Читать книгу The Other Bride - Lisa Bingham - Страница 9

The moment the woman formerly known as Louisa Haversham debarked from the ship, she donned her new identity. Although she was a few inches taller than her former cabinmate, she wore Phoebe Gray’s clothes. She’d claimed the other woman’s more modest trunks as her own, and had even signed Phoebe’s name on the ship’s register.

I am Phoebe in word, deed and thought, she repeated over and over to herself. Now and forever.

Despite the serious nature of her transformation, “Phoebe’s” heart was light as she joined the throng of people at the quayside and arranged for the delivery of her belongings to a local boardinghouse. Once there, she would meet the other mail-order brides destined for the Oregon Territory. Tonight she would sleep in a real bed with real pillows, and tomorrow she would board the train for the West.

Her steps were almost jaunty as she wove through the throngs of passengers eager to make their way into New York proper. She paused only once to turn and wave to her friend and fellow conspirator.

“Louisa” returned the greeting, looking every bit “the lady” in her silk visiting gown and tiny bonnet, and Phoebe knew her friend’s eyes must be snapping with mischief.

In the short time they’d spent together, Louisa had grown to love Phoebe Gray and look upon her as an adopted sister. The woman was impulsive, witty and nearly as headstrong as Louisa. But where Louisa tended to defy authority and carry her grudges like a badge of honor, Phoebe hid her frustrations with laughter, an eccentric imagination and a tendency for retribution.

Physically, Phoebe was very nearly Louisa’s twin, and throughout their journey, the two women had often been mistaken as sisters. They were of the same age, slim, fashionably pale, their features regally exotic. Mere inches separated them in height. But while Louisa had curly red-gold hair and eyes that were more blue than gray, Phoebe had deep auburn tresses and eyes that were more gray than blue.

So alike.

And yet so different.

Phoebe smiled ruefully. Her father would be appalled if he could see her now—blithely throwing away her birthright without a second thought and allowing a stranger to take her place. She’d kept only a few reminders of her past—the indigo gown she’d worn the night before, two sets of delicate underthings and two pairs of shoes. The items were hidden deep in one of her trunks, along with a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present.

She grimaced. She doubted that the heavy piece had been a sentimental endowment. Instead, she was sure that the ring was meant to remind her of the name and title her father intended to pass on to her firstborn son. He would never discover that his daughter had abandoned his legacy until it was too late to rectify the mistake.

Pausing for a moment, she opened the catch to a carpetbag and withdrew the paper where she’d copied the boardinghouse’s address. There she would meet the eight mail-order brides who would make the journey by rail. Once in San Francisco, she would wed Neil Ballard—a simple farmer looking for a woman to take care of his house.

“Let go of me! Unhand me, I say!”

“Watch out, miss! Move over!”

At the sound of a scuffle behind her, Phoebe flattened herself against the wall. To her horror, she saw a grizzled old man being hustled down the street by a pair of uniformed policemen.

Phoebe recognized the old man instantly. Poor Mr. Potter. Halfway through the Atlantic crossing, the scruffy octogenarian had been discovered on board as a stowaway. Within minutes, he’d been locked in one of the lower cabins. He’d spent the remainder of the journey there or shackled in chains on the deck of the ship.

“Lass, lass!” the man shouted as he passed her. “Tell them I’m too old to be sent back to England. Help me, please! Don’t let them do this to me! I’m good for the fare!”

Startled, Phoebe found herself unable to say anything, so Potter turned his attention to the policemen on either side.

“If they’d only let me have a day or two, I could raise enough to pay for my passage. Tell them that, will you?”

But neither gentleman seemed inclined to listen. Instead, they bundled him into an enclosed wagon with iron bars over the windows. Phoebe could only wave to him as the team jolted into a quick walk and the vehicle lumbered away.

Inexplicably, the glow of the sun seemed slightly tarnished. What would become of Mr. Potter? He’d wanted to go West, and in that respect, Phoebe had felt a kinship with him. That was why she’d taken to sneaking him bits of food whenever she could.

“Out of the way, miss!”

She jumped, noting that she was about to be overrun by a pair of men attempting to load a heavy crate marked Farm Equipment onto a wagon. For a moment she stared at the men, noting the way their faces gleamed with perspiration and their bodies strained to lift the heavy box.

Eager to be on her way, Phoebe crossed the street, avoiding the foot traffic and buggies that tangled the thoroughfare. Although she would have enjoyed lingering on her journey to the hotel, time was of the essence. She needed to meet with the other mail-order brides and ensure that her trunks had been delivered. Then she would make a few purchases to augment those items from her friend’s wardrobe that had proved to be too small. She would need sensible shoes and hose, as well as needles, thread and other sewing supplies to alter the hems of those garments that were too short.

Phoebe hailed a hansom cab. Although she was “purse poor” and likely to remain so for some time, she decided that the extravagance would be worth the time saved.

Climbing into the cab, she clutched her carpetbag in her lap, straining to see as much as she could of the city through the narrow window. But even with the plethora of sights, she found her mind wandering back to the night before.

To the stranger.

The memory had the ability to make her skin tingle. How she wished she had found the courage to turn and face the gentleman who had come to her aid on the deck of the ship. He had been so kind….

And yet there was far more to the encounter than a chance meeting with an unfamiliar man who had offered her comfort. His nearness had thrilled her in a way she had never experienced before. From the moment he had spoken to her, she had been tuned to his nearness, his height, his strength. His muffled voice had been deep and warm, yet had retained a harder edge—like velvet over steel.

If only there had been more time.

If only she’d seen his face.

“Here you are, miss.”

The cabby pulled to a halt so abruptly that Phoebe was nearly jolted from her seat.

Her face grew hot. The time had long since come for her to gain control of her wayward thoughts. She was engaged to a farmer in Oregon. She had no business mooning over a stranger she’d encountered during her journey.

Straightening her bonnet, Phoebe jabbed the hatpin through the brim with a bit more force than necessary, then dug into her reticule for the amount she owed the cabby. She would do well to remember who she was. Phoebe Gray, a mild, hardworking Christian woman with a long journey still ahead of her.

Reminded of her new persona, Phoebe thanked the cabby for his efforts, adding a penny tip from her neat stash of coins. Hefting her satchel, she marched up the sidewalk and twisted the gleaming brass doorknob.

“Come in,” a distant voice called from within.

Stepping into the dim interior, she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but even before they did, she absorbed the smells of lemon-scented furniture polish and baking bread.

A plump woman wearing a brown wool day dress, an oversize apron and a lace cap bustled into the room. “Hello, dear. May I help you?”

“Yes. My name is L—” Phoebe’s face flamed. Here was her first encounter with a stranger and she’d nearly made the mistake of using her real name. Never, never, never, she chided herself. You are Phoebe now. Phoebe Gray.

Clearing her throat, she began again. “My name is Phoebe Gray. I was told to meet with—”

Phoebe didn’t have a chance to finish. The woman began clucking in concern. Taking the satchel from Phoebe’s fingers, she looped her arm through her elbow and drew her irresistibly toward a narrow staircase.

“I’m Mrs. Cates, the proprietor.” She clucked again. “My dear, my poor, poor dear. You’ve arrived at last and just in time to discover that your journey is over before it’s begun.”

A moment passed before Phoebe caught the full meaning of what the woman was saying.

“Over? What do you mean, over? Did the Overland group leave earlier than planned? Did I miss the train?”

Mrs. Cates wagged her head and her many chins trembled. “No, dear. It’s worse than that. Far worse.”

Mrs. Cates steadfastly ushered her to the top of the staircase, but once there, Phoebe planted her feet and refused to budge. “Mrs. Cates, please. Tell me what’s happened.”

The proprietress sighed. “The other girls are in here,” she said, gesturing to a small sitting room visible through a pair of double doors. “I’ll let them explain everything, poor darlings.”

With that, she urged Phoebe forward and into the parlor.

Upon stepping across the threshold, Phoebe found the room cluttered with luggage and women. Like her, some of the girls were still dressed in dusty traveling suits, while others must have been in residence at the boardinghouse long enough to grow comfortable with their surroundings.

A quick count assured Phoebe that there were eight women present. The youngest, a delicate blonde who stared wistfully out the window, looked to be barely more than fifteen. From there, the average age of the women seemed to range from Phoebe’s twenty-one to a tall statuesque woman of at least fifty.

“Ladies, here’s the last of your group. Miss Phoebe Gray.”

The women turned to greet her. But even as they smiled or nodded, it was clear the mood of the group was glum.

“Miss Gray, may I introduce Twila Getts.” Mrs. Cates referred to the statuesque older woman with silver-blond hair combed sternly away from a center part. “She’ll be marrying a minister in Oregon.”

Twila extended a hand and gripped Phoebe’s firmly.

Mrs. Cates continued. “These lovely ladies, as you can tell, are twins. Maude and Mable Wilde.”

The twins appeared to be in their mid-thirties, with mud-brown hair drawn into identical swirling knots at their napes.

“We were teachers at a private school in London before deciding the educator’s life wasn’t nearly as keen as we’d hoped it would be.”

The sisters grinned as if sharing a private joke.

“They’ll be marrying a pair of twin brothers in the Willamette valley,” Mrs. Cates offered. She then turned to another pair of women. “This is Greta Schmidt, from Germany, and Heidi Van Peltzer, from Austria.”

Greta had white-blond hair arranged in two round rolls over her ears. Heidi’s hair was only slightly darker and had been wound in plaits around the crown of her head.

“They don’t speak English,” Mrs. Cates whispered—as if by lowering her voice, the announcement would be less shocking. “They’re bound for a dairy farm run by a pair of Scandinavians.”

Mrs. Cates tugged Phoebe in the direction of a swooning couch. A beautiful dark-haired beauty reclined against the tufted velvet. Despite the introductions, she continued to read a book.

“This is Doreen Llewelyn-Bowes.”

Doreen briefly glanced up from her novel. She offered a smile that was somehow lacking in warmth, then returned to the volume of poetry.

Mrs. Cates seemed relieved to be so summarily dismissed. “This is Edith Diggery,” she said, her tone bright again. She drew Phoebe toward a delicate blond girl at the window.

“She’s an orphan, poor lass,” Mrs. Cates said under her breath. “Her father made provisions for her to marry the son of a friend.”

Edith offered Phoebe a nervous half smile, and Phoebe’s heart ached for the girl. Surely this youngster wasn’t ready for the demands of marriage, especially to a stranger.

“And this is Betty Brown.”

Betty jumped from her spot on the settee and bounded toward them.

“I’m from Long Island, so I haven’t come very far at all, but I’m destined to marry a schoolteacher in Oregon whose name is Harry. Isn’t that a rather funny name? Harry? I wrote to him and asked if it was short for something, Harold or Horace, but he wrote back to say, no, it’s just Harry. Plain old Harry.”

Phoebe immediately warmed to the gregarious girl with the snapping blue eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what his name is,” Doreen drawled from the swooning couch. “You won’t be seeing him anytime soon.”

The joy dimmed from Betty’s eyes as quickly as it had come. “Oh,” she offered forlornly. “That’s right.”

“What’s happened?” Phoebe breathed, almost afraid to discover what calamity could be preventing their journey.

“It’s that blasted Overland Settlers Company,” Betty said with a sniff. “They’ve absolutely forbidden us to accompany them on their trip West.”

Phoebe felt her stomach lurch. A fuzzy blackness swam in front of her eyes, but with a great strength of will she managed to push it away.

“Help her to the couch, ladies, or she’ll swoon!” Mrs. Cates sang out. Several helping hands moved her to an overstuffed settee near the window.

“Water! Get her some water!”

Before she knew what was happening, a glass was being thrust into her hand. Phoebe took a sip, then gulped greedily when the water tasted cool and fresh—unlike the stale, barreled supplies she’d been forced to drink on the ship.

“I’ve got smelling salts if you need them,” the woman named Twila offered, extending a small vial in Phoebe’s direction.

Even a faint whiff of the stuff was enough to clear Phoebe’s brain, and she pushed it aside, saying weakly, “No. Thank you.”

Phoebe stared at each of the women in turn, her blood turning to ice.

She wouldn’t be going West.

None of them would.

“What happened? Why won’t we be allowed on the train? Our husbands-to-be have made all the arrangements.”

Doreen sighed as if she’d been called upon to explain a difficult concept to a child. “Apparently, it doesn’t matter.” Doreen’s voice adopted a peeved note. “The trail boss hired to take the group West has forbidden us from joining them.”

“But why?”

“He refuses to take a group of unaccompanied women on the journey,” Maude explained.

Phoebe was still confused. “What do you mean, unaccompanied? We’ve arranged to travel together.”

“She means that we haven’t got a male chaperon,” Mable explained with a sniff.

Phoebe eyed the glum faces that surrounded her. “There has to be a mistake. The Overland Company has already accepted payment for our passage, knowing full well that we wouldn’t be under the auspices of a male companion. Surely they wouldn’t go back on their word regarding their earlier commitment.”

Doreen sniffed. “Well, they have, and there’s no changing their mind. We’ve been in touch with the Overland offices, and they refuse to hear our complaint. We’ve sent letters, notes, telegrams, and they refuse to budge.”

“What about the trail boss who made the stipulation? Has anyone talked to him? Can we find a way to change his mind?”

Phoebe took heart from the answering silence, and noted the quick spark of hope passing from woman to woman.

“We’ve written to him, naturally, but we haven’t tried to contact him directly,” Doreen stated archly. “Personally, I don’t think such a course of action would be…appropriate.” She looked down her nose at Phoebe and her simple traveling suit. “A woman of proper breeding must draw the line at a face-to-face confrontation. It isn’t seemly.”

Righting the angle of her bonnet, Phoebe ignored the fear and weariness that tugged at her heels and urged her to sit on solid land and rest, if only for a minute.

She had to leave on that train or everything would be ruined. If she didn’t…

If she didn’t, too many things could go wrong.

“Propriety be hanged,” she muttered, draining the glass of cool water and jumping to her feet. “If that man thinks he can brush us aside like a swarm of bothersome flies, he’s about to get a rude awakening.”

In no time at all, Phoebe was striding down the boardwalk again. But this time she was far from alone. In her wake came Maude and Mable, Edith, Twila, Betty, Greta and Heidi. Doreen, who still contended that it wasn’t proper to instigate such a confrontation, had stayed behind.

Phoebe glanced down at the tiny scrap of paper Mrs. Cates had given her, then said, “We need to find 65 Fairfield Lane. The location should be fairly close to the station.”

The walk to the railway station took much longer than Phoebe had anticipated. The genteel surroundings of the boardinghouse had gradually melted away, and the poorer section of town they entered became more and more tawdry.

Despite her outer bravado, Phoebe felt her skittishness increase. After all, who was she to say that they had nothing to fear from taking matters into their own hands? Only weeks before, she’d had little experience of associating with the masculine gender at all. And here she was, charging through a maze of tangled streets and alleyways as if she knew what she was doing. If any of the women who accompanied her were to discover that her bravado was feigned—

“There’s the proper street!” Maude exclaimed.

“The address must be straightaway and to the right,” Mable added, pointing in the direction with her walking stick.

Now that their goal was close at hand, Phoebe felt her stomach flip-flop in reaction. She’d volunteered in a moment of passion to speak to the trail boss, but she suddenly realized she had no idea what she intended to say.

Phoebe’s worries scattered when Edith suddenly gasped in horror. Looking up, Phoebe saw a huge, gaily painted placard proclaiming Golden Arms Hotel.

This time it was Phoebe’s turn to utter a choked cry. Without thought, she stopped in her tracks so suddenly that the other women crashed into her like dominoes.

“What in heaven’s name—” Twila grumbled.

Phoebe gestured to the placard with its brass lettering and a painting of a woman in a shocking state of dishabille.

“No,” Phoebe whispered to herself. “It couldn’t be.”

But a glance at the paper assured her that the address she’d been given as a temporary office for Mr. Cutter was the same as the title emblazoned on the sign.

Phoebe’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Surely she wasn’t expected to find the man in a bawdy house.

Immediately, her irritation ignited into a white-hot anger. The entire situation was intolerable. Intolerable! Due to the edicts of an unknown trail boss who hadn’t even displayed enough decency to meet with the mail-order brides, they’d been put in the dire straits confronting them now. They were stranded in a strange city with no funds, no way to quickly communicate with their intended spouses—most of whom lived in areas miles from the nearest telegraph—and no way to make alternate arrangements. To add further insult, in order to voice their appeals, they had been brought here to…

A house of low morals!

Phoebe heard the women behind her begin to shift in discomfort.

“I say,” Mable drawled in a droll tone. “We’re in a bit of a pickle now, aren’t we?”

Phoebe took a deep breath. “No. We’re not ‘in a pickle,’ as you say. That’s what they want—or at least what Mr. Cutter wants. He’s decided that we are an inconvenience to his expedition. He’s thrown us into a dither without so much as a by your leave, and I, for one, don’t intend to let him have his way. We’ve paid for our passage in good faith. Unless he agrees to reimburse us for all expenses—including room and board—then we intend to be on that train. Isn’t that right?”

If she’d expected her rallying words to instill her companions with confidence, she was sadly disappointed. The only response she received was Betty saying again, “You don’t mean to go in there, do you?”

Phoebe brushed at the dust collecting on her skirts, jabbed the hatpin more securely into her bonnet and tugged at the hem of her bodice.

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t put it past the man to be purposely avoiding us by closeting himself in such an establishment. After all, what respectable person houses his offices at a…Well, you know what I mean.”

The women nodded.

Phoebe took Twila’s hand. “Come with me.”

“Me?” Twila grew pale. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a widowed woman with a knowledge of such…”

Twila looked frantic. “But Miss Gray…” She leaned close to whisper, “I was widowed before my husband and I…before we could…” She took a deep draft of her smelling salts before continuing. “We were married during the war. He had a two-hour leave. We never…”

The woman was already weaving on her feet, so Phoebe gave up. “Fine.” Frantically, she searched around her, finally catching a glimpse of a small park in the distance. “All of you wait over there. I’ll join you again as soon as I speak to the man.”

Reluctantly, the women made their way down the walk, leaving Phoebe to wonder how she’d managed to become embroiled in such a mess.

Anger swept through her as she realized how the careless edicts of one man were responsible for her current dilemma. Emboldened by the emotions bubbling within her, Phoebe strode in the direction of the Golden Arms.

Golden Arms. She should have known something was wrong by the name alone. But she’d thought that…

Never mind what she’d thought. She had to keep her mind on Gabriel Cutter.

As she neared the hotel, Phoebe heard the faint sound of music—not the tinny raucous sort that she had read about in penny novels, but an elegant piano arrangement. She snorted softly to herself, wondering if the proprietors thought that a bit of Mozart would add a note of respectability to the hotel. As far as she was concerned, a full-scale orchestra couldn’t hide the fact that this building housed men and women who—

No. Despite the fact that she would be marrying soon, she couldn’t even think about it. She wouldn’t.

Whispering a prayer under her breath, Phoebe resolutely climbed the stone steps to an ornate door inset with colored, beveled glass. The brass knob turned easily beneath her fingers, and before she quite knew what had happened, Phoebe found herself moving into an elegant foyer. Rich black and white marble floor tiles gleamed at her. The shiny surface reflected the twinkling candles of a chandelier lit even in the middle of the day. To one side, rich maroon draperies were drawn back from the threshold of a reception room, where dapper gentleman spoke in low voices with women in various stages of undress.

Phoebe felt her face flame. She couldn’t imagine what would possess a woman to entertain a man wearing little more than her chemise and pantalets.

“May I help you?”

Phoebe jumped. The voice was so soft-spoken and cultured that she was taken aback. A glance at the elegantly dressed woman who had silently appeared at her side did little to settle her nerves.

“I’m looking for Gabriel Cutter,” Phoebe blurted, then wished she’d tamed her tongue and had led up to the subject more gradually. “We have business to discuss.”

The woman seemed amused by Phoebe’s quick reply, but she waved a hand toward a settee positioned against one wall. “Would you care to sit while I get him?”

Phoebe eyed the velvet-tufted sofa. After the difficult day she’d already had, she wanted nothing more than to sit, remove her shoes and rub her aching feet. But she couldn’t allow herself to relax until after she’d met with the trail boss.

“No, thank you,” she said primly.

The woman smiled and glided away.

Curious glances were being cast her way, but Phoebe refused to reveal her discomfiture at her surroundings. With what she hoped appeared to be a bored casualness, she turned away from the reception room with its scantily clad women and debauched gentlemen and stared instead at the painting hung over the sweeping staircase.

She had been given very few opportunities to study art while at Goodfellow’s. Even then, the subject matter had been strictly confined to portraits of sober Elizabethans and bowls of Flemish fruit.

But this…this was lovely. Such vibrant colors, an exotic woodland realm and…

Bit by bit, Phoebe became aware of the prickling of the hairs on her nape. In the same instant, her eyes suddenly registered the content of the artwork in front of her.

Sweet heavens above, she thought in shock as she absorbed the nubile young woman clad in nothing more than a diaphanous silk scarf being ravished by a creature that was half man, half beast.

In shock, her hand encircled her throat, and her gaze leaped to the small brass plaque that read Rosalind and the Satyr.

Gasping, Phoebe whirled to escape the startling lasciviousness of the picture. But her shock was compounded when she found herself face-to-face with a man.

And heavens, what a man.

He was tall, with an angularity to his features that was both harsh and intriguing. Eyes the color of cold silver gazed at her with a piercing intensity that made her hands curl around the strings of her reticule. He was forbidding, of that there was no question. Yet even as she would have jumped to the conclusion that he was completely heartless, she hesitated. The shadows lingering in his eyes, the strain around his mouth and the tense set of his jaw bespoke a pain that was at once eloquent and foreboding.

Before she could gather her scattered wits, the man’s eyes dropped. His gaze raked over her with insolent thoroughness, making her acutely conscious of her rumpled traveling costume and the ever-present dust that clung to her skin.

“You’re very lovely, but I don’t recall asking for your business.”