Читать книгу A Mistaken Match - Whitney Bailey - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Ann had hoped her meal with James McCann might break down this peculiar wall between them, but as he guided her to the wagon, she could almost palpate the barrier. She knew things would be awkward at first—the agency had prepared her for that—but she hadn’t expected the bewildered greeting or the clear discomfort.

They were both nervous, she reminded herself. She simply hid her nerves better. If only he knew how her breath had caught in her throat when she first laid eyes on him. She’d been expecting an ugly man, not a handsome one who sent her pulse racing. Perhaps if he knew, he could make eye contact with her for more than mere seconds.

James released her hand the instant she alighted from the wagon, as if her touch burned him. She glanced back at her trunk for the first time. A beautiful quilt lay folded on top. A pattern of intertwining gold circles rested on a background of forest green and sky blue.

“What’s this?” For a moment, she forgot the awkwardness between them and held up the quilt.

James glanced over as he juggled the reins. “It’s a present from Frederick.”

“A present for me?”

His cheeks flushed crimson. “For us. A sort of early wedding present.”

“Who made it?” Ann unfolded the quilt to examine it further. Even from a distance she knew it had been made by an expert hand. Up close the stitching proved exquisite.

“Frederick’s cousin is a seamstress’s apprentice. She works over there.” He pointed to a brick storefront with a bright blue awning squeezed between the tobacco shop and a mercantile.

“From this work she looks to be more than an apprentice.” She made a quick count of the stitches. “Why, there look to be fourteen stitches per inch!”

“You know quilting?” He sounded surprised.

Ann smiled. “Yes, well, embroidery mostly. Though I love any kind of stitching. The more stitches in an inch, the more accomplished the quilter. This work is some of the finest I’ve ever seen.”

“You didn’t mention it in your letter.”

There had been only two short letters exchanged between them before Ann had left. The expanse of the ocean made it difficult to have any kind of courtship. How very much like strangers they were.

“Your letter didn’t say much either.” Four paragraphs. He summed up his life in four short paragraphs.

They left the town behind, and James took off his hat and ran his hand through his thick sandy hair. The wind tousled it and gave him a decidedly boyish appearance. She studied his face. He possessed a straight, strong nose and finely lined lips. James McCann proved as handsome as they come.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

Ann clapped her hands together. Finally! “How much time do we have?”

“The ride back to the farm is around forty-five minutes this time of year.”

Her stomach dropped, but she tried not to show her disappointment. It had been years since she’d lived more than a few blocks from the nearest store. “Isn’t that a rather long time?”

“Quite a short time. In the spring the skies open and this road turns to mud. That’s why it’s called Mud Pike. When the road turns soggy it takes two, maybe three times as long. On those days it’s faster to walk.”

The sticky heat of the summer evening clung to Ann’s back. She tried to push the thought of walking to town as far away as spring felt.

“You’re a farmer, aren’t you?”

James nodded.

“Are you originally from New Haven?”

James only nodded again. Ann sighed. She needed a new line of questioning.

“How old are you?” She tried.

James turned to her. “Didn’t the agency tell you all of this?”

“Yes, but I wanted to hear these things from you.”

“I’m twenty-five. You’re eighteen, right?”

“Nineteen in September.”

Ann waited for him to ask her a question but he remained silent.

“Isn’t there anything you wish to know about me?”

James took his eyes off the road and placed them squarely on Ann. She shivered under his intense gaze. “The agency said you used to work as a maid.”

“That’s correct. I was eight years in service.”

“You don’t look like a maid.” He sounded accusatory.

“May I ask what a maid is supposed to look like?”

His eyes narrowed. The effect made him look thoughtful rather than menacing. Ann sat up straighter and tried to look more confident than she felt. As his scrutiny continued, blood drummed in her ears and perspiration trickled down the back of her neck.

“I guess I never thought a maid would look like you,” he answered finally.

“And you don’t look like a farmer.”

James eyes widened and his lips drew into a broad smile for the first time that day.

“Alright, then. What does a farmer look like?”

Ann narrowed her eyes in the same way James had, and tried to mimic the intense scrutiny he had applied to her. Her efforts had the opposite effect. His smile grew wider. And what a simply splendid smile. Straight teeth and full lips. The fading light darkened the green in his eyes, and fine lines crept out from the corners. He sat perfectly straight as he drove, and his work-broadened shoulders tapered into a lean waist. The fingers of the hand holding the reins were long and slender, but thickly calloused. He’d likely worked hard every day of his life.

“I’ve changed my mind. You do look like a farmer.”

“You still don’t look like a maid.”

Ann sighed and crossed her arms. She wanted to get to know him better, but he didn’t make it easy.

They continued the rest of the trip in silence and Ann tried to ignore the bumps in the road that bounced them closer and closer together on the wagon seat. She let out a breath when James announced, “There it is.”

James’s farm sat a quarter mile off the main road. A large whitewashed brick two-story with a gray slate roof and gracefully arched windows perched atop a small hill at the end of the drive. A deep porch sporting a sun-bleached porch swing ran along the front. The barn and other outbuildings shone bright with new red paint, and a neatly trimmed yard spread out in front of them. A well-tended garden filled with neat rows of green sat beside what appeared to be half a dozen fruit trees. Ann’s heart leaped to find something else that day that exceeded her expectations.

James stopped the wagon in front of the porch steps and helped her down. As she stood waiting for him to return from the barn while he stabled the horse and put away the wagon, she admired the clumps of freshly planted white and yellow daffodils around the foundation. Had he asked a neighbor for some transplants for her benefit? James returned carrying her trunk and the quilt, and she tentatively held his elbow as they walked up the steps. His arm didn’t stiffen this time.

An elegant panel of windows flanked either side of the front door, and it opened into a small but inviting entry. A long rag rug, shallow side table, oval framed mirror and a gilt framed photo of the very house they were standing in adorned the space. A graceful walnut railing curved along the staircase.

He set the trunk down at his feet and gestured to the left. “This is the parlor.” A stiff horsehair sofa and chairs faced the fireplace. “And the dining room to our right.” Six curved-back chairs surrounded a cherry dining table. A high cabinet with glass front doors held a small collection of matching china dishes encircled with blue flowers.

Ann smiled and nodded, hoping he could see how the house pleased her. Mrs. Turner had tried to prepare her for something small and sparse and her heart lifted in delight to see she couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“Through the door at the end of the hall. My father only put on a lean-to when he built the house.”

Ann perked up at the mention of his father. “When will I get to meet him?”

“Who?”

“Your father, of course.”

James set down the bags and rubbed his hands together. “I’m afraid you can’t. He and Mother died some years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “When will I meet your brothers and sisters?”

“No brothers or sisters. It’s just me and Uncle Mac.”

“I thought all farmers had many children.”

James laughed. “Where did you get an idea like that?”

“In England, farmers always have scads of children.”

“Did you grow up on a farm?”

Her thoughts turned to the orphanage and the Atherton house. The simplest answer felt the easiest. “No.”

“Mother and Father wanted more but the Lord only blessed them with me. A farm is hard work with only one son to help. I pray God chooses to bless me with many children.”

Ann’s hands grew slick with sweat and her stomach lurched like a newborn foal finding its legs. He wanted children? Had her one request been overlooked? Ignored? Certainly her face reflected the nausea that lurched within. James tilted his head in scrutiny, and she drew in a deep breath to stifle the sickening dread that threatened to overtake her.

“Are you alright?”

What could she possibly say? Two dollars in coins jangled in her pocket book. It was all the money she had in the world.

“I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

He picked up her trunk and pointed toward the stairs. “I’m sure you’re worn out after all your travels. Let me show you to your room.”

Upstairs were three closed doors. James stopped at the first on the right and opened it. Inside a small side table and dresser sat below a plainly framed mirror. A single bed hugged the wall next to the window. He marched in and set her trunk down in the middle of the faded green rag rug and draped the quilt across the top.

“Uncle Mac has the room next to this one, but he’s in bed already. You’ll meet him tomorrow. My room’s across the hall, but I’ll be sleeping on the back porch.”

“Is that really necessary? I’d feel horrid if you weren’t able to get a proper rest.”

“Don’t feel bad on my account. I sleep out there most summer nights anyway.”

“Oh.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Her head and neck ached and the fatigue of travel and stress enveloped her like a heavy blanket. She could only think of the inviting-looking bed. Ann shook her head.

“Well then, good night, Ann. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

Ann sank onto the bed. A dull ache throbbed across her temples, and she closed her eyes and tried to sort out the day’s events. The more she reviewed the day, the more peculiar it all felt. James had been nervous when they met, but something more hid behind his green eyes. It wasn’t only surprise. Was it confusion? Disappointment? He’d had plans to marry her the very next day—plans he’d quickly changed. Though she was relieved—surely they could get to know one another a little while before they were betrothed—she couldn’t help but wonder why the sudden change of heart? And what of that comment about wanting lots of children? Surely Mrs. Turner hadn’t made a mistake?

She closed her eyes and replayed her exchange with Mrs. Turner in the cramped and stuffy offices of the Transatlantic Agency. Mrs. Turner had announced with resolution, “I believe you and Mr. James McCann will be as perfect a match as any.” Ann took deep, measured breaths and tried to slow her racing heart. Mrs. Turner wouldn’t make a mistake of this magnitude. Her business depended on it.

Ann rose and stared into the mirror above the dresser, hoping to find some clue to James’s dismayed reaction at their meeting. The hint of a shadow traced under her eyes, and two stray hairpins poked their heads out like nosy children. She appeared as she expected after so many days on the train. She removed her brown felt hat and ran a hand over her forehead. The pain in her temples spread over her creased brow. Ann plucked out her hairpins and untwisted her coiffure. Her hair fell down past her shoulders and she groaned as the ache in her head eased.

She opened her trunk and retrieved the few things she needed for her toilet. The pitcher proved empty, and James hadn’t shown her the privy. Did all men forget women had need of such basic necessities? The reality of sharing a home and life with another would drive anyone to distraction. Maybe that was all that was wrong between them—awkwardness and nerves.

That thought cheered Ann, and she convinced herself of it on the short walk downstairs with the pitcher. If houses in America were like those in England, the well pump would be directly outside the kitchen door. James had also failed to supply her with a lantern or candles. Thankfully, the summer sun had not yet set, and soft fingers of orange sunset lit her way.

She opened the kitchen door and found the room bathed in dusky light. James sat at a worn wooden table with his back to her. The floor creaked as she entered and he jumped from his seat, sending papers scattering to the floor. They both stooped to retrieve them and his fingers grazed hers. He snatched his hands back and ran them from the crown of his hair to the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry I startled you. I came to fetch some water.”

James’s gaze fixed on the papers in her right hand. She passed them to him, but not before she saw the salutation.

“Why are you writing to Mrs. Turner?”

James colored and opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut. He pulled out a chair and directed Ann to sit down.

“I’m sorry, Ann. I should have said something sooner. But when you got off the train, you caught me by surprise and I didn’t know what to do.”

“You’re sorry? What has happened?”

James locked his eyes with hers. “There’s no use beating around the bush. I never expected a woman like you.” He raked a hand through his hair.

“The agency sent you to me by mistake.”