Читать книгу A Mistaken Match - Whitney Bailey - Страница 12
ОглавлениеThe room spun. Her hands tingled strangely and the pitcher fell from her fingers. James lurched forward and rescued the pitcher within an inch of its smashing into the floor.
“By mistake? That isn’t possible,” Ann protested. “Mrs. Turner gave me your name and you had mine. We exchanged letters. How could there be any confusion?”
James set the pitcher on the table and stared at it rather than at Ann. Had she done something wrong in the previous few hours? She mentally picked through the events of the evening, but couldn’t uncover any clues.
“I think the agency made a mistake when they matched us. I had one request and you don’t fulfill it.”
Ann sank into the nearest chair. How could this be? Ann had suspected a mistake minutes earlier but brushed the thought away from her mind like a bothersome fly. Mrs. Turner didn’t make mistakes, did she? “We’ve only just met. We barely know one another. How could you already be so sure?”
James met her eyes before dropping his gaze to the worn wooden floorboards. “I knew in an instant. From the moment I saw you.”
“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Turner had prepared the girls for all sorts of excuses if their matches had a change of heart. They didn’t work hard enough. They cooked terribly. Her mind raced through several reasons why a man might object to marrying her, but none could be ascertained with a glance. He would have to know my heart. She shuddered at the thought.
James met her eyes again. “At the train station today. You could see my surprise at the sight of you.”
“You were nervous. To be honest, so was I.”
James sucked in a lungful of air and pushed his words out in one long breath. “It was more than that. I was surprised because I expected a plain girl. An ugly girl, even.”
Ann rubbed her aching temples. What on earth was he talking about? She’d also expected an ugly match, and had been pleasantly surprised. If only every girl at the agency, and every lonely bachelor in America could be so fortunate. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t see the trouble.”
James ran both hands through his hair until it stood up in tufts. “I requested the agency send me someone as plain as they come. That was my one and only request.”
Ann shook her head. She knew James McCann might have many valid reasons for rejecting her as a wife, and she had steeled herself for all of them. But she’d never expected him to outright lie. She squeezed her hands together to keep them from trembling. “No man would ask for such a thing.”
James sighed. “I did. Farm life can be hard. I knew a pretty girl would expect more than I could give her. I don’t need that kind of nonsense.”
Ann’s cheeks grew hot. Her heart thudded so loud she feared he could hear it. “Why go through an agency at all? I’m sure America has as many ugly girls as England.” She winced at the harshness of her own voice. She’d never been good at keeping her temper. Ann bit her lip.
James brow creased. “I thought someone who needed to find a husband through an agency would have no other alternatives.”
A shiver coursed through her. James McCann had described her situation perfectly. Still, she bristled with irritation on behalf of all the other girls at the agency. “You thought all mail-order brides were desperate.”
“No, no.” He waved his hands as if to bat the words out of the air. “I meant no disrespect.”
She sat up straighter. “What did you mean?”
“I thought a mail-order bride would be more content with this life.”
“This life?”
“I’ve been working on this farm by myself far too long. Uncle Mac needs tending to. I need a helpmate.”
“And why have you already deemed me unsuitable?”
James dipped his head and smiled sheepishly. “A woman like you couldn’t know what hard work really is.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “A woman like me? I’ll have you know I’ve worked harder than most men all my life.”
James chuckled and coughed to disguise it. “I know you worked as a maid, and I’m sure that is hard work, but it’s not the same as farm life.”
“You have no idea,” she replied between clenched teeth. The labor of farm life seemed a sweet reprieve in comparison to her former occupation. Her neck burned with heat and she clenched her hands until the nails cut into her palms as she fought to control her wretched temper.
He dropped his gaze and turned away. “You don’t understand. Regardless, you’re to be someone else’s bride. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so surprised by your beauty, I would have put you right back on that train the instant I laid eyes on you.”
“Back on the train to where?”
“I know some other girl is supposed to be here instead of you, and you’re supposed to be married to some rich banker in California. Or an oil baron in Texas. I’ll send a telegram in the morning, so they know of the mistake, and a letter going into more detail. When we hear back from the agency, we’ll make the proper arrangements.”
How could she fight this? James believed the agency sent her by mistake. In her heart, for her own reasons, she agreed. She took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. “It could be weeks before we hear from the agency. What shall we do until then?”
“Only a few people knew you were coming, but I suppose there’s no way to hide your presence now. We’ll tell everyone the truth. We’re getting to know one another. When you leave they’ll assume you didn’t like me.”
Ann laughed bitterly. James didn’t join her. “You aren’t serious?” she asked.
“Those who know I chose an agency to find a bride already think I’m peculiar. It won’t seem odd to them that you decided not to marry me. And with Uncle Mac here, there’s no reason for anyone to think the arrangement improper.”
“And what if you change your mind about me in the meantime?” Her stomach plummeted and her cheeks burned. Why had she asked that? He must think her positively desperate.
James’s feet stopped tapping and his eyes locked with hers. “You aren’t supposed to be here, Ann. We must right this mistake.”
The resolve in his voice broke something inside her. Her body ached with exhaustion. She’d come so very far, only to be turned away. Soon she’d be completely alone in this world. Ann had been so afraid of rejection, but never in her wildest dreams had she believed it would be because of this. She blinked hard, but it didn’t squelch the tears. They spilled over her lashes and spattered the tabletop.
James reached for her hand and squeezed it tight. She allowed him to hold it, though she desired to wrench it away. “Ann, you’re a fine girl. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife. But I’m also certain if you’re here, some heartbroken fool has been sent the homeliest girl in all of England.” She forced a laugh, and he gripped her hand tighter. She wanted to squeeze his hand back until he yelped in pain. “Don’t you see? We must make this right.”
She nodded, but the desire to pinch his fingers between her own remained. Ann dried her tears with a handkerchief from her pocket, and James excused himself to fill her pitcher. The moment the door closed behind him she snatched the papers from the table and turned them over.
Dear Mrs. Turner,
It is with regret I must write to you so soon. Your agency assured me you would deal with any issues should they arise, and I have an urgent and pressing concern. As you must recall, my only request for a match was the girl be plain. The match you have sent to me, Miss Ann Cromwell, is the most beautiful girl I have ever—
The letter ended there and she flipped the pages back over a second before James returned. He handed her the pitcher.
“I should have voiced my concern the moment we met. Please forgive me.”
Ann forced a weak smile. “It was an overwhelming moment for us both.”
His shoulders slackened and he let out a long breath. “I appreciate your understanding.”
Back in her bedroom, Ann splashed her face with cold water and tried to absorb what had happened. Mrs. Turner’s voice echoed in her head, as clear as in her office. This is your match, Ann. You must try to make it work. No dejected and miserable banker had greeted his plain bride today, with only his immense wealth to ease his disappointment. No lonely oil baron. If James didn’t want her, no one did. The agency intended her to be here or nowhere.
As she readied for bed, Ann sorted through her hopelessly tangled thoughts. There had to be something she could do. She’d been faced with a seemingly insurmountable hardship before. She would simply have to work out her next course of action. She stretched out on the bed and stared at a crack in the ceiling. She had to think! She couldn’t return to London. Even if she could somehow pay for the passage, it pained her to even contemplate the life waiting for her there. No, she could not go back.
She had only one choice. Stay in America. Hadn’t she heard someone on the steamship call it “the land of opportunity”? But could a young girl really support herself here, with no family and no references?
Ann couldn’t cook, of that she was certain, but her years of experience as a maid had to be an asset. She hadn’t noticed many fine houses in New Haven, but there must be wealthy people nearby, and the wealthy were always in need of domestic help. She only had to seek them out and offer her services. She’d never imagined working as a scullery maid again, but without references, she would have to start again at the bottom. The wages were sure to be poor, and the tasks backbreaking, but they were backbreaking in England, too, and she’d survived them before. She was still young, strong. At least she would have food in her belly and a roof over her head.
Sleep didn’t come easy that night. The house remained quiet but Ann’s thoughts did not. Each time her eyes closed, she saw herself on the streets. Sometimes in England. Other times, America. No matter the location, the image sent her pulse racing.
When sleep finally overcame her, fear haunted her dreams. Night fell and a destitute Ann lived in a filthy alley overrun by rats. She found a quiet corner and curled into a ball in a desperate attempt at sleep. As she closed her eyes in exhaustion, a ghastly howl pierced the quiet of the night. A moment before she’d been alone. Now a screaming baby in a bundle of rags wailed into Ann’s chest. Its face reddened with each cry, and from its open cave of a mouth spilled forth the most horrible sound she’d ever heard.
Ann awoke with a start and shuddered. The room remained dark and she threw back the sheets now soaked with sweat. It had been over two years since she’d heard that cry. Two years of trying to forget. Now it echoed in her ears as if she’d last heard it yesterday. Ann hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth.
Please, Lord, she prayed. May I never have that horrid dream again.
* * *
James couldn’t get comfortable. He’d slept on the back porch countless nights before, but tonight the hammock sagged more than usual, his pillow lumped beneath his head and the still air drew every mosquito within a mile to his breath. He stretched a tattered quilt over his face but only succeeded in trapping several whining insects beneath it.
Why did she have to be beautiful? Certainly plain girls were everywhere, if the population of New Haven was any indication. Did the British consider Ann homely? James chuckled at the ridiculous thought. An island nation populated entirely by women as exquisitely attractive as Ann Cromwell would be a sight to see.
Hours passed and sleep never came. Soon it would be light and the chance for rest would be gone. A mournful moo echoed through the barn beside him. James flipped from the hammock onto his feet and stretched his arms until they touched the bead board of the porch ceiling. No sense waiting another hour to milk the cow. It might help keep his mind occupied on anything other than the woman asleep upstairs.
When dawn peeked her head over the horizon, James had completed all of his prebreakfast chores, mucked out the horse stall and reorganized his hand tools. He would have repainted the whole house if it meant avoiding Ann for a few more minutes. His stomach grumbled loudly and he sighed in defeat. He would have to go inside eventually.
Lord, please let her hair be up, he prayed as he entered. James didn’t think he could stand the temptation of seeing her blond hair cascading over her shoulders again as it had the night before. When she’d entered the kitchen, it had taken everything he had not to tear up the letter to Mrs. Turner right then and there. But that wouldn’t have been fair to any of them. This wasn’t where she belonged.
Something felt different when he entered the house. The soles of his boots left gray ghosts of dust on the floor as he walked. Odd. They’d never done that before.
Ann stood at the stove. He was thankful to note that her hair was pinned up. He grunted a hello, poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked.
He nodded into his cup.
“Will your uncle be joining us?”
“Uncle Mac takes most meals in his room. If he doesn’t come down shortly, you can take some up to him.”
Ann cracked two eggs into the skillet from the basketful he’d collected early that morning and left in the kitchen long before Ann awoke. They sent up a sizzle and added a homey scent to the new and pleasant odor in the room. When had he smelled it before? Something was definitely different. The white of the baseboards gleamed whiter. The red-checked curtain over the window hung crisp and vibrant. And the floor had been scrubbed! He realized that his boots always left prints, only now he could see them as they contrasted against the gleaming wood.
She set breakfast before him. Two eggs and a thick slice of leftover bread she must have found in the pantry. His stomach rumbled and he shoveled in several bites. Raw egg white mingled with burned yolk. A large shard of eggshell crunched between his teeth. James stifled a gag and sipped his coffee. Coffee grounds mixed with the mess of egg in his mouth and he swallowed hard. His stomach churned. Thank You, Lord. He needed a reminder of why he’d requested a plain bride.
“You said you used to be a maid?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve never been a cook.”
“No, the house always had its own cook. I worked only as a maid.”
James sighed. “Come here.”
She stepped closer.
“Did you use lard?” She shook her head no. “Had you ever cracked an egg before?” Her cheeks colored and she shook her blond head again. “Why did you scramble them?”
“The yolks broke.”
He sighed again and pushed away from the table. Ann stood stock-still until he grasped her by the elbow, and guided her to the stove. James retrieved an egg from the basket on the sideboard and cradled it in his palm.
“Think of this egg as money. If you hadn’t gone and ruined those—” he cocked his head toward the table “—I could have sold them for almost two cents apiece. You wouldn’t throw two cents out into the field would you?”
As the words came out, he was vaguely aware he was speaking to her as though she were a child. She cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “No, I would not throw two cents out into the field,” she replied coolly.
“What you do is this. Make sure the skillet is nice and hot and drop in some lard. Roll it around until it sizzles. If it smokes, move it off the fire.” He could make eggs in his sleep. Once the lard had melted into a shimmering puddle, he deftly cracked the egg with one hand. It hit the pan with a hiss and bubbled along its edges.
“I don’t like my eggs scrambled. I like them over easy. It takes some practice and a soft touch.” He took her hand and placed it on the handle of the spatula and covered her hand with his own. Together they turned over the egg. It sizzled again.
“The yolk didn’t break,” she half whispered.
James chuckled. “Not if you do it right. Fetch that plate,” he directed.
She retrieved his dish from the table and scraped the offending eggs into the slop bucket. He took the plate and held it near the skillet.
“Can you do this yourself? You still need to be gentle.”
“I think so.” She slid the spatula under the egg and James held his breath as it crossed the short distance from skillet to plate. They smiled at each other as it came to rest.
“Perfect,” he breathed. James raised the plate to his nose and inhaled. “Now, do the next one by yourself.”
Ann yelped and jumped back from the stove. She’d grasped the blisteringly hot handle of the cast-iron skillet.
James’s heart jumped to this throat and he snatched up her hand. The flesh on her thumb and first three fingers pulsed red and angry. Several white blisters appeared before his eyes. He plunged her hand into a pitcher of water on the kitchen table. “You must always cover the handle of the skillet with a towel,” he gently scolded. He withdrew her hand and blew a cool stream of air on it. “Does it still hurt?” he murmured between breaths.
She bit her lip. “Yes,” she gasped.
Without a word he slipped an arm around her waist and led her out the back door. The water pump stood a few yards away. He pumped the handle with one hand and plunged her fingers beneath the icy stream that bubbled forth with the other. Every few moments he removed her hand from the water, examined it and blew a new stream of air across the wet skin to ease the pain.
Each time he drew a breath he also took in the scent of her. Lavender soap and rose petals. Focus! He had to focus on her hand. If he broke the blisters, she risked infection. A curl of her golden hair escaped its pins and brushed his cheek. She turned her face to him and smiled weakly. He shivered.
The shudder of movement cleared his head. He’d let her entrance him again. “We need to get some salve on this,” he said gruffly.
“Do you have butter?”
“Butter’s no good. I have something better.” He grasped her uninjured hand and drew her back into the house. He left her in the kitchen and returned with a tiny silver tin and strips of clean cloth. She wrinkled her nose as he slathered the foul-smelling paste on the burn, but he smiled at the sulfuric, acrid scent. It always reminded him of Mother.
“This smells awful.” She drew up her mouth and pinched her nose.
He mimicked her grimace and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” She tried to jerk her injured hand away but he held on tighter.
“Just trust old Doctor McCann.” He slowly wound the strips of cloth around her slim fingers as he scrutinized the calluses dotting her palm. He still couldn’t imagine a beauty like her assigned to more than the lightest of household tasks. Maybe she was simply thin-skinned?
She picked up the tin of salve with her free hand and eyed the contents. “What’s in this?” she asked warily.
“Beeswax, honey and a few local herbs, among other things.”
“What kind of herbs?”
“Guess.”
Before he could stop her, she placed the tin under her nose and took a deep breath. Her eyes watered and her rosy cheeks turned beet red. She coughed daintily into the sleeve of her free arm but the cough turned into a choke. Soon tears streamed down her cheeks as she barked in ladylike fits. James laughed.
“What is so funny?” she demanded as she wiped at her streaming cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Ann. I didn’t mean to laugh. You just looked so adorable.”
His stomach turned to ice and his heart raced. He dropped her hand.
“I looked so what?” Her deep blue eyes narrowed.
Had she really not heard? “I have a lot of work to do outside,” he mumbled. He had to get away from her. “I’ll take my breakfast with me.”
James snatched up his plate and stepped onto the back porch. The cool morning air washed over him like a sobering bucket of cold water.
The emotional ups and downs that came just from being around Ann were making him dizzy—and angry. He’d had such a simple plan: marry for practicality to a plain, decent woman who’d never leave him so twisted up inside. And then Ann walked into his life and ruined everything, from his peace of mind to his sleep to his breakfast. He stomped back into the kitchen.
“This.” He pointed to the slop bucket with the ruined eggs. “This is why I didn’t want a pretty bride.”
Ann’s cheeks flushed crimson and she clenched her hands into fists. “You think an ugly girl will make you a better breakfast?”
“I need to eat, Ann. Uncle Mac needs to eat. The animals need to eat. The crops need to be planted and harvested. And you can’t even cook an egg.”
“I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you, Mr. McCann, but why are you berating me? If I’m another man’s intended, you won’t be bothered with me much longer.”
James’s cheeks burned. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Forgive me.”
He escaped out the back door before he could say something else he regretted. Ann was right. It didn’t matter that, despite the disastrous breakfast, in a single morning she’d impressed him with much more than her beauty. She’d risen early to clean the entire kitchen by dawn, made an attempt at breakfast and stood stoically through the dressing of a burn that would likely make a grown man cry. None of that mattered. The agency intended her for another, and he had to keep reminding himself of that. Forget for an instant and he risked falling in love.
