Читать книгу The Substitute Bride - Janet Dean - Страница 11

Outside the parsonage, her new husband turned to Elizabeth, the chill in his steely gray-blue eyes raising goose bumps on her arms. “I’ve got to ask. Where are the clothes I bought?”

Elizabeth looked away. “With Sally.”

His mouth thinned. “When you said someone stole your trunk, you lied.”

She swallowed. “I didn’t know how to tell you the truth.”

Suspicion clouded his eyes. “If you’re lying about anything else, I want to know it. Now.”

Elizabeth dropped her gaze. She did have one more lie, a three-and-a-half-foot, blue-eyed whopper.

But if she told Ted about Robby, about the real reason she’d run from Chicago and into this marriage of convenience, he’d march her into the preacher’s and demand an annulment. What would become of her brother then?

“I’m sorry I lied. But Sally’s clothes wouldn’t fit me.”

His gaze traveled over her, bringing a flush to her cheeks, and a rosy hue beneath his tan. “Reckon not.”

He helped her onto the wagon seat, then scrambled up beside her, released the brake and pulled back on the reins. “We’ll stop at the mercantile to pick up what you need.”

As they rode down the street, Elizabeth’s focus settled on the rumps of the horses. How long before she could bring Robby here?

How long before Ted lost patience with her inability to handle a household? Or care for his children? Her stomach lurched. What would happen then?

Well, she wouldn’t fail. Couldn’t fail. Too much depended on it.

She scrambled for a change of subject, a way to smooth the rough waters between them. “Pastor Sumner performed a lovely service.”

Ted gave a curt nod.

Wonderful. A husband of no words. Well, she knew how to fill the gap. “He didn’t seem like one of those hellfire-and-brimstone preachers.”

“Jacob can rise to the occasion if it’s warranted.”

Elizabeth cringed. Would she be the topic of his next sermon on deceit? She tamped down the thought. Perhaps she had a way to get him to open up. “Were you born here?”

“No.”

Talking to Ted was like pulling teeth with a fraying thread. “Then where?”

“St. Louis.”

“What made you leave?”

“No reason. Just looking for something, I guess.”

Elizabeth couldn’t imagine what he’d been looking for that had stopped him here.

One street comprised New Harmony’s downtown. A blacksmith stood at a forge in front of his shop, hammering a redhot horseshoe while a young woman prepared the steed’s hoof. A few doors down, a man wearing bib overalls entered the bank.

Two women stood talking outside Sorenson Mercantile, the younger bouncing a baby on her hip. Signs tacked to the fading exterior advertised a post office and seed store in the back. Make one stop and you’d be done for the day.

The door to a café stood open to catch the afternoon breeze. A barber’s red-and-white-striped pole caught her eye among the other nondescript buildings. Not much of a town compared to Chicago, compared to most anywhere.

Still, New Harmony provided more chance to socialize than being tethered to a farm. That might be Robby’s dream and she’d done all this to give it to him, but she dreaded life in the country. How would she survive for the next ten, twenty, goodness, forty years? Still, her situation could be worse. She could be wearing Reginald Parks’s ring.

Once she handled Ted’s household reasonably well, she’d have the courage to tell him about Robby. At the prospect of reuniting with her brother, her mood lifted, putting a smile on her face. Robby was the warmest, sweetest little boy. He never judged. Never manipulated. Never let her down.

In the meantime, maybe a neighbor would befriend her. Or were these people as shallow and unfeeling as her so-called friends in Chicago, once word got out about the Manning reversals?

Ted said he’d be kind to her, take care of her and give her all he possessed. But if she didn’t fulfill her end of the bargain to his satisfaction, would he forget all his fine words? Were Ted’s promises as meaningless as Papa’s?

She fingered the gold band encircling her finger. Like most young girls, she’d dreamed of her wedding day, marrying a man she adored, a man who cherished her in return. But her parents’ marriage had taught her that real life didn’t measure up to fantasy.

The wheels caught in a rut in the street, jostling the wagon. Clinging to the seat, Elizabeth glanced at her husband, the flesh-and-blood man sitting next to her. Firm jaw, solid neck, wide shoulders. Ted had called their union a business arrangement, a binding contract. No matter what she told herself, Ted Logan didn’t look like a line on anyone’s ledger.

At Sorenson’s Mercantile, he pulled back on the reins, set the brake, then jumped down and tied up at the hitching post. His long strides brought him to her side. He lifted her to the street, his hands strong yet gentle. If only she could trust Robby’s future to this man.

Up ahead a plumpish woman made a beeline toward them, the ribbons on her bonnet flapping in the breeze. “Hello, Ted. Who’s this?”

“Afternoon, Mrs. Van Wyld. This is Elizabeth, my wife.”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “Well, imagine that? I hadn’t heard about your marriage.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Call me Johanna.”

Obviously this woman kept up with the news. Still, her warm greeting brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face. “We just came from the ceremony.”

“You did? Well, congratulations!” She beamed. “Why, I must be one of the first to know.” She said goodbye then rushed off, calling to a woman down the way.

Ted harrumphed. “No need to put an announcement in the paper now that Johanna knows.”

Elizabeth’s optimism tumbled at the expression on his face. They’d have no friends. No family. No party to celebrate. “Were you hoping to keep our marriage a secret?” In case it didn’t work out. But she didn’t finish the thought.

“No.” He opened the mercantile door. “It would’ve been nice to get used to it ourselves before the whole county knows.”

Inside, Elizabeth gaped at the wide array of goods filling every table and ledge. The scent of kerosene, vinegar and coffee greeted her. Behind the long counter, shelves stocked with kerosene lamps, china teapots, enameled coffeepots, dishes and crocks rose from floor to ceiling.

Barrels of every size and shape lined the front of the counter, leaving enough space for two customers at the brass cash register. Overhead, lanterns, pots and skillets hung from the ceiling. Picture frames, mirrors and tools of every size and description lined the walls.

Ted pointed to a table in the center of the room piled with bolts of fabric. “Get yourself some dresses.”

“I…don’t see any dresses.”

He gave her a curious look. “Uh…that’s because they aren’t made yet.”

“Oh. Right.” She marched toward the bolts. “I’ll take the fabric to the dressmaker’s—”

He laid a hand on her arm and then jerked it back, as if afraid to touch her. “Dressmaker’s?”

“Well, yes, won’t she—” The look on his face cut off Elizabeth’s protest. “Oh.” Her fingers found her mouth. “I’m the dressmaker?”

“You said you could sew.”

She avoided his eyes. “I may have…exaggerated.” She’d figure out how when the time came.

He chuffed but let it go. “Don’t take too long making your selection. It’s getting late.”

Elizabeth glanced at the afternoon sun streaming in through the front windowpanes. “Late?”

“I’d like to get us home before dark.”

A jolt of awareness traveled through her, squeezing against her lungs. She gulped for air then forced her attention to the material, trying to ignore the implications.

Lovely bolts of restful blue gingham, cheerful yellow dimity, sweet sprigs in pink twill. She ran a hand over a length of lavender checked cotton, cool to the touch. Not exactly the silks and velvets of her gowns back home, but nice.

“The blue would look pretty with your eyes,” he said, his gaze warm and intense.

His inspection set her hands trembling, a silly reaction. Clearly she needed a meal, far more than a few cookies. “Then I’ll take this one,” she said, indicating the blue.

“Get enough for two, one to wear and one to wash.”

Laundry, another to add to the long list of chores she’d never done.

Thinking of the closet full of dresses in Chicago, she bit back a sigh. Then she remembered Ted’s concern about money. Offering two was generous. She motioned to her dress. “I can wear this.”

“To church maybe, but you’d make a pretty scarecrow wearing that in the garden.” He hesitated. “Get enough to make three.”

Had he just called her pretty? And offered three dresses?

Yes, and called her a scarecrow, too. Her new husband could use lessons in chivalry.

Heavenly days, she didn’t know how to make one dress. Still, she couldn’t refuse his gift. Under his rough exterior, Ted Logan possessed a soft heart.

A woman wearing her salt-and-pepper hair in a tight bun and a crisp white apron over a simple blouse and skirt lumbered over, her smile as wide as her hips. “Why, Ted Logan, who do we have here?”

Ted made introductions. The shop owner jiggled all over at the news.

“Well, I’ll be! Huuubert!” she cried, the way Martha had when, as a child, Elizabeth had ignored her calls to come inside. “Come here and meet Ted’s new wife!”

“I ain’t deef, missus.” A ruddy-faced splinter of a man, his suspenders crossing his humped shoulders, moseyed in from the back, carrying a bag of seed. He laid it on the counter then ambled to where they stood. Smiling at Elizabeth, he shook Ted’s hand. “Well, Ted, you married yourself a looker.”

“Oh, she certainly is,” Mrs. Sorenson said. “Resembles one of those ladies in the Godey’s book, all fancied up and pretty.”

Heat climbed Elizabeth’s neck. “Thank you.”

“How long have you two been married?”

Ted shifted on his feet. “We just came from the preacher.”

“Why, I saw you ride past. You must’ve been on your way to the parsonage then.” Mrs. Sorenson elbowed her husband in the ribs. “Tell them congratulations, Hubert.”

“I’m about to. Much happiness.” He turned to Ted and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a lucky man. Can’t say I recall seeing your missus before. If I had, I’d have remembered.” He smiled at Elizabeth. “Are you from around these parts, Mrs. Logan?”

Elizabeth’s new name socked her in the belly. She was a missus now. Her belly flipped faster than Martha’s Saturday pancakes. “No, I—”

“We’re here to buy a few things,” Ted interrupted.

He must not want people to know she was a mail-order bride, and not the original bride at that. Did he believe they’d think she popped up under a rosebush?

Mr. Sorenson waved a hand. “What can I get you folks?”

Ted motioned to the stack of bolts Elizabeth had selected. “She needs enough fabric to make a dress from each of these.”

Mrs. Sorenson stepped forward, her gaze running up and down Elizabeth’s frame, muttering gibberish about yardage and seam allowances. She grabbed up the three bolts Elizabeth indicated and lugged them to the long counter.

Elizabeth and Ted followed, watching as Mrs. Sorenson unrolled the blue gingham, sending the bolt thumping across the counter. Soon she’d cut and stacked all the fabrics in a neat pile. “Will you need thread, needles?”

Elizabeth glanced at Ted.

“Plenty of thread at home, needles, too.” He glanced away. “But Elizabeth does need…a…few other things.”

Mrs. Sorenson nodded. “Like what?”

Ted tugged at his collar, squirming like a liar on a witness stand. He may have been married, but as a gentleman, he couldn’t speak of a woman’s unmentionables. “Get her two of whatever she requires.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Sorenson grinned. “Right this way, Mrs. Logan.”

As Elizabeth followed the older woman to a table at the back of the store, she wondered if she’d ever get used to hearing herself referred to as Mrs. Logan.

Ted stayed behind, talking grain with Mr. Sorenson. Grateful not to have to select undergarments with her new husband looking on, Elizabeth unfolded a pretty white nightgown, a sheer, lacy thing.

“Oh, your husband will love that,” Mrs. Sorenson whispered, her voice warm with approval.

Glancing back at Ted, she found him watching her. She dropped the gown like a hot biscuit and grabbed a long-sleeved, plain, high-necked nightgown. Not exactly body armor, but close.

“It’s hot around here in the summer,” Mrs. Sorenson put in.

Heeding the hint, Elizabeth selected a sleeveless square-necked gown with no trim. Ugly and plain. Perfect.

“That’s serviceable, but this is beautiful.” Mrs. Sorenson pointed to the sheer, lacy gown.

“It’s too…too…” Elizabeth grabbed up the tag. “Pricey. You know new husbands.”

“Yes, I do,” the older woman said with a wink, “which is why I suggested this one.”

Elizabeth quickly gathered up two pairs of drawers, an underskirt and two chemise tops in cotton, all simple and unadorned, whether Mrs. Sorenson approved or not.

At the counter, the shop owner totaled the purchases. When Elizabeth heard the number, she gasped. A sudden image of her father harassed by creditors popped into her mind. Had she and Mama spent too much money on clothes? Jewelry? Had mounting bills forced Papa to gamble? If so, why hadn’t he gotten a job like most men?

“Add that to my account,” Ted said, his voice thick and gruff as if saying the words hurt.

Was she to witness yet another man’s financial ruin? She vowed to watch her pennies. Well, when she had pennies to watch.

Mr. Sorenson opened a book, the pages smudged and crammed with names and numbers; cross outs and additions. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine how he kept track of who owed him what in such a messy ledger.

Mrs. Sorenson wrapped the purchases, then handed two bundles to Elizabeth. “I look forward to seeing you again, Mrs. Logan.”

Elizabeth blinked.

Mrs. Sorenson chuckled. “Why, Hubert, she forgot her name.”

“Oh. Yes.” She gave a weak laugh. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Sorenson.”

“Anytime! Enjoy the sewing.”

Ted took her elbow. If she could find an excuse to linger, Elizabeth could ask Mrs. Sorenson’s advice about dressmaking.

The store’s proprietor turned to Ted. “Are the children at the Harpers’?”

Ted grabbed up the seed. “Yes, Anna loves their new baby.”

“Hubert, get that precious child some candy.”

“I am, missus, if you’d stop issuing orders long enough to notice.”

Elizabeth bit back a groan. Another model of wedded bliss. Why had she taken such a drastic step?

Mr. Sorenson removed the lid from a large jar of peppermints on the counter, dipped out a brass scoopful and dumped them into a small sack, then handed it to Elizabeth. “These are for Anna.”

Ted raised a palm as if to refuse, then nodded. “That’s thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Give a kiss to Henry,” Mrs. Sorenson added.

These shopkeepers were warm and generous, different from those Elizabeth had known in Chicago.

“We’d better be on our way,” Ted said. “I promised dinner at the café.”

“Could I speak to you, Ted?” Mr. Sorenson asked.

“Sure.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Will you be all right for a minute?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Sorenson said for her. “That’ll give us a chance to talk. Maybe your wife will share a favorite recipe.”

Elizabeth gulped. Unless calling the maid for tea constituted a favorite recipe in these parts, she was in deep trouble. Surely only the beginning of her woes.