put the stew in a pan and was heating it as you asked. I stirred it with a big spoon the way I’ve seen Martha do, but it started bubbling and splashing out of the pan.” Her eyes watered more.
Tears. He held back a frown and waited for her to finish her explanation. “Some landed on my hand and I went to wash it off and put lotion on it. When I came back the stew was burning and smoking, and I couldn’t make it stop.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know which was more pathetic, the way she looked or her story. “Who is Martha?” He had a sinking feeling he knew the answer before she spoke.
“Our cook.”
“And Millie helped her in the kitchen.”
“Yes. Garret—”
He shook his head, set his jaw and looked at the scorched mess in the pot. There went the possibility of stew for today’s dinner or supper for any guests...or them. “We’ll talk later. First I’ll...” He lifted his head, looked toward the sitting room. “There’s the bell. I have a guest.” He looked down at his rough clothes and scowled. “The way I’m dressed, it would be best if you register him and show him to his room to make certain everything is satisfactory. Can you do that?” She seemed capable of that much.
She straightened, brushed back a curl that had fallen free to dangle in front of her ear. “Yes.”
“All right then. I’ll tend to the fireplace, to stay close in case you need my help.” He snatched up the towel he’d dropped and handed it to her. “Wipe your cheeks and eyes.” The bell rang again. He waved her forward and hurried through the sitting room after her, hoping he wasn’t making another mistake in trusting her to handle the guest. He eyed her golden-brown curls falling from her crown to her shoulders, the way her expensive gown fitted her slender form, and the graceful way she moved even when she hurried. She certainly looked the part of a successful businessman’s wife. But he needed help, and there was no one to hire. Maybe she could learn.
He opened the door and Virginia swept through it, her long skirts floating across the floor. She smiled as she moved behind the desk. His pulse skipped. He’d never seen her look so composed, so capable, so... beautiful.
“May I help you, madam?”
Madam. He’d assumed the guest was a man. He stepped into the lobby, glanced toward the woman standing in front of the desk. The woman looked his way and stared. Great. He probably had soot from the pan on his face. And his clothes! He sure didn’t look like a successful hotel owner.
“Madam?” Virginia’s soft voice called the woman’s attention back to her.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I—” The woman covered her mouth with her gloved hand, coughed. “I’d like a room, please.”
He strode to the fireplace and squatted to add wood to the fire and scrape at the ashes. He’d clean up as soon as he’d shoveled the snow from the back porch.
“Would you like a room here on the first floor, madam? It’s very convenient to the sitting area and the dining room. But if you would prefer a room upstairs, that can be arranged, also.”
What was Virginia doing? He’d told her to assign the two down—
“The downstairs room sounds convenient.” The woman coughed again, cleared her throat. “I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful.” Virginia smiled and turned the register around. “Sign your name and write your address here, please.”
“I don’t have an address at the moment. I’ve been traveling.”
Traveling? The woman didn’t look that prosperous. Her cloak and hat were worn. So was the old carpetbag sitting on the floor at her feet. Of course, he didn’t look like a hotel owner in the clothes he had on.
“No matter. Just write ‘traveling.’”
He sneaked a look over his shoulder at Virginia. She was doing a good job handling the registration. He glanced back at the woman, noted the awkward angle of her hand while she signed in.
“And how long will you be staying with us, Mrs. Fuller?”
“I don’t know. It depends...on the weather. At least two nights.”
“That will be three dollars, please.”
The woman ducked her head, pulled the reticule from her wrist. There was the dull clunk of coins hitting against one another.
“Here you are.”
“And here is your key. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room, Mrs. Fuller. I’ve put you in room number two. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”
The woman bent and reached down.
He stood, shook his head, gestured at the bag, then pointed to himself.
Virginia gave a small nod of understanding. “Leave your bag, Mrs. Fuller. It will be brought to your room.”
He waited until she stepped out from behind the counter and led the woman to the short hallway off the lobby, then moved to the desk and picked up the woman’s bag.
“The sign says the Stevenson Hotel. Is that the proprietor’s name? I always think it’s nice when people call their businesses by their name.”
The woman’s quiet voice floated out of the hall. He stepped to the edge of the arched opening and waited for them to enter bedroom number two.
“Yes, it is. My husband is Mr. Stevenson.”
Husband. His heart jolted. He’d never wanted that word applied to himself.
“Here we are. This is your room, and that is the dressing room. You will share it with the occupant of room number one, if I rent it out tonight.”
Good! Virginia had thought to tell the guest about the dressing room. He hurried forward, stepped into the bedroom doorway. “Madam’s bag.” He set the patched carpetbag on the floor and backed out.
“What a lovely room.”
He paused to listen, pleased by the woman’s approval.
“I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed that doesn’t rock back and forth beneath me.”
The bed springs squeaked.
“I’m sure you’ll find it quite comfortable. I’ll—I’ll send someone by later to tend the fire.”
It was the first time Virginia had hesitated. His fault. He should have told her—
“No need, my dear. I see there’s a coal box. And I’ve been tending fires all of my life. But I’m afraid there is a problem with the bed. It’s...undone.”
Undone! He’d told her—
“I’m so sorry. Let me fix it for—”
The door closed, shutting off Virginia’s voice. Fix it! What—? He stared at the knob, clenched and unclenched his hands, then spun on his heel. He stalked to his office, strode straight through it to the door that led to the hall by their bedrooms, and yanked it open. Three long strides took him to her bedroom door. He opened it, stared at the quilt in a pile on the bare mattress. The woman couldn’t even make a bed!
He drew a deep breath, clamped his lips closed on the words scorching his tongue and strode back down the short hall. Going back to the guest’s room would only make things worse. And he hadn’t time. The woman would expect dinner to be served and, thanks to his bride, the stew he’d prepared was an inedible burned lump! He’d have to apologize to the woman, go to her room and make her bed while she was eating her midday meal. If he could even feed her! He was no cook.
He stomped through the sitting room into the kitchen, grabbed the ruined panful of burned stew out of the sink and threw it out the back door with all his fury propelling it. He watched it arc into the air, then stared at the dark hole in the snow where it landed.
If only he could get rid of his bride as easily! He wanted no part of her! Even if she was beautiful. If it weren’t for that contract...
He left the door open to get rid of the smell and headed for the pantry. He had to find something to feed his hotel guest. It would have to be cold food. He had no time to make more stew.
And his bride would be of no help. That was certain. He’d be better off with a cookbook!
