Mail Order Sweetheart
Mail Order Sweetheart
Christine Johnson
The Husband HuntTheatre singer Fiona O’Keefe is on quest to form the perfect family for her orphaned niece. It’s a shame handsome and musically talented Sawyer Evans can’t support a household on his sawmill manager wages. For that, Fiona needs a respectable gentleman of means. And if she can’t find one in Singapore, Michigan, then she’ll just have to look for a husband in the mail order want ads…Sawyer doesn’t want Fiona to marry a stranger…or anyone other than him. It would be easy to reveal that he’s secretly heir to a railroad fortune. But Sawyer’s determined to be a self-made man, so he isn’t willing to take his father’s money. Instead, can he prove to Fiona that the man she needs is already by her side?
The Husband Hunt
Theater singer Fiona O’Keefe is on a quest to form the perfect family for her orphaned niece. It’s a shame handsome and musically talented Sawyer Evans can’t support a household on his sawmill-manager wages. Fiona needs a respectable gentleman of means. And if she can’t find one in Singapore, Michigan, then she’ll just have to look for a husband in the mail-order want ads...
Sawyer doesn’t want Fiona to marry a stranger...or anyone other than him. It would be easy to reveal that he’s secretly heir to a railroad fortune. But Sawyer’s determined to be a self-made man, so he isn’t willing to take his father’s money. Instead, can he prove to Fiona that the man she needs is already by her side?
“Sawyer!” Fiona called out.
This time he turned toward her. After giving the coil of rope to another man, he loped down the short distance and relieved her of the blankets.
“Take my arm,” he said.
The security of his strength washed over her. He would help her. He would ensure her niece was safe.
“Must help...” she began, but could get no further before gasping for breath.
They managed the last few yards to the top of the dune. There Sawyer released her and returned the blankets to her care.
She caught his arm. “You need to rescue them.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know if we can with those waves.”
“You must. You must.” She hung on him with desperation. “My niece. She’s only seven. She could be on that ship.”
His expression, highlighted in the eerie light of the lighthouse, twisted with concern. “I’ll do what I can.”
Dear Reader (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049),
Thank you for joining Fiona and Sawyer through the ups and downs of their journey. It was fun to take two characters with opposing backgrounds and hopes and find a common ground for them. Sometimes things are not as they appear!
That’s true of Astor House, the local hotel, which according to some sources did exist in historic Singapore. I love the pretensions of naming a lodging establishment in a small lumber town after the first luxury hotel in New York City. Someone had a lot of optimism!
The village of Harmony is fictitious, however, the islands of Lake Michigan have been host to some breakaway sects that established their own “colonies.” The first and most recognizable was established by James Jesse Strang’s followers who broke from Brigham Young and settled on Beaver Island in the mid-1800s. Books, articles and a museum on Beaver Island detail that episode in history. In the early 1900s, the House of David established a colony on nearby High Island. When I visited that island as a child, there were still remnants of buildings left, and I imagined they belonged to that colony.
It’s been fun incorporating snippets of history in the novels in this series. I hope you will join me for the fourth book. Questions or comments? Contact me through my website at www.christineelizabethjohnson.com (http://www.christineelizabethjohnson.com/).
Blessings,
Christine Johnson
A small-town girl, CHRISTINE JOHNSON has lived in every corner of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. She enjoys creating stories that bring history to life while exploring the characters’ spiritual journeys. Though Michigan is still her home base, she and her seafaring husband also spend time exploring the Florida Keys and other fascinating locations. You can contact her through her website at christineelizabethjohnson.com (http://christineelizabethjohnson.com).
Mail Order Sweetheart
Christine Johnson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
And ye shall know the truth,
and the truth shall make you free.
—John 8:32
For my sister, Donna,
who taught me a lot about strength.
To God be the glory.
Contents
Cover (#u05ea25b2-b1ac-5e6e-a314-8652270e0c8f)
Back Cover Text (#u47c5185c-f11e-564b-9c73-1a4299b1cef6)
Introduction (#uab8edb83-c723-524a-9edc-2c7444efa1ad)
Dear Reader (#ulink_f60e18dc-892c-510e-a738-5750803e10dc)
About the Author (#u32f989dd-8b49-597d-bc82-72397273225a)
Title Page (#u8c32783f-1352-5ece-af8f-c3e52f6bb16a)
Bible Verse (#uce211ef3-c30a-58e6-bfe7-fae950589159)
Dedication (#ude5c86b3-adaf-51d2-ba0e-fdd1730b3332)
Chapter One (#u2aec4f87-5529-5655-96ef-0e674b0fceee)
Chapter Two (#ue7c55016-eb52-5d10-b4d2-6681b9ae7224)
Chapter Three (#uf395ce97-b006-55b5-88ed-a0374b46a2b4)
Chapter Four (#u2620f10f-fe4a-5a9d-b540-e2b48f5f5b65)
Chapter Five (#u6769690c-fb85-554e-b025-ba60de5f5316)
Chapter Six (#uc771b6ed-dcd6-575b-91bc-7850c653b426)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Singapore, Michigan
March 1871
Sawyer Evans stared at what his friends had written. The piece of stationery gleamed white against the oak store counter, but the words leaped off the page.
He shoved the paper across the counter. “I’m not ready for this.”
“Neither was I,” Roland Decker said with a grin, “but it was the best thing that ever happened. I’ve never been happier.”
His bride of nearly three months curled under Roland’s arm and gave him the sort of look that Sawyer dreamed of getting just once—especially from a particular redhead—but placing an advertisement for a wife was not the answer. This idea of theirs would only bring trouble.
“If I remember right,” he pointed out, “the advertisement that brought Pearl and the other ladies west was supposed to give your brother a wife, not you.”
Roland shrugged. “He did get a wife, and he’s just as happy as I am.”
Pearl, Roland’s wife, nodded emphatically. “Now that you’re manager at the sawmill, you can settle down.”
“Not yet.” Sawyer dreamed of opening his own business, not running someone else’s. Marriage would only drain his savings. Even a frugal wife brought added expenses, and the only woman who’d interested him was definitely not frugal.
“Garrett would tell you it’s an advantage,” Roland said.
Sawyer lifted an eyebrow. “Your brother stayed a widower for two years while he managed the mill. He has children. I don’t. Thus, no need for a wife.”
Pearl grinned. “Not even a certain redhead?”
Fiona O’Keefe. From the moment Sawyer met her last August, the beautiful woman with the fiery hair and temper had piqued his curiosity. She, on the other hand, barely noticed his existence except when she needed an accompanist for her concerts. She had graced the stages and cafés in New York City with her clear soprano voice, yet came to the lumber town of Singapore in answer to the advertisement that gave Garrett a wife. It made no sense. She could have married easily in New York. Why travel hundreds of miles to a lumber town in search of a husband? He’d watched and listened, but in seven months he still hadn’t discovered why she’d come here. Or why she was so desperate to marry.
Sawyer shook his head. “Fiona has set her cap on that ne’er-do-well Blakeney.”
The timber speculator had come to town in January, purportedly looking for a location for a new sawmill, but Sawyer had seen enough manipulators before to recognize Blakeney as one of that breed. Unfortunately, Fiona only noticed the man’s fancy clothes and lofty intentions. From nearly the moment Blakeney arrived on Singapore’s docks, she’d hung on his arm. Sawyer had tried to warn her and got a tongue-lashing for his trouble.
“Then you need to show her what she’s missing.” Pearl jotted something on the paper and pushed it back toward him. “Fight fire with fire, I say. These tweaks should capture her attention.”
Sawyer read the opening line and shook his head. “Up and coming industrial magnate?” Little did Pearl know how close to the truth she’d come. Sawyer wanted nothing to do with that old life, where he was known as Paul Evanston, heir to the Belmont & Evanston Railway. In Singapore he earned an honest wage by the sweat of his brow. It felt good. He slept well at night, knowing he’d done his best to help others, not bleed them dry like Father did. He wanted no part of his father’s manipulation and unethical dealings. “All I do is work the saws in the mill.”
“You’re now mill manager,” Roland said, “which is one step closer to becoming a captain of industry.”
“A lot of steps away.”
“Who knows where this could lead?” Pearl said. “Mr. Stockton might think so highly of your skills that he asks you to oversee operations along this entire side of the state.”
“Far-fetched at best.” Stockton seldom visited, least of all promoted. “If anyone catches his attention, it’d be you, Roland.”
His friend grinned. “You never know. Mr. Stockton has an eye for men with potential.”
Sawyer squirmed. He didn’t want to gain the lumber baron’s attention. Stockton could well know Father and bring the man back into Sawyer’s life. “I intend to earn any promotion through hard work.”
“No one said you wouldn’t.” Pearl looked to her husband for confirmation. “I believe in you. We both believe in you.”
“Fiona doesn’t.” He tore up the sheet of paper. “This will only bring trouble. Or don’t you remember that the advertisement for your brother attracted too many women? This would do the same.”
“Not if it only goes in the local newspaper.” Pearl tapped a finger on the counter with each statement, as if she were instructing him the way she taught the schoolchildren. “The Singapore Sentinel circulates only in the immediate area. Few would see it. There aren’t many women of marriageable age here.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to marry. Not now, anyway. And when I am ready, I don’t need any help finding a wife.” Sawyer had to put a stop to this ridiculous matchmaking effort.
“You might change your mind if Fiona shows interest.” Pearl was already piecing the paper together. “Or would you be interested in Louise?”
Sawyer snatched a handful of scraps from Pearl. “You know I have no interest in Mrs. Smythe.” The petite widow was quiet and bookish, not at all his type. He preferred Fiona’s high spirits.
Pearl brushed aside the remaining scraps of paper and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. “You wouldn’t have to meet anyone since the advertisement instructs interested parties to write in care of the mercantile. Give it a try. What do you have to lose? You just might gain Fiona’s attention.” She began to write.
“And make her forget Blakeney,” Roland added.
“Enough!” Sawyer raised his hands. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s not the right time.”
The mercantile’s doorbell jingled. Seconds later, Jimmy, the lad who helped out the Deckers, appeared at the counter.
“He’s gone.” Jimmy managed between gulps of air.
“Who’s gone?” Pearl asked.
“Him.” Jimmy waved in the air. “Mr. Blakeney.”
“Gone?” Sawyer stared at the boy. “You must be mistaken. He was going to take Fiona to the choir concert in Saugatuck. They probably left early.”
“No, sir.” Jimmy shook his head. “I was over to Saugatuck delivering that cloth Mrs. Wardman ordered and I seen him ridin’ out of town like his horse got spooked. So I went and asked the livery boy where he was off to, and he said Mr. Blakeney paid up his bill at the hotel and was headed upriver to Allegan.”
“Paid up his hotel bill?” Sawyer echoed. He looked at Roland and Pearl, who had equally astonished looks on their faces. “If he paid up, then that means just one thing.”
“He’s gone,” Pearl and Roland said at the same time.
“And he’s not coming back.”
“Someone has to tell Fiona,” Pearl said, her gaze fixed on Sawyer.
“Oh, no.” Sawyer backed away. “This sort of thing is better coming from a woman.”
“It’s better coming from someone who can console her and perhaps step into the missing man’s place,” Pearl pointed out.
More matchmaking. Nothing Sawyer had said made a bit of difference. He liked Fiona, but taking Blakeney’s place might suggest he was interested in more than friendship.
“The time’s not right.”
Pearl set a stack of papers on the counter. “Roland and I have to work tonight. She needs to hear this from a friend. You could ease her disappointment by taking her to the concert.”
Sawyer knew defeat when he saw it. He threw up his hands and headed for the boardinghouse.
* * *
In the privacy of her room, Fiona O’Keefe reread the stunning letter. She wanted to talk some sense into her next-youngest sister, Lillibeth, but there was no time to send a return letter. Singapore didn’t have a telegraph office, which left Fiona without any means to respond.
She shoved the letter in the envelope and rubbed her aching temples. What was she going to do? Lillibeth had done the unthinkable, and somehow Fiona would have to pick up the pieces.
“Not now,” she groaned.
Two months of effort were about to come to fruition. Mr. Carson Blakeney, who’d come to Singapore to find a good location for his new sawmill, was ready to propose. She could sense it. He just needed that last little push. Her niece couldn’t show up now, not until she broached the subject with Carson.
Time had run out. Little Mary Clare could arrive any day now. Lillibeth hadn’t been clear about that part, so Fiona had to be ready. Tonight she would secure a marriage proposal from Mr. Blakeney. If not...
Well, there were no other options. She tucked the missive into the bureau drawer and slammed it shut. The sound reverberated through the boardinghouse. That was that. The time for gentle persuasion was over. Tonight she would employ direct pressure and pray the man didn’t dart away like a frightened rabbit.
What was Lillibeth thinking? A child of seven should not travel across the country without the accompaniment of a known and trusted adult. The thought of that poor motherless child alone and frightened tugged on her heartstrings. When Mary Clare’s mother and Fiona’s older sister Maeve died, Fiona promised to care for Maeve’s only child. She was doing her best to marry respectably so she could do just that. It meant leaving Mary Clare in Lillibeth’s care temporarily, but Fiona sent every dollar she could back to New York. Granted, that hadn’t been much lately, but Lillibeth shouldn’t have run short unless she was spending that money elsewhere.
Fiona pulled the letter out of the drawer and unfolded it. Oh, yes. Lillibeth complained of hardship at home. Fiona’s purse was nearly empty. She hadn’t any extra to send until the concerts began again at the hotel. But she’d sent plenty over the last year. A little care could make that stretch over these lean months, but apparently once the flow of money had dwindled, Lillibeth—or more likely that worthless husband of hers—had decided to send poor Mary Clare to her.
There’s this group a orphans headin’ west, Lillibeth had written, an the matron said she’ll take real good care a Mary Clare.
Orphans! The poor girl must think she’d been abandoned. Why couldn’t Lillibeth wait? Though Fiona’s efforts to find a husband in New York had ended in scandal, she was doing her best here.
Last August, Fiona had arrived in Singapore in answer to an advertisement for a bride. Unfortunately, two other women also arrived with the same intent. In January, the groom, Garrett Decker, married one of them. When Carson arrived later that month, Fiona shifted her efforts to him.
Now it was late March. The snow had melted. The ice on the river had broken up, and the sawmill had roared to life when the first logs floated downstream. She had one last chance, and she had to seize it. Tonight.
The door to her room opened a crack.
“Are you busy?” Louise Smythe peered through the opening.
The short, mousy woman—and competitor for a husband—had recently moved back to the boardinghouse after losing her position as companion to the ailing Mrs. Elder.
“Not any longer.” Fiona tucked the letter into the bureau drawer beneath her unmentionables. Louise wouldn’t read it. Fiona had tested her when she first arrived. Louise hadn’t touched the note that Fiona placed in the bureau while Louise was watching.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” the widow said, still from behind the door.
“It’s your room too.” Fiona pinned a bright red curl in place. Men loved hair piled high atop a woman’s head with curls cascading to the shoulders, and Carson was no exception. She had been blessed with thick, naturally curling locks in a hue that drew attention. “You can come in whenever you wish.”
Louise must have had to tiptoe around the Elders’ house. Either that or she was simply too meek to barge into her own room. When Captain Elder shuttered his house and took his wife to Chicago for better medical treatment, Louise had lost her position. Though the kindly couple offered to let her stay in the house, Louise had refused, saying she didn’t want to live alone. Fiona had offered to share her room. Louise thought her generous, but the lack of paying concerts over the winter had depleted Fiona’s funds.
Louise opened the door a little wider. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but you have a caller.”
“Carson!” The time had arrived. Fiona straightened the skirts of her green silk gown and then plucked a lavish necklace from her small jewelry box. She placed the sparkling diamond and emerald jewels—all glass—around her neck and then admired the effect in the mirror.
“What do you think?”
Louise stepped into the room for a closer look but then hesitated. “It’s...ostentatious.”
“Osten-what?”
Louise’s gaze darted to the door. “Uh, like something the very wealthy might wear.”
“Precisely.” Fiona returned her attention to the mirror. “Hopefully, it’s enough.”
“Enough?”
“To secure an offer.” Fiona adjusted the lace edging on her gown.
“Um, Mr. Blakeney isn’t the one calling for you.”
“What? Who then? I’m expecting Carson. He’s escorting me to Saugatuck for the choir’s performance of Handel’s Messiah.”
“That might be the case,” Louise said slowly, “but Mr. Evans is the one paying a call at the moment.”
Fiona bit back irritation. She did not have time to waste on Sawyer Evans. He was a fine accompanist and an uncommonly attractive man, but his prospects were dim to say the least. She hadn’t worked so hard to sing on the New York stage only to throw her future away on a sawmill worker. She must marry for Mary Clare’s sake, but not to just anyone. Her future husband must hold a position of authority. A tidy nest egg would help too. Carson fit her criteria perfectly.
“Tell Sawyer I’ll talk to him later. He probably wants to discuss future concerts.” If tonight went as planned, she need not sing ever again. A wave of disappointment swept over her. Singing had been her life for as long as she could remember. As a child, she’d sung to escape the gnawing hunger. As a young woman, she’d seen a beautiful singer arrive at a theater and decided that nothing would stop her from doing exactly the same. She could never have imagined the cost of that decision.
“I don’t think that’s it.” Louise twisted and knotted a length of ribbon that she probably used as a bookmark, considering her insatiable appetite for books. “He said he has something to tell you. Something important. He doesn’t look happy.”
Fiona stared at her roommate. Had Mary Clare arrived already? “He didn’t give you any idea what that was?”
“No.” Louise edged toward the door. “Just that he wouldn’t leave until he spoke to you.”
What a bother! If she didn’t get rid of Sawyer soon, Carson could arrive and think the worst. “Very well. Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.”
Louise cleared her throat. “He likes you, you know.”
The statement raised an unexpected flutter in her stomach. Fiona pushed it aside. After all, any woman liked to hear a man found her attractive or interesting. That’s all it was. She couldn’t possibly feel anything for Sawyer Evans. For Louise’s sake, she shrugged and continued her toilette.
“Mr. Evans is not the sort of man who likes fancy clothes,” Louise continued. “He’s an honest, straightforward sort.”
Fiona secretly admitted she found that aspect of Sawyer pleasing. Too many men in New York had lied and manipulated her in an attempt to get what they wanted. Carson wasn’t anything like that. He was always very straightforward about his aims and his background. The combination of wealth and openness was perfect. To gain his favor, she had to put her very best forward.
Fiona set down her brush. “Men adore a beautiful woman. Why, in New York, I was the talk of the theater circuit.” Though that talk had turned vicious toward the end.
“I’m sure you were,” Louise mumbled, “but this isn’t New York. People...well, they value different things.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Well...that different bait catches different kinds of fish.”
“I’m not going fishing with anyone,” Fiona pointed out, though she knew perfectly well what Louise was getting at. What the woman didn’t understand was that Carson did love the fancy gowns. That was the man Fiona needed to catch. “Carson and I are going to a concert.”
“Um, yes. At a church.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t wear my best gown in church?”
Louise flushed. “I just thought...well, never mind. Do as you please. I’ll tell Mr. Evans that you’ll be downstairs shortly.” She hurried from the room.
Fiona listened to Louise’s footsteps clatter down the staircase as she surveyed her appearance again. Perhaps a feather would look good in her hair. She eyed the white plume from both the left side and the right. Too much. Osten—whatever that word was. She tucked a comb into her bag and shut the clasp. Before leaving, she took one last glance in the mirror. Too pale. She pinched her cheeks for more color. Yes, that would do nicely. She looked fine, hopefully fine enough to push Carson Blakeney toward a proposal.
Her finger needed a ring—now.
* * *
Sawyer paced the boardinghouse drawing room. Though Mrs. Smythe was perched on the edge of the sofa, he couldn’t think of anything but how to tell Fiona the bad news. Not that he considered the news bad, mind you. Fiona deserved better than Blakeney.
“Do have a seat,” Mrs. Smythe insisted. “Fiona will be down shortly. You know how much appearance matters to her.”
Did he. He also knew her fiery temper, and the news he had to deliver was sure to set off that storm. He completed another circuit around the room.
“I have a question,” Mrs. Smythe interjected into his thoughts, “purely a matter of scientific inquiry.”
That caught his attention. “Scientific?” He’d never expected to hear that word come out of any woman’s mouth, least of all from Louise Smythe.
The petite woman’s chin lifted. “An experiment, shall we say?”
“Can’t say I like the sound of that.”
“Oh, it’s not trying. I simply wished to inquire about your thoughts on a particular topic.”
“What topic?” He had the suspicion he was stepping somewhere he shouldn’t go.
“A topic of which you are particularly well versed.”
“Oh?” This definitely sounded like trouble, but he couldn’t imagine what she thought was his area of expertise. Sawing logs, sure, but no woman had any interest in that. Mrs. Smythe couldn’t possibly know about his past. Or did she? He steeled himself.
She cast her gaze down. “Which would you say a man prefers—a practically dressed woman or one in all her finery?”
At first Sawyer breathed out in relief. Then he figured there must be a trap in her question, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Unless she was fishing for compliments. He had to tread carefully.
He cleared his throat. “I, uh, appreciate both. At the right time.”
She lifted her face, which wore a frown. “That doesn’t answer the question. If all extenuating circumstances are the same, which would you prefer?”
First she threw a word at him that the Sawyer Evans he’d carefully crafted wouldn’t understand. Then she insisted on an answer. Fine. He’d give her the one she wanted.
“You look good, Mrs. Smythe.”
A sigh of disgust escaped her lips just as Fiona glided into the room. Relief flooded over him until he recalled what he must tell the beautiful redhead.
“Sawyer, I’m surprised to see you.” Fiona always made a grand entrance, and today was no exception. Her right arm floated through the air as if scooping the entire world into her domain. Her hair, her gown, that gaudy necklace, everything about her was designed to make a stunning impression. But her talent impressed him more than all of that put together.
“Fiona.” He crossed the room, took her extended hand, just like before their concerts, and kissed it. “You look lovely this afternoon.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Louise roll her eyes and heard her snort of disgust. So, the widow was jealous. The idea made him grin. It had been a long time since women competed for his attention. Before the war, he’d drawn his share of female interest even though Father and Mother had long planned for him to marry Julia Spencer. When he courted her, Father had congratulated him on following the plan. Then he learned what sort of man his father truly was, and the world shifted abruptly. He enlisted. Julia abandoned him and married another man. His father opposed him in every way. It was war at home as well as on the front.
“Louise said you had an important message for me.” Fiona’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Has a ship arrived?”
“A ship? Why would you care about a ship’s arrival?”
She seemed to relax. “Then none has docked?”
“Right. No ships.” He glanced at Louise, who was still perched on the edge of the sofa, at least pretending to read a book. He didn’t want to break the important news with anyone else present, so he rattled on about the other news of importance. “Stockton wants the schooner finished as soon as possible, so Garrett asked me to take over his duties at the mill.”
He puffed up a bit at the confidence the sawmill manager had shown in his abilities. Sawyer hadn’t been raised for hard labor. Father always said that was reserved for the lower classes. But Sawyer liked the good, honest feel of aching muscles and a job well done.
“That’s why you insisted on speaking to me? Because you’ve been promoted?” Fiona didn’t look the slightest bit impressed.
He should have known. “I thought you might be happy for me.”
“Of course I am.” Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes darted toward Louise with the obvious intent of sending the widow scurrying.
Louise gathered her book and rose. “Please excuse me. Mrs. Calloway must need help in the kitchen.” She left the room.
“There.” Fiona breathed out. “I thought she would never leave.”
Sawyer hadn’t been mistaken. Fiona definitely had more than the usual sense of purpose this afternoon.
She strolled toward the parlor entrance. When he didn’t follow, she returned and threaded her arm around his. “Now tell me the real reason you called on me today.”
Sawyer swallowed. This wasn’t going to be easy, and he didn’t relish that she was standing so close when he delivered the news.
“Well?” she demanded.
He cleared his throat and said a quick prayer that he didn’t botch this. “Uh, word about Mr. Blakeney arrived at the store.”
“Word.” Any hint of merriment drained from her voice.
“Uh. Yes.”
“And they sent you to tell me.” She let go of his arm.
He nodded, his throat as dry as sawdust.
“It’s not good news, is it?”
Sawyer blew out his breath. Best to get it out. “He’s gone. He headed upriver to Allegan.”
He couldn’t miss the dots of color on her cheeks.
“Carson left,” she said bluntly.
“I’m afraid so.”
“When will he return?”
“Uh, he didn’t leave word about that. He just paid his hotel bill and left.”
It took a moment for understanding to settle in. Then her eyelids blinked rapidly. Oh no, she was going to cry. She never cried. That was one thing Sawyer loved about Fiona. She was a strong woman not prone to fits of emotion.
“Well, then. That’s that.” But there was bitterness in her voice. “I should have known.”
Sawyer wished he could find the right words. Blakeney was all wrong for her. Fiona needed a strong man who could match her energy and wits. Blakeney was one of those slippery types who made promises he never kept. It had taken all of Sawyer’s will to hold his tongue around them.
“You deserve better,” he said.
She gave him a sharp look. “Who? You?” Her hands braced her hips. “Why should a woman set her sights on a man who hasn’t two pennies to rub together?”
Chapter Two (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Fiona was left empty-handed with her niece due to arrive any day. She couldn’t raise the girl in a boardinghouse. Without a reliable income, she couldn’t raise Mary Clare at all. Though she fumed at Blakeney’s cowardice, she did so in the privacy of her room. By evening, she was able to set aside her anger and work on a solution.
She spread out every newspaper she could find on the dining-room table. Chicago. Holland. Grand Rapids. Even one very old paper from New York that must have been brought in by a lumberjack stopping on his way upriver to the camps. Even though it was almost three months old, she couldn’t discount any possibility.
“What are you doing?” Louise ducked in, book in hand.
“What I should have done long ago.” Fiona shot the widow a forceful glance. “Something we both should have done. Find a husband.”
“Oh.” Louise dropped her book on the table.
“Pride and Prejudice?” Fiona had heard of that novel. “I would have thought you’d read that one by now.”
“Several times. It’s one of my favorites. Elizabeth misjudges Darcy so.” Louise sighed. “And yet it all works out in the end. Love conquers all.”
Fiona raised her eyebrows at Louise’s romantic wistfulness. The quiet widow apparently still harbored hope for a loving marriage. She had shown no interest in Garrett Decker, the man looking for a bride, but had swooned over Garrett’s younger brother, Roland. They all had, but Roland had settled on the schoolteacher, Pearl, putting an end to their hopes. When the Decker brothers married Pearl Lawson and Amanda Porter in January, the most eligible bachelors in Singapore were taken.
Only lumberjacks and mill workers were left until Carson Blakeney made an appearance. He’d seemed the perfect gentleman with his fine manners and expensive suits, but he’d turned out to be a coward. Once again, the area offered only unsuitable bachelors. Sawyer Evans was intriguing. She’d never met anyone with more natural musical ability, but he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—provide the sort of future she had in mind for Mary Clare. That was proved by his shocked expression when she flatly suggested it. Then he’d gone and spit out some nonsense about it having to be the right time. Yet another coward!
“Love might win out in storybooks, but real life isn’t nearly as tidy,” Fiona pointed out. “Now that the Decker brothers are married and Carson left town, there isn’t a decent prospect in the area.”
“Mr. Blakeney left town?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? He apparently had business to attend to elsewhere.” Fiona pretended to search the newspaper, though it was not opened to the advertisements.
“I’m terribly sorry.”
Louise truly was. Fiona wasn’t accustomed to sympathy. Most women held her at arm’s length, as if she wasn’t good enough to associate with them.
“Well, what’s done is done,” Fiona asserted, “and there’s nothing that will change it.”
“Thus the newspapers.”
“Thus the newspapers.”
“Mr. Evans likes you,” Louise stated.
“Humph.” The memory of Sawyer’s stammered response still hurt. She’d practically asked him to marry her. “Well, I’m not interested in him.”
“Oh.” Louise sank into the chair beside her. “He’s doing well. Amanda said he’s now the manager at the sawmill.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“And you’re still not interested? Garrett Decker was mill manager when he advertised for a wife.”
“He didn’t advertise,” Fiona pointed out. “His children—with the help of Mrs. Calloway—placed the notice in the newspaper. Speaking of which, I intend to locate another prospect at once.” She scanned the first column. No personal advertisements.
“Because the hotel hasn’t reopened yet?”
“That’s part of it.” The occasional concerts at the boardinghouse this winter reduced the cost of her room and board but didn’t give her money to send home. When the hotel closed in January, they’d all been shocked, but Mrs. VanderLeuven told Fiona that she couldn’t make ends meet in the winter once the lumberjacks left for the camps. “It will reopen soon.” It had to.
“I hope so.”
Fiona looked to Louise. The widow had been out of work all winter also. That’s why they were now sharing a room—which would soon include Mary Clare. Three wouldn’t do, not with one being a child. Another room would be required, preferably for Louise. “Did you plan to seek employment there?”
Louise lowered her gaze. “It was a possibility.”
“You could also remarry. That was your plan when you came to Singapore.”
Louise shook her head. “It was the only option at the time. Now?” She sighed. “I still hope for a loving husband who follows the Lord. I can only marry a man of strong faith.”
Fiona mulled that over. She had once felt the same, but circumstances had destroyed that hope. No man of faith who heard the vile and unfounded rumors about her in the New York newspapers would ever accept her for a wife.
“I hope you find him.” But the issue of Mary Clare’s pending arrival weighed on Fiona. Neither she nor Louise could wait for a husband to drop in her lap.
“It’s just a dream.” Louise’s eyes misted, and Fiona wondered what had happened in the widow’s marriage to leave her so reluctant to reenter the institution. Direct inquiry had gotten Fiona nowhere, so she stated the obvious.
“Then you must find employment. You might tutor students, I suppose.”
Louise brightened. “I would like that.”
“Talk to Pearl. She’ll know which students need extra help—and which parents can afford to pay for it.”
“Thank you.” Louise leaned close and lowered her voice. “You don’t need to resort to marrying a man you’ve never met. You could give vocal lessons.”
Fiona laughed. “Have you noticed the type of families in the area? Farmers. Mill workers. Lumberjacks. None of these place a high value on musical prowess, not enough to pay for lessons. No, my course is set. I must marry.”
“Why not go back to New York?”
No doubt that was the question all the women had wanted to ask her since they first arrived in August, but only quiet little Louise Smythe had actually done it. Maybe that woman had more gumption than Fiona had credited to her.
“There is only heartache in New York.” Fiona wasn’t ready to reveal more. The men there had courted her either for show or for their own purposes, never with marriage in mind. Fortunately, she always discovered the truth before it was too late, but rumors still threatened. By active involvement with her church and charity, she’d managed to stop most of them. Until last spring. Mr. Winslow Evanston wooed her with gifts and charm that blinded her for a time. When she discovered his lies and refused to become his mistress, he vilified her in the newspapers. Never again would she trust a man without a ring on her finger. “I doubt I’ll ever go back.”
“Me either.”
Fiona really looked at Louise. Her features were nondescript, but she had a strong chin and surprising inner fortitude. “Your husband died in the war, right?”
Louise looked away. “Yes.”
Heartache. Fiona could recognize that from miles away. And it wasn’t just because he’d died. No, that marriage hadn’t been a happy one. It couldn’t have been, or the family would have taken her in.
“Well, then. We both need a good husband.” Fiona ran her finger down the second column. “Here’s one—‘Handsome man seeks pretty, vivacious wife. Must cook.’”
“That fits you but not me.”
“You can cook.”
“Not as well as you. The bread and rolls you make melt in my mouth.” Louise shook her head. “I don’t fit one single criteria. Besides, I’d rather not marry a handsome man.”
“Why on earth not?”
“They tend to think too highly of themselves.”
Fiona snorted out a laugh. “Honey, they all do, and I can guarantee you’ll never find an advertiser that admits he’s homely.”
“Maybe I won’t turn to an advertisement.” Once again Louise had squared her shoulders and set her jaw. “Maybe God will send the right man here.”
“To Singapore? You’ve seen the kind of men who come here. Rough lumberjacks and mill workers. There’s not a one who cares about book learning. I doubt many of them can read. You’ll never find a gentleman here.”
Louise looked crestfallen.
Fiona regretted her rash words. “Then again, you never know. Anything could happen.”
“It is possible. Roland and Garrett Decker are gentlemen.”
“Married gentlemen.”
“Yes, but not when we first arrived. Another might step off the next ship. I must hope for it.” Louise trembled as she picked up her book. “I believe I’ll go to the parlor and read. Best wishes on your search.” She rose.
The windows rattled, drawing both ladies’ attention. They’d heard it often enough since arriving. First the wind. Then the rain or snow. But this was particularly vicious, considering the calm earlier that day.
Louise left for the parlor, and Fiona tackled the advertisements again. She circled the one she’d read to Louise, even though the part she hadn’t read aloud wasn’t nearly as promising. ‘Willing to work hard to build a new life.’ That sounded like a homesteader. Fiona wasn’t opposed to hard work, but she couldn’t bring Mary Clare into that sort of life, not when the girl displayed such vocal talent.
She crossed that one off and resumed the hunt.
* * *
Sawyer noted the increased wind when he left the boardinghouse kitchen after getting an early supper. He trudged to the mercantile, still irritated over Fiona’s jab. She clearly didn’t think him worthy of her, but she knew nothing about him. He would have defended himself if she’d stayed in the room. Then again, what could he say? He couldn’t admit his past. He’d broken all contact with his manipulative, philandering father. Even though he ached for his mother, Sawyer would never return home. He wrote his mother and prayed for her, but he wouldn’t risk encountering Father. Without that parentage, he could never impress Fiona. She wanted a man with money. He didn’t want a woman to love him for his father’s money. He wanted a woman to love him. But not yet. That’s why he had to talk to Roland.
The wind tore at his open coat and bit into his neck. He hopped up the steps to the mercantile and pushed open the door. The bell rang. He looked around. The place was empty except for Pearl Decker, who stood behind the sales counter.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. May I help you?”
Pearl had come to Singapore as the new schoolteacher, but it didn’t take long for Roland Decker, the mercantile manager, to fall for her. The big fire last November that leveled the schoolhouse had sealed things between them. He proposed. She accepted. And in January, when the itinerant preacher came around, they married.
Sawyer stepped a little farther inside and looked toward the back. No one was gathered around the stove. No one was shopping. “Where’s Roland?”
“He headed up to the lighthouse. Word arrived that there’s a ship headed for trouble. Mr. Blackthorn lit the light early, trying to warn them off. Naturally, every able-bodied man went to have a look.”
“You don’t say. Maybe I ought to go too. But first I need to ask you something.”
“Oh?”
His palms sweated. Why did he get nervous around women? It had been that way ever since his fiancée, Julia, rejected him.
He cleared his throat. “That, uh, advertisement we were joking about earlier this afternoon... I, uh, wondered if I could have it?” The few scraps of paper in his pocket didn’t contain any of the words.
Pearl blinked. “Oh! Of course.”
She moved the ledger, then looked under the counter. Then she disappeared from view.
Sawyer moved to the counter and peered over. She was on her hands and knees.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Decker?”
She looked up, her faced flushed. “I don’t know where it went.”
“It? There were just scraps.” He pulled the few he had from his pocket.
“Well, uh, not exactly.” She stood, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I owe you an apology, it seems. I rewrote the advertisement, hoping to persuade you, but now it’s gone.”
Sawyer got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Gone where?”
She swallowed. “There’s only one place it could have gone. It must have gotten mixed up with the advertisements for the store that I gave to Mr. Hennigan earlier.”
“What?” Sawyer gulped as his mind spun with possibilities. “Are you saying that it will be printed?” But he knew the answer. The presses would already be whirring at this hour. By morning, all of Singapore would think he was in the market for a wife.
“I’m so sorry,” Pearl said again. “Perhaps nothing will come of it.”
“I hope so.” Scowling, he tipped a finger to his hat and hustled back out into the wind, where he could concentrate on something much easier to handle. The biting cold was real. That advertisement wasn’t. He’d just ignore it. It didn’t give his name, after all. Maybe the whole thing would blow over in a few days.
A mournful whistle drew his attention toward Lake Michigan. What was a misplaced advertisement compared to a ship in trouble? One or two vessels had lost propulsion since he arrived in Singapore. Most got into port safely, but some had grounded on the shifting sandbars. With the southwesterly gale blowing in and the sandbars that formed over winter, a ship could easily find itself aground.
He squinted at the lighthouse and made out the light. The sun must be near the horizon by now, but heavy clouds obscured it. Soon enough it would get dark. Hopefully the ship would reach the river mouth before then.
The lighthouse was perched atop the big dune that separated Singapore from the shores of Lake Michigan. Since the first lighthouse had been undercut and toppled into the river, this one was built farther from the water, and the dune had been reinforced with slabs of limestone to stop the seas from eroding the sands beneath it.
The town was nestled between the growing lakeshore dunes and older ones that had once been covered with trees. These days, any gale filled the streets with sand. It even worked its way into the buildings and had to be swept out and shoveled away constantly.
He hurried up the dune. Roland Decker and a handful of men were gathered near the lighthouse, peering at the lake. Already the waves were crashing onshore. Six to eight footers, he’d judge, and they would only build. A passenger steamer rolled in the trough maybe a quarter mile offshore. No smoke trickled from the stack.
“Engines must be down,” Sawyer noted to the group, which included mill workers Edwards and Tuggman plus Ernie Calloway from the boardinghouse and Roland’s brother, Garrett. The lighthouse keeper, Blackthorn, must be up in the tower, but two of his boys had gathered with the men.
“That’s what we figure,” Roland confirmed. “Mr. Blackthorn says there’s a sandbar about a hundred yards from shore, directly in their path. If they ground, the waves will tear them apart, and that water’s too cold for anyone to survive.”
Sawyer whistled. “Better hope they get their engines going.” How many people were aboard? It looked like the ship that had brought Fiona to town. The thought of women and children going down made him ill. “Have they put up any sail?” He couldn’t see if the ship had masts, not without looking through the glass.
“Don’t think they got any,” Edwards muttered.
Sawyer clenched his hands, visions of Fiona flailing in stiff seas flashing through his mind. “They need something to generate enough power so they can steer toward the river mouth.”
“That’s something we can pray for,” Roland said. “Let’s do it.”
Sawyer hesitated. Like most, he tossed up the occasional plea, but the barbarities of war had dimmed his belief that God answered every prayer. This was crucial, though, so after Roland led the prayer, Sawyer answered amen.
God often worked through men, so he pointed out, “We need to be ready to rescue them.”
The keeper appeared at his elbow. “Too dangerous. We can’t go risking people’s lives when there’s not much chance we could reach ’em.”
Sawyer couldn’t accept that. “What boats are available?”
Roland shrugged. “We could launch a rowboat.”
Even the strongest men couldn’t row into that sea. “We need sail or steam. Anything around?”
“My mackinaw boat,” Blackthorn offered.
Sawyer was familiar with the small sailing craft. “That’s got an awfully shallow draft. It’ll struggle to make any headway in these waves.”
They all knew it.
“We need a deep-draft sailboat or, better yet, a steam tug,” Sawyer pointed out. “Can we get the Donnie Belle down from upriver?”
“She must be all the way up to Allegan by now,” Edwards said. “She left here Monday and don’t come back this way for another week.”
Sawyer frowned. Singapore didn’t have a steam tug. Neither did Saugatuck, not one that was running this time of year. Without a tug, the people on that steamer didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter Three (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
“There’s a passenger ship in trouble,” Mrs. Calloway announced to Fiona as she hurried through the dining room on her way to the kitchen. “We’re going to need every bed in the place made up and every spare blanket brought over to the lighthouse.”
A passenger ship! Fiona’s heart leaped into her throat. Mary Clare. What if her niece was on that ship? She pushed aside the newspapers, husband-hunting forgotten, and raced to the entry hall. In a second, she donned her cloak.
“Where are you going?” the boardinghouse proprietress asked.
“I have to do something to help.” Fiona couldn’t bring herself to mention the fear that was building in her chest. A seven-year-old girl. A sinking ship. Icy water. What if?
“You can help right here. We need to carry blankets to the lighthouse.”
The lighthouse would do. From there she could see what was happening and learn what would be done. If the passengers were brought ashore, she could then bring Mary Clare here and warm her up.
“What about the rooms?” Fiona headed for the staircase without removing her cloak. “We’ll need to warm the beds and have something hot for them to drink.”
“All taken care of, dear. Louise has already begun preparing the rooms, and Pearl and Amanda are on their way. Come with me to the linen closet, and we’ll grab the extra blankets.”
Fiona took a deep breath. There wasn’t anything she could do right now. Mrs. Calloway had said the ship was in trouble, not that it had sunk. “The ship is still afloat, then?”
“Aye, bobbing like a cork, I understand.”
Fiona breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. “Is it a large ship?” Maybe if it was very small, Mary Clare wouldn’t be aboard. Lillibeth had said something about a group of orphans.
“From what I hear, it’s like the one you came in on.”
Oh, dear. There had been scores of passengers on the Milwaukee. If rescued, where would they go? Mary Clare could join her, but the rest? “We’ll never have room for everyone.”
“We’ll squeeze them in. Some can sleep in the parlor or on the dining-room chairs.”
As Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway upstairs, she recalled all too clearly the crowded conditions when she was growing up. Parents, two grandmothers, seven siblings—one with a husband—and a baby all squeezed into the tiny tenement apartment. She and three sisters and the grandmothers shared a single bed—three facing one direction and three the other. She’d been kicked in the back and shoulders numerous times, but the boys had it tougher. They’d line up the wooden chairs for beds—three chairs per bed. Ma and Pa gave up their bedroom to her oldest sister’s family, while they slept atop the kitchen table.
Mrs. Calloway was suggesting the same sort of discomfort, except this would be temporary. Fiona hadn’t known relief until she began getting paid to sing and moved to a boardinghouse room of her own. It had felt like the height of luxury, and she would never go back.
At the linen shelves, Mrs. Calloway grabbed a stack of blankets and handed them to Fiona. “Is that too much, dear?”
“I can carry more.” Fiona had always been strong. As a girl, she’d prided herself on the ability to lift more than boys her age. Contrary to common belief, she did not shirk manual labor.
Mrs. Calloway added a few. “No more, or you won’t be able to see in front of you. Come now, let’s get these downstairs and then head over to the lighthouse.”
After Mrs. Calloway donned her outerwear, they trudged through town. The wind howled off the lake, filling the streets with sand and whipping those particles through the air so they stung every inch of exposed skin. Fiona lowered her head against the wind. Thankfully she’d thought to pull the hood of her cloak over her head, or her hair would be filled with grit.
The drifts of sand made progress through town difficult, but fear for Mary Clare drove Fiona on. Climbing the dune taxed her limits. She gasped for breath and had to pause several times while Mrs. Calloway plodded on, apparently oblivious to the exertion. Maybe Fiona wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. The years on the stage had apparently taken their toll.
She pressed onward.
At the top of the dune, the lighthouse flashed a signal in a repeating pattern, but her attention landed on the men standing near the lighthouse entrance. One form was unmistakable. Sawyer. Relief flooded her. She’d never known a stronger man. He could do anything. He would save Mary Clare.
“Sawyer!” The wind shoved her cry back at her.
He would never hear. She must wait until she reached him.
Mrs. Calloway had gained the top of the dune and was talking to an older man bundled in oilskins. Fiona didn’t recognize him. Then again, it was dark except for the flashes of light from the tower above. Sawyer joined them, and the older man handed him what looked like a large coil of rope.
Fiona pressed for the summit. Her pulse pounded as a foot slid backward in the soft sand. The lake roared, and the stinging grit got worse with each step. Unlike Louise, she had never climbed the dunes or gone to the lakeshore. From sailing into the harbor, she recalled that the lighthouse sat high on the dune that separated Singapore from the lake, but she could not recall if there was much of a beach on the other side.
“Sawyer!” she called out.
This time he turned toward her. After giving the coil of rope to another man, he loped down the short distance and relieved her of the blankets.
“Take my arm,” he said.
The security of his strength washed over her. He would help her. He would ensure Mary Clare was safe.
“Must help,” she began, but could get no further before gasping for breath.
They managed the last few yards to the top of the dune, near the man clad in oilskins and Mrs. Calloway. There Sawyer released her and returned the blankets to her care.
“There you are,” the boardinghouse proprietress said to Fiona. She didn’t display the slightest shortness of breath. “We ought to put the blankets indoors in case of rain.”
The man in the oilskins pointed to the keeper’s house. “Jane’s inside.”
He must be the lighthouse keeper, for Jane was the lightkeeper’s wife. Though Mrs. Calloway turned to go to the lighthouse, Fiona had to make sure Sawyer knew about Mary Clare. He had stepped away to talk to the rest of the men.
She nudged his arm. “You need to rescue them.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know if we can with those waves.”
“You must.” She fought desperation. “My niece. She’s only seven. She could be on that ship.”
His expression, highlighted in the eerie light of the lighthouse, twisted with concern. “We’ll do what we can.”
But she could see the doubt in his eyes before he rejoined the men. Poor Mary Clare! Fiona knew no fear when she could take charge, but this was beyond her control. Lord, please save little Mary Clare.
She looked toward the water but couldn’t see anything. The beam from the lighthouse didn’t illuminate the landscape directly below. It pierced the sky above them, a beacon to the ship. Beyond and below the dune, she glimpsed occasional dots of light bob up and then disappear. The beam from the light briefly revealed the tossing tempest.
How could anyone survive those seas?
Mrs. Calloway nudged Fiona with her shoulder, directing her toward the keeper’s quarters. “Come.”
Fiona couldn’t drag her gaze from the unfolding situation. Her feet stayed rooted to the spot even when Sawyer and the men headed down the dune toward Lake Michigan.
“We need to be ready,” Mrs. Calloway urged. “The survivors will need warm, dry blankets.”
Only then did Fiona notice the first spits of rain. Somehow she followed, her legs moving though her mind was still on the embattled ship. Surely they would survive. God would not take the life of one so young. Yet, she could name many who had died even younger. Mama had lost a boy who lived less than one day on this earth.
“Mary Clare,” she whispered into the windy night. “I failed you.”
If she had found a husband sooner. If she hadn’t gotten entangled with that vindictive Evanston in New York. If only she had cast caution to the wind and taken in Mary Clare at once rather than head off on this quest to find a husband well off enough to give her niece all she deserved. What did it all matter now, when the little girl was sick and frightened on a sinking ship?
She looked back but could see only darkness cut by the beam of the lighthouse. This fretting was useless, borrowing trouble from the future. She had to trust Sawyer and the men. She needed to trust the ingenuity of the officers aboard the imperiled ship. Most of all, she needed to trust God. Turning back to the task at hand, she hurried to catch up to Mrs. Calloway.
They covered the distance in little time, pushed forward by the steady wind. Mrs. Calloway stomped her feet on the lighthouse stoop to knock off as much of the sand as possible. A coiled rope mat helped remove more before they stepped inside.
“Jane! We’ve brought blankets,” Mrs. Calloway called out.
A girl of perhaps twelve appeared. “Mother said to leave them on the hall chair.”
“Thank you, dear. Is there anything else you can use?”
Fiona set her stack of blankets on the chair, which was situated opposite the entry table. A simple pewter card receiver sat on the end of the table nearest the door. She couldn’t help wondering how many callers Mrs. Blackthorn got. The tray was empty. The hall stand was not. It bristled with coats, hats, scarves and gloves. A number of umbrellas filled a brass urn beside it.
Mrs. Calloway handed her the rest of the blankets. Fiona had to rearrange a bit to keep the stack from toppling.
“Mother said there could be dozens of passengers,” the girl said. “She’s making soup, but we don’t have enough bread.”
“Don’t go begging these kind folk,” came a voice from the back of the house.
“It’s no bother at all, Jane,” Mrs. Calloway called back. “I’ve got plenty left over, and we can get more on the rise in no time.”
Fiona wondered why Mrs. Calloway didn’t just go back to the kitchen, but then she looked down and saw the sand coating their skirts and coats. No woman wanted that tracked through her house. A considerate visitor stayed in the entry. Fiona recalled all the times she’d barged straight into the boardinghouse parlor without shaking out her skirts. Mrs. Calloway never said a word, but it must have made her sigh with frustration.
“Anything else we can bring after we get the dough ready?” Mrs. Calloway asked loudly.
Jane Blackthorn appeared at the end of the hall, hands covered in flour. “No need to go to that trouble, Mabel. I’ve got a batch ready to go. We might need bandages.”
The two women proceeded to discuss preparations while the daughter returned to the kitchen and Fiona waited. Her thoughts drifted back to Sawyer and the men. What had they encountered at the lakeshore? The waves must be huge in this wind. Their crashing could be heard inside the keeper’s quarters.
“Do you know what they plan to do?” she blurted out.
The two women stared at her.
“Some of the men went down the dune toward the lake,” she added.
Mrs. Calloway looked to Jane before answering. “I expect they wanted to have a closer look-see at the situation.”
Fiona prodded. “What will they do?”
Mrs. Calloway shook her head. “They’re probably seein’ what they can do to save those people on the ship.”
The lump grew in Fiona’s throat. “Then they are wrecked.”
“Samuel says they’re stuck on a sandbar,” Jane said. “The waves could tear the ship apart.”
Samuel must be her husband, the lighthouse keeper.
Icy fingers of dread wove their way around Fiona’s heart. “Then there’s little hope.”
“There’s always hope,” Mrs. Calloway said. “All things are possible with the Lord.”
The paraphrased scripture would normally settle Fiona’s nerves, but not tonight. “But how will anyone get to them in these waves?”
The two older women looked at each other.
Mrs. Calloway answered. “Apparently your Mr. Sawyer—” she often added Mr. to a man’s first name “—said during the war he saw someone send a line out to sea using a mortar.”
“A cannon?” Fiona gasped. “You have one?”
Jane shook her head.
“If the ship’s close enough,” Mrs. Calloway said, “they’re going to try tying a lead weight on the end and throwing it.”
That sounded far-fetched, but Fiona wasn’t going to say that, not with the ladies’ husbands involved.
“If that doesn’t work,” Mrs. Calloway continued, “they’ll use the mackinaw boat to try to get to the foundered ship.”
Boat meant small. Fiona’s head spun, and she leaned against the wall for support. All she could envision was Mary Clare’s lifeless body dragged from the icy water. Just hours ago, she’d been upset that her designs on Carson Blakeney had come to naught. What were her plans compared to people’s lives? Innocent people faced death on that ship, and brave men would risk their lives to try to save them. Sawyer in the lead.
“Now there,” Mrs. Calloway said, “no one’s gonna do anything foolhardy. They’ve all got a good dose of common sense.”
Jane nodded. “Samuel knows better than to send anyone out in impossible conditions.”
Even worse.
“But if no one tries to reach the ship...” She couldn’t fathom that. “They must try. They must.”
Again, the women stared at her.
“Now, what’s got you all upset, dear?” Mrs. Calloway asked. “The good Lord will take care of everyone.”
Fiona had always thought her faith strong, but she was no longer sure. Not sure at all.
* * *
Sawyer had seen the lake rough, but tonight was about as bad as it could get. When the waves and the cold were put together, the chances of rescuing anyone were slim. But they had to try. A little girl, Fiona had said, her eyes filled with an emotion he had never seen from her—fear.
Sawyer recalled the little girl who had held out her hand to him when he marched south from Atlanta during the war. Rail-thin, her lips had barely moved, but her eyes had told a terrible story. All she’d wanted was food, but he didn’t have any. That failure still haunted him. He could not fail Fiona’s niece.
A line of waves crashed and rolled ashore, pushing inland nearly to the edge of the dune. The men huddled there, just out of reach of the water. For now. With the wind steady, the waves would build. Soon there wouldn’t be any beach.
The ship was lodged on the sandbar. The lights aboard, likely lanterns since the engines had failed, vanished behind towering waves and then reappeared in the trough. Otherwise, they hadn’t budged. Blackthorn figured the sandbar—and now the foundered ship—was roughly a hundred yards offshore. Not impossible if they had a solid steam tug. She would pitch and roll like crazy, but they could get to the ship and get passengers onboard. It would take several trips, and hauling the passengers, especially the women and children, from ship to ship wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.
The mackinaw? Impossible. The shallow-draft sailboat was designed to carry a lot of cargo, not weather heavy seas. It would flip over and fill with water in minutes.
“Maybe the ship will last till morning,” Garrett Decker yelled into his ear.
That was their best hope. That and the wind dying down. But if the passenger ship started to break up, they’d have to attempt the impossible. Sawyer could swim. But not a couple hundred yards into huge seas in icy waters. The ship might attempt to launch its boat, but that would be just as precarious as the mackinaw.
If only he had a cannon. They could attempt to fire the rope, attached to a shot, toward the ship and then rescue folks using that line. He’d seen it accomplished once, during the war, but the unit had resources that Singapore didn’t.
Sawyer rubbed his arms. “Let’s try heaving the line.”
They’d practiced a few times, failing miserably. This time Sawyer put Edwards on the spot. The man had boasted of his prowess. Let him prove it.
The wiry crew chief warmed up by swinging his arms several times. Then he grabbed the lead weight, reached back as far as he could and threw. The weight arced in the light from the lighthouse and then splashed into the water. Tuggman hauled it in.
“It’s useless,” Blackthorn said. “No one’s gotten near the ship.”
That was a kind way of saying they’d all fallen short by at least half.
“I’m praying she doesn’t break up,” Roland stated.
Sawyer shivered, though it wasn’t terribly cold. The southwest wind was warm, but the cold sweats had started coming on ever since he first saw the situation. Fiona’s desperate plea only made them worse.
“She’s breaking up!” Tuggman shouted.
Sawyer gulped. The worst had just arrived.
* * *
Fiona paced the small hallway in the keeper’s quarters after helping Mrs. Calloway haul bandages and liniments from the boardinghouse to the light station. The boardinghouse proprietress had vanished into the kitchen after asking Fiona to wait out front for word from the men. Nothing more could be done until survivors arrived.
Mrs. Calloway and Mrs. Blackthorn reappeared, busily calculating how many bed linens were available throughout town.
“The empty bunkhouses,” the latter suggested.
Mrs. Calloway shook her head. “It’s all at the boardinghouse. If only the hotel was open. There would be plenty there.”
“The VanderLeuvens would understand if we borrowed some,” Jane Blackthorn replied. “It is an emergency.”
Fiona couldn’t count blankets and bedding when lives were at risk. In addition to Mary Clare and the rest of the passengers, now Sawyer and the men attempting a rescue were in peril. When Samuel Blackthorn returned to check the light, he’d informed them that Sawyer and a few of the mill workers had gone to launch the mackinaw.
Blackthorn had shaken his head. “It’ll take the grace of God to bring them back alive.”
Fiona’s stomach churned. She was no sailor, but even she knew that a little sailboat didn’t stand a chance in such angry seas.
Mrs. Blackthorn returned to the kitchen, leaving Fiona alone with Mrs. Calloway.
“I can’t wait here.” She plucked her cloak off the wooden peg and threw it over her shoulders. “I’m going down to the beach to help.”
Mrs. Calloway stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. “Now, what do you think you’re gonna do that those men can’t do?”
“Something.” She couldn’t stand to wait.
“Do you think your Sawyer wants to be worrying about a woman when he’s got a boatload of people to rescue?”
Fiona didn’t miss the wording. Mrs. Calloway figured Fiona was upset because she feared for Sawyer’s life. She didn’t know that Mary Clare could be on that ship.
“Let them do what needs to be done,” Mrs. Calloway added. “And you be ready to help here when it comes our turn.”
“How can you be so calm when your husband’s part of the rescue party?”
“Faith in God above, child. Ernie is in God’s hands, and that’s the best place to be.”
Deep down Fiona knew Mrs. Calloway was right, but she couldn’t shake the fear. “My niece might be on that ship. My sister sent her here.”
“Oh, child.” Mrs. Calloway embraced her in a motherly hug. “God’s got hold of her. You have to believe that.”
Fiona was trying. “It’s so hard. What if...” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“Hush now. You just turn that precious girl over to the Lord’s care.” Right then and there, Mrs. Calloway prayed over the ship, the rescuers and the passengers, including Mary Clare.
A smidgen of peace wove through Fiona. Everything would be all right. She hoped.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs coming down from the tower. Both women looked toward the door to the tower. Fiona held her breath.
Mr. Blackthorn pushed open the tower door. His face was ashen. “The mackinaw’s gone under. They’re lost.”
Fiona gasped. Sawyer. All this time she’d been worried about her niece, who might not even be on the ship, when she should have prayed fervently for Sawyer. She had sent him out, had begged him to rescue her niece. Now he was gone? Guilt crashed over her. She moved her lips, but no sound came out of her mouth.
She’d sent Sawyer to the grave.
Chapter Four (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Sawyer spit out a mouthful of water and coughed. The cold lake had shocked him for a moment, and he hadn’t been able to move. It took aching lungs and an iron will to swim for the surface. The icy air rushed into his lungs even as the frigid water slowed his limbs. He had little time to get out and warmed up, or he would be the first casualty.
Where was his crew? He spun, but in the darkness it was difficult to see.
Shouts came from all around. Someone hung a lantern over the water, and Sawyer spotted one, two, three heads bobbing on the surface. All the crew had survived, but the overturned hull of the mackinaw drifted farther and farther away with each wave.
Again the light shone toward him, and the shouted words became clearer.
“This way!”
The rolling waves splashed against his face. He rubbed the water from his eyes. That cost him effort. His legs were growing sluggish. Soon he wouldn’t be able to move them any longer, and he would sink beneath the seas.
Fight!
Something inside him pushed him to move toward the lantern. It must be on another boat. Maybe even the steamship. Their lanterns wouldn’t have survived the capsizing.
“Grab hold!”
A life ring landed nearby. Sawyer grabbed it as best he could, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp it. He slung an arm through the center and felt himself moving through the water toward the light.
“My crew!” He couldn’t accept rescue while his crew languished in the water. He let go of the life ring.
“Hang on! We have them,” the voice from above shouted.
Sawyer threaded his other arm through the ring and tried to hang on, but he kept slipping off. Then someone grabbed onto his arms and lifted him from the icy water. Sawyer clawed and scrambled as best he could until he ended up on the slanted deck of the doomed steamer.
“Tuggman, Calloway, Edwards,” he croaked.
“Here, sir,” each said in turn.
Sawyer closed his eyes in gratitude as a heavy blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and a mug of hot and painfully strong coffee was put in his hands.
“Some rescue.” He drew in a ragged breath as he recalled the moment they’d capsized.
They’d been near the steamer, ready to hand over the rescue line when a wave caught the mackinaw and flipped it over in a second. Sawyer hadn’t had time to react. One moment he was completing his mission, and the next he was in the water.
“We got the line you brought,” said an unfamiliar voice.
The rescue line had made it, but what good would it be without the mackinaw? Unless one of the ship’s boats could be launched.
“Your boat,” he gasped.
“Already preparing for the first passengers.”
Passengers! Sawyer’s eyelids shot open. Fiona had been upset about her niece. “Is there a young girl on board?”
An older gentleman stepped into the lantern light. By his somber and simple attire, he was either a preacher or part of one of those clans who advocated simplicity.
The man tucked his thumbs under his suspenders. “Well, there are several young women under my care, but they are already spoken for.”
Sawyer couldn’t fathom what the man meant, but it wasn’t what he needed to know. “I’m talking about a little girl. Seven years old.”
“Oh.” The gentleman’s manner eased. “No children aboard.”
Sawyer heaved a sigh. At least Fiona could rest easy on that account.
The deck shook and slanted more severely. Sawyer slid toward the deckhouse and caught his balance before he slipped back into the water. This wreck was in a precarious position.
He pushed to his feet. “We have to get the passengers off now. Women first.”
If God heard prayers, the rest of them would make it to shore alive.
* * *
“The first survivors are ashore!”
The hurried shout came from a windblown mill worker who opened the door to the keeper’s quarters.
“Survivors?” Fiona pulled herself from gloomy thoughts. “Who?”
“Passengers.” Having delivered his message, the man left with a slam of the door.
“Mary Clare. It has to be,” Fiona whispered. “Maybe Sawyer.” At Mrs. Calloway’s grim expression, she added, “And Mr. Calloway.”
“They’d send the women and children first. If your niece was on board, she’s here now.” Mrs. Calloway grabbed a stack of blankets and piled them in Fiona’s arms. She then took the rest. “Regardless of who it is, they’ll need warmin’ up, and that’s our job. Follow me.”
The girl who’d first greeted them opened the door to let them out even while her mother assured them that she wouldn’t be far behind with the hot coffee.
The moment Fiona stepped outside, the wind slapped the breath from her. Sand stung her face. She squinted against it and could make out a small group huddled atop the dune. They were all standing. If survivors, they must be freezing in this wind.
Mrs. Calloway plowed toward them. Fiona followed.
Each step felt like slogging through knee-deep snow, thanks to the force of the wind coming at them. They hadn’t far to go. Shuttered lanterns and the light cast from the lighthouse guided the way. Mrs. Calloway arrived first, but she didn’t hand a blanket to anyone. Fiona hastened her step. Moments later, she too reached the small group of men and women. She recognized each one as a citizen of Singapore.
“Where are they? The survivors?”
“Not here yet.” Mrs. Calloway point to the blackness in front of them where the dune dropped off toward the angry lake.
Sawyer had disappeared down that dune. For the last time. Fiona caught herself. Assuming the worst wouldn’t help the situation. She would be needed soon, and one of those survivors might well be Mary Clare.
She strained to see into the darkness, but shouts met her ears before anyone crested the dune. Though the words weren’t distinct, the intent was clear. Someone needed help.
“We’re right here,” Mrs. Calloway shouted. Her strong alto was well-practiced in giving orders that could be heard throughout the boardinghouse. In this case, that voice cut through the howling gale and gave comfort to the survivors.
Fiona tensed. Soon she would know.
Long minutes passed before the first figures appeared. The light was too poor to make out faces, but it was obviously a group of women with two men. No children.
“Mary Clare.” Her niece’s name slipped from her mouth. Had she drowned, or was she not on the ship?
Fiona raced to meet the group, Mrs. Calloway on her heels.
The men took the blankets, one at a time, from her arms and gave them to the women. Even in this poor light, Fiona could tell they were all young, perhaps eighteen to twenty years of age, and dressed in simple dark gowns. Each one gratefully wrapped a blanket around her shoulders as Mrs. Calloway directed them out of the wind and toward the keeper’s quarters.
“Is that everyone?” Fiona asked the men, who were heading back down the dune.
“No, ma’am,” one oilskin-clad man responded. “Just the first of ’em.”
Fiona tried to ask more, but the men sprinted down the dune. Before she could follow, Mrs. Calloway called for her in that strident tone of hers that allowed no argument. Fiona worked her way back to the women, who were huddled sipping steaming mugs of coffee in the shelter of the lighthouse.
“Take them to the boardinghouse,” Mrs. Calloway instructed. “Pearl and Amanda will be there to help you get them situated.”
“But—” Leaving the rescue scene was the last thing Fiona wanted to do, but Mrs. Calloway shot her a look that reminded Fiona of her mother. That look meant there would be no negotiation. Fiona was expected to obey. But so many questions were unanswered. “Sawyer,” she began.
Mrs. Calloway cut her off. “If he lived, you’ll see him soon enough. If he died, he’s in God’s hands.”
End of discussion.
Fiona turned to the ladies, who had followed the conversation with wide eyes. By Fiona’s count, there were six of them, all dressed identically.
“Are you able to walk?” Fiona asked.
Each woman nodded.
“We’re going down the dune into town. See the two-story building with all the lights in the windows?”
One of the women followed Fiona’s outstretched arm and nodded.
“It’s the boardinghouse,” Fiona explained. “You can warm up there and have a place to sleep.”
“And soup and bread,” Mrs. Calloway interjected. “Jane sent a kettle there with her oldest. We’ll take care of the rest here before sending them on.” She squeezed Fiona’s arm and shouted in her ear. “Don’t fret. God has Mr. Sawyer and your niece in his care.”
As Fiona headed down the slope with the ladies, she hoped that care left them both on this earth. While watching the young women converse with each other, she realized the opportunity to find out if Mary Clare was on the ship stood right in front of her. She hurried to join them.
“Excuse me, but were there any children on board?” Fiona asked rather breathlessly.
The women looked at each other and shook their heads.
“A little girl?” Fiona prompted. “About seven years old. Dark brown hair.” She began to indicate her niece’s height, but it had been a long time since she’d last seen Mary Clare—longer than mere months, more like a year. The girl could be much taller by now.
“No, ma’am,” the oldest looking one said. “No children at all.”
Fiona breathed out a sigh of relief. God did answer prayer.
* * *
Sawyer was shaking by the time he got into the lighthouse keeper’s quarters. Even sitting next to the kitchen stove didn’t warm his fingers and toes. The pea soup and buttered bread did more to shake off the chill. The men buzzed in and out, boasting about the perilous rescue and the fact that they’d saved everyone before the ship broke up.
He didn’t have the strength to boast. Instead he ate more of the soup and tried to soak in the heat from the stove.
“Out, out.” Mrs. Blackthorn and Mrs. Calloway waved their arms as if shooing crows from a cornfield.
“You men must have someplace better to tell your tales than in the middle of the kitchen,” Mrs. Blackthorn added.
Mrs. Calloway nodded in agreement. “Mr. Roland brought dry clothes for those of you who are wet through to the bone.”
“You can change in the parlor.” Mrs. Blackthorn led them away. “The drapes are drawn, and the stove’s got it toasty as can be. You’ll feel a whole lot better once you’re dry.”
Gradually the kitchen cleared out except for Mrs. Calloway, who gave Sawyer a sharp look.
“That applies to you too, Mr. Sawyer. Go and get into some dry clothes.”
The woman reminded him of his nanny when he was a boy. Mrs. Dougherty didn’t take one bit of nonsense from Sawyer or his brother, Jamie. The memory brought a chuckle to his lips.
Mrs. Calloway braced her hands on her hips. “There’s nothing funny about freezin’ half to death. Get into some dry clothes. That’s an order.”
The smile died on Sawyer’s lips. He’d heard his share of orders during the war. Whether they were foolish or wise, he was expected to obey without question. Mrs. Calloway clearly envisioned herself as the field general. But Sawyer was so exhausted that his legs could collapse if he tried to stand. Until the soup revived him, he preferred sitting right where he was.
He tugged at his thick wool shirt. “Everything is pretty dry already from the stove’s heat.”
“Nonsense. You men don’t know what’s good for you. Now, hurry along.” As if to emphasize her command, she walked toward the kitchen door, where she waited expectantly.
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll finish the soup first. It’s taking off the chill.”
Mrs. Calloway sighed. “Can’t talk sense into a hardheaded man.”
“I promise to change into dry clothes once I finish eating.” Sawyer placed a hand over his heart as a pledge.
“I suppose that’ll have to do.” An odd smile twisted her lips. “I expect one other thing’ll help warm you right through.” She lowered her voice from a shout to normal volume. “I oughtn’t be tellin’ you, but Miss Fiona pretty near fainted when she heard your boat had gone down.”
“She did?” Sawyer found that difficult to believe. Fiona was not prone to fainting spells. In fact, she was the strongest woman under trying conditions that he’d ever met.
“Of course.” Mrs. Calloway waved a hand. “A woman who thinks she’s lost someone she loves can lose her head.”
“You mean her niece.” Sawyer couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to relay the information to Fiona. “Tell her that there weren’t any children aboard.”
“I’m not talkin’ about her niece. By now, she’ll have heard that the little one wasn’t on the ship.” Mrs. Calloway moved close. “You know exactly who I mean. When the word came in that the rescue boat capsized, she was beside herself.”
Sawyer grimaced at the matchmaking attempt. “Must have been concerned for everyone. After all, everyone can see she set her cap on Carson Blakeney.”
“The Carson Blakeney who dashed out of town without bothering to say goodbye? Balderdash. He’s not worth the clothes on his back.”
Sawyer knew that, but Fiona didn’t. Her shock when he told her of Blakeney’s departure made that clear. The biting retort that followed still stung. “She made it perfectly clear that I don’t measure up to her standards.”
Mrs. Calloway clucked her tongue. “Do you always believe everything a woman tells you?”
Sawyer swallowed the memory of Julia’s hidden attraction to another man. That was another woman and another time. Fiona was different. “Shouldn’t I?”
Mrs. Calloway laughed and threw up her hands as she left the kitchen. “Young people these days.”
Sawyer savored another spoonful of pea soup while her words sank in. Mrs. Calloway believed Fiona liked him. The idea warmed his heart. Then again, her obvious desire to marry coupled with the arrival of her niece could bring a whole lot more attention than he was prepared to accept. He couldn’t take on a wife and family. Not now. Not even for Fiona.
Chapter Five (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Louise had dressed and gone downstairs by the time Fiona awoke. She’d stayed up late making sure each survivor had enough to eat and a place to sleep. None of them could tell her if Sawyer lived. Guilt gnawed at the back of her mind even while she helped with blankets, nightgowns and hot tea.
Only when Mrs. Calloway returned in the wee hours of the morning did she get her answer.
“Chilled to the bone,” the boardinghouse proprietress had said. “Won’t surprise me if he catches a cold.”
“But he’s alive.” Fiona had leaned against the wall, exhausted.
“That he is.” Mrs. Calloway had said that with a twinkle in her eye. “No doubt he’ll come a callin’ soon as he can.”
Fiona had made a flippant comment, trying to allay the woman’s matchmaking efforts, but deep inside she was truly grateful. At least she hadn’t caused his death by insisting he rescue her niece, who wasn’t even on the ship.
“But they did manage to rescue everyone,” she’d commented.
“That they did. My Ernie was right there at the forefront, bringin’ them up the dune to safety.”
That must be why she was so relieved. Everyone was safe. Not just Sawyer. Then why did his face keep popping into her mind? Why recall the grace of his fingers moving across the piano keyboard? He never hit a sour note and never touched a piece of music. The first time she’d hummed a tune, and he then played it with harmony and bass notes included, she’d called him a modern-day Mozart. His face had actually gotten red.
She smiled at the memory, but that’s all it was—a pleasant memory between two friends. Nothing more than that.
Reassured, she had retired to the comfort of her stiff and somewhat lumpy mattress. It didn’t even bother her that Louise was already asleep and snoring softly.
This morning, Fiona stretched her arms with a big yawn. Once she’d dressed and completed her toilette—all without seeing a soul—she headed downstairs. Just how long had she slept? The six ladies, who had received the upstairs rooms, were either still sleeping, or they’d been awake for some time.
She got her answer the moment she set foot on the main floor. Giggling and excited exclamations came from the direction of the parlor. They were definitely awake.
“Good morning, Miss Fiona.” Mrs. Calloway breezed from the kitchen with a platter of cinnamon rolls drizzled with sugar icing.
Fiona’s stomach rumbled. “You’re serving breakfast?”
“More like morning tea at this hour, but everyone woke at different hours. You’re the last.”
The last. With a sigh, Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway into the dining room. An older gentleman—perhaps forty or so—and his wife sat across from each other at the table. Otherwise the room was empty.
The man rose. “Good morning, Miss O’Keefe. You look lovely this morning.”
Fiona accepted the compliment with a smile, though she scrambled to recall their names. They had arrived at the boardinghouse not long after she’d settled the young women in rooms.
“I’m sorry I didn’t save a room for you,” she said as she took a seat. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Understandable.” The gentleman settled back in his chair. “The situation was soon rectified. Miss Eaton and Miss Geneva agreed to share.”
So he had taken care of matters himself. Fiona had never excelled as a hostess. Her talents lay elsewhere. Her mother would have realized the need from the start and doubled up everyone. Pearl and Amanda would likewise have assessed the situation correctly, but Pearl was helping the passengers clean up while Amanda manned the kitchen. Fiona assigned sleeping accommodations and distributed nightshirts and nightgowns, but her mind had gotten stuck wondering if Sawyer was alive.
Fiona lifted a roll from the platter with the serving knife and set it on the plate in front of her before passing the platter to the husband and wife. If only she could recall their names!
She forced a smile. “Are you familiar with the young women, then?”
The wife chuckled, but her husband answered. “We are their escorts.”
“Is one of them your daughter?”
“No.” The woman laughed, but again she let her husband explain.
He set down his cup of coffee. “We are escorting them to our community on Low Island.”
Fiona had to admit ignorance. “Where is Low Island?”
The man smiled graciously. “In northern Lake Michigan.”
“I see. Forgive me, but I’m not from this area. I was born and raised in New York City.”
“Is that so?” the man said while his wife made a surprised sound. “I have never been to that great city. How does it compare to Chicago?”
Fiona had no answer for him. “I spent little time in Chicago before taking passage on a steamboat similar to the one you took here.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You were stranded here also?”
“No. Not at all.” She didn’t feel like explaining the mail-order advertisement that had brought her here. “This is...a promising town.” The words stuck in her throat. It might have been if Roland Decker’s glassworks or Carson Blakeney’s new mill had gotten off the ground, but both ventures failed—though for entirely different reasons. Roland could not be blamed. A fire had destroyed his building before it was finished. Carson, on the other hand, was a coward and a liar. She suspected he had little intention of starting a new mill in a town that already boasted two sawmills.
“I was hoping another ship would call here soon,” the gentleman was saying.
She’d gone and let her mind drift again.
“I’m sure one will.” She took a sip of her tea, which was piping hot. Mrs. Calloway always brought scalding hot tea to table this time of year since it cooled rapidly in the colder-than-normal dining room. “What is the name of the community, Mr...?”
The man wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me. I should have realized you couldn’t possibly remember everyone’s name given the frantic nature of matters last night. I am Mr. George Adamson, and this is my wife, Bettina.”
Even while completing introductions, a shriek of joy came from the parlor, followed by exclamations of “mine” and “no, mine.”
Mr. Adamson frowned and set aside his napkin. “My apologies for their unseemly behavior. It will be put to a stop at once.”
Mrs. Calloway, who could hear across town even when standing next to a running saw, breezed into the room with some of her apple chutney. “Never you mind, Mr. Adamson. It’s a pure delight to hear young ladies’ high spirits.”
His frown didn’t ease. “I can’t imagine what they’re carrying on about.”
“Something in the local newspaper, I presume. The weekly arrived bright and early this morning, and they’ve been reading it front to back ever since. Now have a bit of my chutney. I’m rather proud of it, if I don’t say so myself.”
Fiona stared at the departing Mrs. Calloway while Mr. Adamson resumed his seat at the table and dished some of the chutney onto his and his wife’s plates. She had read the Singapore Sentinel many times. There wasn’t one thing over the course of months that would elicit that sort of reaction from young women with no connection to the town. The newspaper typically droned on about the number of board feet cut, who visited whom for Sunday dinner and which ships had called or were expected. It was a perfectly fine medium for inducing sleep.
After the initial outburst, the women quieted. That appeased the Adamsons, but it didn’t quell Fiona’s curiosity. Like a small child, silence brought suspicion, not comfort. Until now, they had made no attempt to hush their voices. Those ladies were up to something.
Fiona finished her tea and rose. “Forgive me, but the day is long and much remains to be done.”
The Adamsons graciously released her, but they could not have known her purpose. Once out of the dining room, Fiona walked to the parlor. There she found all six ladies huddled around the sofa, four of them on their knees, though definitely not in prayer. The newspaper was spread out on the seat of the sofa, and six faces peered intently at the newsprint.
“He sounds wonderful,” the blonde said, sighing.
Her high voice and petite figure only made her youth more evident. If Fiona was to guess, she would place her as the youngest. Other than hair color, height and weight, little distinguished the women, who were again dressed in the matching navy blue dresses.
“More than wonderful,” countered the brunette who’d acted as the leader of the group from the moment they arrived. “He is everything a woman could want in a husband.”
A husband! This sounded very much like they were reading an advertisement for a wife, but there had never been such a thing in the Singapore Sentinel. What on earth were those girls up to?
The other five ladies nodded, hanging on every word their leader said.
“Perfect.” The blonde sighed.
The redhead echoed the sentiment.
“However, he is just one man, and we are already pledged,” the brunette pointed out.
Already pledged? Fiona stared. This was unseemly behavior for women engaged to marry. Moreover, not a one had mentioned traveling with her betrothed. Fiona mentally counted the rescued passengers. There were not enough men of the appropriate age to match to the six ladies. Moreover, the Adamsons said they were escorting the ladies to some island far to the north. This got more and more peculiar, and Fiona intended to get to the bottom of it.
“Excuse me.” Fiona glided across the room, ignoring the guilty looks on the ladies’ faces and their quick attempt to refold the newspaper. “I could not help but overhear. Am I correct that you found an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper?”
The girls relaxed, and the leader reopened the paper. “There it is, as plain as day.”
Fiona couldn’t see it, unless she got on her knees and crouched with the rest of the ladies. That might be all right for some, but not for a star of the New York stage. She held out a hand, and the leader passed the newspaper to her.
It didn’t take long for Fiona to locate the unlikely advertisement. The wording stunned—no, shocked—her.
Up and coming industrial magnate seeks cultured wife gifted in the social and musical arts. Must be willing to entertain and manage a home. Skill in baking highly valued. Prospective groom has brunette hair and a comely visage. Apply at the Singapore Mercantile.
Fiona let out the breath she’d been holding. Industrial magnate? Lover of music? Reasonably attractive? He did sound perfect, but why on earth would someone of that stature need to advertise for a wife? Even if circumstances did prompt such desperation, why seek such a woman in the least likely place? For a second she thought of Carson, but he had sandy blond hair, not brunette. No, this made no sense.
“This must be a joke,” she announced. “There aren’t more than a handful of unmarried women within miles. No one would advertise in Singapore for a bride.”
“Maybe this isn’t the only place he advertised,” the brunette suggested.
Fiona couldn’t deny that possibility, but the result was the same. She refolded the newspaper. “If you are already promised, I suggest you focus on your beau, not some foolishness published in the newspaper.”
She then carried the newspaper—and source of the ladies’ excitement—from the room.
* * *
“What am I going to do now?” Sawyer shook the newspaper in front of Roland Decker. As he’d feared, the advertisement had made its way into print.
Roland shrugged. “It’s a good way to catch Fiona’s attention.”
“I’m not the one bent on catching her attention. You and Pearl are.”
“Now, Sawyer. Anyone and everyone can see that you’ve had your eye on her for a long time.”
Sawyer had no idea he was giving that impression. “She’s pretty but only interested in someone whose wallet is fat.”
“That’s why the advertisement highlighted your potential.”
“Potential?” Sawyer raked a hand through his hair. “Every word is completely false.” Well, not completely. He could be an industrial magnate if he chose to ride on Father’s coattails and obey the man’s every demand, but Roland didn’t know that.
“Then make it true.”
“How? I can’t become a wealthy businessman overnight.”
Roland leaned on the mercantile counter, that grin of his not budging. “I didn’t see anything in the advertisement about being wealthy.”
Sawyer read the offensive points. “Up and coming industrial magnate.”
“Doesn’t say what you are now.”
Sawyer moved on. “‘Must be willing to entertain and manage a home.’ If that doesn’t point to wealth, I don’t know what does. The poor don’t entertain. Moreover, I don’t have a home.”
“You will. Now that you’re manager at the mill you can afford one.”
“But I don’t have one now, and even if I did lease one, none of the houses here are big enough to require managing. That implies a servant at least, possibly a whole staff.”
Roland chuckled. “That’s a stretch, I’ll admit, but can’t you just see Fiona bossing the servants around?”
The problem was, he could. Sawyer let out a sigh.
“Besides,” Roland continued, “there’s no harm done. No one knows who is looking for a wife, only that applications are accepted here.”
The doorbell tinkled, drawing Sawyer’s attention. He lowered his voice. “And you think no one will ask who it is?”
“Not likely.”
Mrs. Wardman approached.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Roland said. “How are you doing this fine day? Anything I can get for you?”
“I’m curious about this advertisement. My girls are far too young, naturally, but I have a cousin over in Allegan who might be interested. I’d write and suggest she send a letter, but I’d have to know who the prospective groom is.”
“Now, that’s strictly confidential, ma’am. You must understand.”
Mrs. Wardman leaned over the counter to whisper, “Is it Mr. Stockton?”
Roland gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You know I can’t say.”
“It is him, isn’t it? Well, I thought that he’d never remarry after losing his wife.” Mrs. Wardman chattered on, never once looking at Sawyer.
Maybe Roland was right. No one would think that the prospective groom was him. Like Mrs. Wardman, they’d think it was Stockton. Wouldn’t the dour entrepreneur think that was funny? Well, maybe not.
Before Sawyer could get another word with Roland, woman after woman came into the store with the same question. Who was looking for a wife? Each bought something, making Roland beam. Apparently this little scheme had at least improved business. It sure didn’t make Sawyer feel good, though.
When the last lady departed, Sawyer asked, “Any of them say they were going to apply?”
Roland’s grin broadened. “Not yet, but it’s early.”
Sawyer groaned. He was ready to make his escape when the doorbell tinkled again. This time Mrs. VanderLeuven walked in. Sawyer stood up straight. The hotel proprietress must be coming back to reopen. Either that or she’d gotten word about last night’s shipwreck.
“Mrs. VanderLeuven!” Roland exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d come back to town.”
She waved a hand. “Soon as we heard about the wrecked ship, we packed up the wagon and drove the old road down from Holland.”
“News got to Holland that quickly?” Sawyer was astonished. Though people often traveled the ten miles between the two towns, the VanderLeuvens would have had to race to get here this quickly.
“They saw it up at the lighthouse.”
That made sense. From the Holland light tower, the keeper could easily see off the shore from Singapore. The wreck hadn’t gone under but sat like a great hulk on the sandbar.
“Though I’ll miss my family in Holland,” Mrs. VanderLeuven was saying, “I had to come help. People might be needing a place to sleep and something to eat.”
While she and Roland discussed what would be needed to reopen the hotel, Sawyer pretended to browse the display of oilskins. The VanderLeuvens’ return could mean resuming the concerts. That meant time with Fiona. Though marriage was out of the question right now, he loved making music with her. He’d never heard a clearer soprano.
When Roland and Mrs. VanderLeuven finished their business transaction, Sawyer caught the woman’s attention. “Perhaps I could talk Fiona into a concert in the dining room to encourage business.”
“I’m afraid I can’t pay,” Mrs. VanderLeuven responded, “not until we’ve started turning a profit.”
That was disappointing. Sawyer wouldn’t mind adding to his savings, but a bit of goodwill might improve business enough for the VanderLeuvens to once again pay them for playing. “Consider it a gift.”
The portly woman’s cheeks flushed. “Why, Mr. Evans, what a kind gesture. Of course we would welcome a concert. The usual time?”
After Sawyer assured her that Saturday evening would be perfect, she left.
Roland’s grin spread across his face. “Not interested in Miss O’Keefe?”
“This is strictly business.” Even Sawyer had a hard time believing that.
* * *
When Fiona overheard the blonde young woman talking about the advertisement later that afternoon, she put a stop to it.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about your fiancé?”
The blonde sighed. “I can’t think on someone I ain’t met.”
The girl’s atrocious grammar and cheap muslin dress marked her as poor. Fiona had once been exactly the same. Changing her speech took practice, but improving her dress took money. She’d worked long and hard before she could afford her first pretty gown. Until then, a kindhearted singer had given Fiona one of her cast-offs for the stage. Away from the theater, Fiona had hidden in the shadows so no one would connect the poor girl with the singer on the stage.
Fiona stared at the young woman. “Are you saying you’ve never met your fiancé?”
The girl shrugged. “Ain’t been no chance to.”
“None of us has met our beau yet,” the bubbly redhead said, “but we’ll meet them soon. We’re going to Harmony to get married.”
Fiona drew in a deep breath. The similarities to her arrival in Singapore didn’t drift past without notice. “You’re all answering advertisements for a wife?” She hoped they weren’t all going for the same man.
The leader shook her brunette locks. “No, ma’am. We each got a husband waitin’ for us.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. “Then you’ve written to them already.”
Again the leader shook her head. “Mr. Adamson chose us.”
“Chose?”
“Yes, ma’am. He held an interview, and we got picked. Dozens applied.”
The whole process appalled Fiona. “Do you know anything about the man you’re going to marry, Miss...?”
“Clara.” The leader straightened her spine. “Call me Clara.” She then proceeded to introduce the rest.
Fiona forgot their names in an instant except for Dinah, the blonde, who wasn’t yet eighteen years of age.
“We all got a description,” Clara finished up. “My fiancé’s name is Benjamin. He’s twenty-eight and tall with dark hair like mine.”
The other ladies then described their future mates, all of whom were older and whose hair color came remarkably close to their own. When their matching dresses were taken into account, there was something odd about this whole situation.
“What do they do? Their occupation?” she asked.
Clara gave her a blank look. “They’re all farmers, of course. We’re creating a community free of strife and vice.” She reeled that off as if quoting something she’d been told to memorize.
Fiona was appalled. “Surely you had another choice.”
Each girl shook her head.
“Marry a drunken bum,” Clara stated frankly. “We’ve been workin’ in the shirtwaist factory after getting thrown out of the orphanage.”
“Thrown out?” Fiona could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Because we’re too old,” the redhead, Linore, explained. “That’s why we’re getting married.”
“Next ta Bleek Street, Harmony sounds like paradise.” Dinah sighed. “No drinkin’ or brawlin’.”
That did sound too good to be true.
“Then they are all upright men of God?” Fiona prodded.
“That’s what Mr. Adamson says,” Clara answered.
Each woman nodded in affirmation.
If what Mr. Adamson claimed was indeed the truth, Fiona could understand why these women had agreed to go to this island community. But what if it wasn’t?
“Can you leave if your fiancé doesn’t turn out the way he’s been advertised?” Fiona would definitely have made certain that option was available. She’d held on to it when answering the advertisement that brought her to Singapore. Even now, that possibility remained, though it would get much more difficult once Mary Clare arrived. She had not set aside the fare for two to travel to Chicago.
The women all stared at her as if she were mad.
Clara vocalized their response. “Why would we leave? It’s better than what we got now.”
Fiona recalled the newspaper that had so gripped their attention. “Then why the interest in the advertisement for a wife?”
The women looked at each other and giggled.
This time the one with the chestnut-colored hair answered, her jaw thrust out. “A girl’s gotta dream, don’t she?”
“Well, I can tell you for certain that this advertisement is only a dream. There’s not a man in this town who fits that description.”
Instead of solemnly nodding, like she’d expected, the ladies grew quiet, their eyes wide, and stood as one, smoothing their plain skirts as if they wore silk. A hush came over the room.
A man cleared his throat behind Fiona.
She whirled to see Sawyer standing in the doorway, hat in hand. “Sawyer! Mr. Evans, that is. I’m glad to see you’re well.”
His complexion reddened as if—no, it wasn’t possible—he were blushing. He stepped from foot to foot, clearly uneasy. “I’m fine.”
“So I see.”
The ladies giggled behind her.
Fiona left the room and led Sawyer to the front porch where they might have a bit of privacy. The chill air bit into her, and she hugged her arms close for warmth.
“You had something to tell me?” she prompted.
Sawyer cleared his throat again, though his eyes darted toward the parlor windows. “I just wanted you to know that the VanderLeuvens are back in town and are opening up the hotel. We can begin the concerts again.”
Fiona breathed out. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss the income she’d received from her concerts. Almost three months without pay had stretched her funds very thin. “That’s wonderful. An answer to prayer.”
“You’ve been praying to have a concert?”
“I’ve been praying for an income.”
The color left his face. “An income?”
“I do need to pay for room and board,” she pointed out.
“Of course.” His color returned, this time to a bright red. He avoided looking directly at her.
“All right. What’s wrong? Spit it out.” Fiona hated when a man wouldn’t express himself outright.
“Um.” Again he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to say that at least for now we’ll have to do them without pay. Mrs. VanderLeuven said she needs to start turning a profit first.”
Fiona’s temper rose. Under that rationale, the VanderLeuvens would never pay them. She’d heard the rumors of unpaid debts and heavy loans on the property. But it did no good to rail at the messenger. It also wouldn’t help pay the bills when Mary Clare did arrive. She needed steady employment. The thought of cleaning rooms or scrubbing dishes at the hotel left a foul taste in her mouth. She’d clawed her way out of poverty. She would not descend back into it.
“I see.” The terse reply was the best she could manage.
“Then you’ll do it?” The hint of hope in his voice gave her pause.
He wanted her to sing at the hotel again. Maybe he looked forward to it. She did too, and not just the singing. Sawyer was surprisingly handsome and charming. And his piano and violin playing made her want to close her eyes and drink it in. Too bad he was only a sawmill foreman. Still, a concert couldn’t hurt. Maybe she could persuade Mrs. VanderLeuven to give them a percentage of profit from the meals ordered that night.
“I will,” she confirmed. “For now.”
The faint sound of women’s giggling reached her ears. She turned to see the ladies glued to the parlor windows. They weren’t watching her. No, every eye was fixed on Sawyer. No wonder he’d looked so uncomfortable. It wasn’t her at all. Drawing the attention of six women left him unnerved.
She glanced back at Sawyer. Granted, he was a fine specimen of masculinity with his broad shoulders, height, muscular build and shock of dark brown hair. Brunette for brunette. That’s how Mr. Adamson had matched the girls. Under that criteria, Clara would go with Sawyer. The woman did have a proprietary gleam in her eye.
Sawyer looked away. “Are those the women we rescued? I didn’t realize they were so young.”
He didn’t say they were pretty, but he thought it. She could tell.
Something fiercely protective rose in Fiona’s breast. “Yes, and they are all engaged to marry. Every last one.”
There. That ought to douse the spark of interest in his eyes.
Chapter Six (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Sawyer had never been nervous before a concert in the past, but Saturday he tugged at the collar of his good shirt. The tie was choking him. Or was it the fact that the whole town knew about the advertisement? Fiona was bound to say something, and he had no idea what he’d tell her. He couldn’t come right out and reveal that he was the bachelor supposedly seeking a wife. He certainly couldn’t tell people that he hadn’t placed the advertisement and had no intention of marrying right now. That hadn’t worked for Garrett Decker, and it wouldn’t work for him.
Still, as the days passed without a single response, he began to wonder what was wrong. Was it the advertisement or him? Had Fiona figured out that he was the prospective bridegroom?
As always, he stopped at the boardinghouse an hour before they performed. The brief walk to the hotel left them plenty of time to warm up before many guests and diners arrived.
She wore the emerald green gown—her favorite and the one she seemed to think most like those worn by the upper class. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that those born to wealth most often chose conservative colors and styles. The worst of them would look down their noses at Fiona’s exuberant attire. He found it refreshing, for her gowns matched her temperament perfectly.
“I expect a large crowd,” she said as they walked the boardwalk between the two businesses. “It’s been a long winter, after all.”
“We did perform a few times at the boardinghouse.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it. The hotel is roomier and more...professional.”
Sawyer was again reminded of the talent and perseverance that brought her to the New York City stage. Many dreamed but few reached that lofty goal. Fiona had. Again he wondered why she would leave her blossoming career to answer an advertisement for a mail-order bride in a lumber town. According to Pearl, Fiona still searched the personal advertisements. Yet she had not responded to his.
He held the door of the hotel for her and escorted her into the dining room. A smattering of applause greeted them, and she flitted from one table to the next, thanking them for their gracious response to her return.
That left Sawyer to warm up on the piano. After a couple months of inactivity and icy temperatures, it was slightly out of tune. He could fix that but had forgotten to bring the tools with him. He’d been preoccupied with the looming catastrophe caused by that advertisement. Even if Fiona wrote to him, he couldn’t mislead her into thinking he wanted a wife. Not now. And she seemed determined to marry as soon as possible.
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Christine Johnson
The Husband HuntTheatre singer Fiona O’Keefe is on quest to form the perfect family for her orphaned niece. It’s a shame handsome and musically talented Sawyer Evans can’t support a household on his sawmill manager wages. For that, Fiona needs a respectable gentleman of means. And if she can’t find one in Singapore, Michigan, then she’ll just have to look for a husband in the mail order want ads…Sawyer doesn’t want Fiona to marry a stranger…or anyone other than him. It would be easy to reveal that he’s secretly heir to a railroad fortune. But Sawyer’s determined to be a self-made man, so he isn’t willing to take his father’s money. Instead, can he prove to Fiona that the man she needs is already by her side?
The Husband Hunt
Theater singer Fiona O’Keefe is on a quest to form the perfect family for her orphaned niece. It’s a shame handsome and musically talented Sawyer Evans can’t support a household on his sawmill-manager wages. Fiona needs a respectable gentleman of means. And if she can’t find one in Singapore, Michigan, then she’ll just have to look for a husband in the mail-order want ads...
Sawyer doesn’t want Fiona to marry a stranger...or anyone other than him. It would be easy to reveal that he’s secretly heir to a railroad fortune. But Sawyer’s determined to be a self-made man, so he isn’t willing to take his father’s money. Instead, can he prove to Fiona that the man she needs is already by her side?
“Sawyer!” Fiona called out.
This time he turned toward her. After giving the coil of rope to another man, he loped down the short distance and relieved her of the blankets.
“Take my arm,” he said.
The security of his strength washed over her. He would help her. He would ensure her niece was safe.
“Must help...” she began, but could get no further before gasping for breath.
They managed the last few yards to the top of the dune. There Sawyer released her and returned the blankets to her care.
She caught his arm. “You need to rescue them.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know if we can with those waves.”
“You must. You must.” She hung on him with desperation. “My niece. She’s only seven. She could be on that ship.”
His expression, highlighted in the eerie light of the lighthouse, twisted with concern. “I’ll do what I can.”
Dear Reader (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049),
Thank you for joining Fiona and Sawyer through the ups and downs of their journey. It was fun to take two characters with opposing backgrounds and hopes and find a common ground for them. Sometimes things are not as they appear!
That’s true of Astor House, the local hotel, which according to some sources did exist in historic Singapore. I love the pretensions of naming a lodging establishment in a small lumber town after the first luxury hotel in New York City. Someone had a lot of optimism!
The village of Harmony is fictitious, however, the islands of Lake Michigan have been host to some breakaway sects that established their own “colonies.” The first and most recognizable was established by James Jesse Strang’s followers who broke from Brigham Young and settled on Beaver Island in the mid-1800s. Books, articles and a museum on Beaver Island detail that episode in history. In the early 1900s, the House of David established a colony on nearby High Island. When I visited that island as a child, there were still remnants of buildings left, and I imagined they belonged to that colony.
It’s been fun incorporating snippets of history in the novels in this series. I hope you will join me for the fourth book. Questions or comments? Contact me through my website at www.christineelizabethjohnson.com (http://www.christineelizabethjohnson.com/).
Blessings,
Christine Johnson
A small-town girl, CHRISTINE JOHNSON has lived in every corner of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. She enjoys creating stories that bring history to life while exploring the characters’ spiritual journeys. Though Michigan is still her home base, she and her seafaring husband also spend time exploring the Florida Keys and other fascinating locations. You can contact her through her website at christineelizabethjohnson.com (http://christineelizabethjohnson.com).
Mail Order Sweetheart
Christine Johnson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
And ye shall know the truth,
and the truth shall make you free.
—John 8:32
For my sister, Donna,
who taught me a lot about strength.
To God be the glory.
Contents
Cover (#u05ea25b2-b1ac-5e6e-a314-8652270e0c8f)
Back Cover Text (#u47c5185c-f11e-564b-9c73-1a4299b1cef6)
Introduction (#uab8edb83-c723-524a-9edc-2c7444efa1ad)
Dear Reader (#ulink_f60e18dc-892c-510e-a738-5750803e10dc)
About the Author (#u32f989dd-8b49-597d-bc82-72397273225a)
Title Page (#u8c32783f-1352-5ece-af8f-c3e52f6bb16a)
Bible Verse (#uce211ef3-c30a-58e6-bfe7-fae950589159)
Dedication (#ude5c86b3-adaf-51d2-ba0e-fdd1730b3332)
Chapter One (#u2aec4f87-5529-5655-96ef-0e674b0fceee)
Chapter Two (#ue7c55016-eb52-5d10-b4d2-6681b9ae7224)
Chapter Three (#uf395ce97-b006-55b5-88ed-a0374b46a2b4)
Chapter Four (#u2620f10f-fe4a-5a9d-b540-e2b48f5f5b65)
Chapter Five (#u6769690c-fb85-554e-b025-ba60de5f5316)
Chapter Six (#uc771b6ed-dcd6-575b-91bc-7850c653b426)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Singapore, Michigan
March 1871
Sawyer Evans stared at what his friends had written. The piece of stationery gleamed white against the oak store counter, but the words leaped off the page.
He shoved the paper across the counter. “I’m not ready for this.”
“Neither was I,” Roland Decker said with a grin, “but it was the best thing that ever happened. I’ve never been happier.”
His bride of nearly three months curled under Roland’s arm and gave him the sort of look that Sawyer dreamed of getting just once—especially from a particular redhead—but placing an advertisement for a wife was not the answer. This idea of theirs would only bring trouble.
“If I remember right,” he pointed out, “the advertisement that brought Pearl and the other ladies west was supposed to give your brother a wife, not you.”
Roland shrugged. “He did get a wife, and he’s just as happy as I am.”
Pearl, Roland’s wife, nodded emphatically. “Now that you’re manager at the sawmill, you can settle down.”
“Not yet.” Sawyer dreamed of opening his own business, not running someone else’s. Marriage would only drain his savings. Even a frugal wife brought added expenses, and the only woman who’d interested him was definitely not frugal.
“Garrett would tell you it’s an advantage,” Roland said.
Sawyer lifted an eyebrow. “Your brother stayed a widower for two years while he managed the mill. He has children. I don’t. Thus, no need for a wife.”
Pearl grinned. “Not even a certain redhead?”
Fiona O’Keefe. From the moment Sawyer met her last August, the beautiful woman with the fiery hair and temper had piqued his curiosity. She, on the other hand, barely noticed his existence except when she needed an accompanist for her concerts. She had graced the stages and cafés in New York City with her clear soprano voice, yet came to the lumber town of Singapore in answer to the advertisement that gave Garrett a wife. It made no sense. She could have married easily in New York. Why travel hundreds of miles to a lumber town in search of a husband? He’d watched and listened, but in seven months he still hadn’t discovered why she’d come here. Or why she was so desperate to marry.
Sawyer shook his head. “Fiona has set her cap on that ne’er-do-well Blakeney.”
The timber speculator had come to town in January, purportedly looking for a location for a new sawmill, but Sawyer had seen enough manipulators before to recognize Blakeney as one of that breed. Unfortunately, Fiona only noticed the man’s fancy clothes and lofty intentions. From nearly the moment Blakeney arrived on Singapore’s docks, she’d hung on his arm. Sawyer had tried to warn her and got a tongue-lashing for his trouble.
“Then you need to show her what she’s missing.” Pearl jotted something on the paper and pushed it back toward him. “Fight fire with fire, I say. These tweaks should capture her attention.”
Sawyer read the opening line and shook his head. “Up and coming industrial magnate?” Little did Pearl know how close to the truth she’d come. Sawyer wanted nothing to do with that old life, where he was known as Paul Evanston, heir to the Belmont & Evanston Railway. In Singapore he earned an honest wage by the sweat of his brow. It felt good. He slept well at night, knowing he’d done his best to help others, not bleed them dry like Father did. He wanted no part of his father’s manipulation and unethical dealings. “All I do is work the saws in the mill.”
“You’re now mill manager,” Roland said, “which is one step closer to becoming a captain of industry.”
“A lot of steps away.”
“Who knows where this could lead?” Pearl said. “Mr. Stockton might think so highly of your skills that he asks you to oversee operations along this entire side of the state.”
“Far-fetched at best.” Stockton seldom visited, least of all promoted. “If anyone catches his attention, it’d be you, Roland.”
His friend grinned. “You never know. Mr. Stockton has an eye for men with potential.”
Sawyer squirmed. He didn’t want to gain the lumber baron’s attention. Stockton could well know Father and bring the man back into Sawyer’s life. “I intend to earn any promotion through hard work.”
“No one said you wouldn’t.” Pearl looked to her husband for confirmation. “I believe in you. We both believe in you.”
“Fiona doesn’t.” He tore up the sheet of paper. “This will only bring trouble. Or don’t you remember that the advertisement for your brother attracted too many women? This would do the same.”
“Not if it only goes in the local newspaper.” Pearl tapped a finger on the counter with each statement, as if she were instructing him the way she taught the schoolchildren. “The Singapore Sentinel circulates only in the immediate area. Few would see it. There aren’t many women of marriageable age here.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to marry. Not now, anyway. And when I am ready, I don’t need any help finding a wife.” Sawyer had to put a stop to this ridiculous matchmaking effort.
“You might change your mind if Fiona shows interest.” Pearl was already piecing the paper together. “Or would you be interested in Louise?”
Sawyer snatched a handful of scraps from Pearl. “You know I have no interest in Mrs. Smythe.” The petite widow was quiet and bookish, not at all his type. He preferred Fiona’s high spirits.
Pearl brushed aside the remaining scraps of paper and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. “You wouldn’t have to meet anyone since the advertisement instructs interested parties to write in care of the mercantile. Give it a try. What do you have to lose? You just might gain Fiona’s attention.” She began to write.
“And make her forget Blakeney,” Roland added.
“Enough!” Sawyer raised his hands. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s not the right time.”
The mercantile’s doorbell jingled. Seconds later, Jimmy, the lad who helped out the Deckers, appeared at the counter.
“He’s gone.” Jimmy managed between gulps of air.
“Who’s gone?” Pearl asked.
“Him.” Jimmy waved in the air. “Mr. Blakeney.”
“Gone?” Sawyer stared at the boy. “You must be mistaken. He was going to take Fiona to the choir concert in Saugatuck. They probably left early.”
“No, sir.” Jimmy shook his head. “I was over to Saugatuck delivering that cloth Mrs. Wardman ordered and I seen him ridin’ out of town like his horse got spooked. So I went and asked the livery boy where he was off to, and he said Mr. Blakeney paid up his bill at the hotel and was headed upriver to Allegan.”
“Paid up his hotel bill?” Sawyer echoed. He looked at Roland and Pearl, who had equally astonished looks on their faces. “If he paid up, then that means just one thing.”
“He’s gone,” Pearl and Roland said at the same time.
“And he’s not coming back.”
“Someone has to tell Fiona,” Pearl said, her gaze fixed on Sawyer.
“Oh, no.” Sawyer backed away. “This sort of thing is better coming from a woman.”
“It’s better coming from someone who can console her and perhaps step into the missing man’s place,” Pearl pointed out.
More matchmaking. Nothing Sawyer had said made a bit of difference. He liked Fiona, but taking Blakeney’s place might suggest he was interested in more than friendship.
“The time’s not right.”
Pearl set a stack of papers on the counter. “Roland and I have to work tonight. She needs to hear this from a friend. You could ease her disappointment by taking her to the concert.”
Sawyer knew defeat when he saw it. He threw up his hands and headed for the boardinghouse.
* * *
In the privacy of her room, Fiona O’Keefe reread the stunning letter. She wanted to talk some sense into her next-youngest sister, Lillibeth, but there was no time to send a return letter. Singapore didn’t have a telegraph office, which left Fiona without any means to respond.
She shoved the letter in the envelope and rubbed her aching temples. What was she going to do? Lillibeth had done the unthinkable, and somehow Fiona would have to pick up the pieces.
“Not now,” she groaned.
Two months of effort were about to come to fruition. Mr. Carson Blakeney, who’d come to Singapore to find a good location for his new sawmill, was ready to propose. She could sense it. He just needed that last little push. Her niece couldn’t show up now, not until she broached the subject with Carson.
Time had run out. Little Mary Clare could arrive any day now. Lillibeth hadn’t been clear about that part, so Fiona had to be ready. Tonight she would secure a marriage proposal from Mr. Blakeney. If not...
Well, there were no other options. She tucked the missive into the bureau drawer and slammed it shut. The sound reverberated through the boardinghouse. That was that. The time for gentle persuasion was over. Tonight she would employ direct pressure and pray the man didn’t dart away like a frightened rabbit.
What was Lillibeth thinking? A child of seven should not travel across the country without the accompaniment of a known and trusted adult. The thought of that poor motherless child alone and frightened tugged on her heartstrings. When Mary Clare’s mother and Fiona’s older sister Maeve died, Fiona promised to care for Maeve’s only child. She was doing her best to marry respectably so she could do just that. It meant leaving Mary Clare in Lillibeth’s care temporarily, but Fiona sent every dollar she could back to New York. Granted, that hadn’t been much lately, but Lillibeth shouldn’t have run short unless she was spending that money elsewhere.
Fiona pulled the letter out of the drawer and unfolded it. Oh, yes. Lillibeth complained of hardship at home. Fiona’s purse was nearly empty. She hadn’t any extra to send until the concerts began again at the hotel. But she’d sent plenty over the last year. A little care could make that stretch over these lean months, but apparently once the flow of money had dwindled, Lillibeth—or more likely that worthless husband of hers—had decided to send poor Mary Clare to her.
There’s this group a orphans headin’ west, Lillibeth had written, an the matron said she’ll take real good care a Mary Clare.
Orphans! The poor girl must think she’d been abandoned. Why couldn’t Lillibeth wait? Though Fiona’s efforts to find a husband in New York had ended in scandal, she was doing her best here.
Last August, Fiona had arrived in Singapore in answer to an advertisement for a bride. Unfortunately, two other women also arrived with the same intent. In January, the groom, Garrett Decker, married one of them. When Carson arrived later that month, Fiona shifted her efforts to him.
Now it was late March. The snow had melted. The ice on the river had broken up, and the sawmill had roared to life when the first logs floated downstream. She had one last chance, and she had to seize it. Tonight.
The door to her room opened a crack.
“Are you busy?” Louise Smythe peered through the opening.
The short, mousy woman—and competitor for a husband—had recently moved back to the boardinghouse after losing her position as companion to the ailing Mrs. Elder.
“Not any longer.” Fiona tucked the letter into the bureau drawer beneath her unmentionables. Louise wouldn’t read it. Fiona had tested her when she first arrived. Louise hadn’t touched the note that Fiona placed in the bureau while Louise was watching.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” the widow said, still from behind the door.
“It’s your room too.” Fiona pinned a bright red curl in place. Men loved hair piled high atop a woman’s head with curls cascading to the shoulders, and Carson was no exception. She had been blessed with thick, naturally curling locks in a hue that drew attention. “You can come in whenever you wish.”
Louise must have had to tiptoe around the Elders’ house. Either that or she was simply too meek to barge into her own room. When Captain Elder shuttered his house and took his wife to Chicago for better medical treatment, Louise had lost her position. Though the kindly couple offered to let her stay in the house, Louise had refused, saying she didn’t want to live alone. Fiona had offered to share her room. Louise thought her generous, but the lack of paying concerts over the winter had depleted Fiona’s funds.
Louise opened the door a little wider. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but you have a caller.”
“Carson!” The time had arrived. Fiona straightened the skirts of her green silk gown and then plucked a lavish necklace from her small jewelry box. She placed the sparkling diamond and emerald jewels—all glass—around her neck and then admired the effect in the mirror.
“What do you think?”
Louise stepped into the room for a closer look but then hesitated. “It’s...ostentatious.”
“Osten-what?”
Louise’s gaze darted to the door. “Uh, like something the very wealthy might wear.”
“Precisely.” Fiona returned her attention to the mirror. “Hopefully, it’s enough.”
“Enough?”
“To secure an offer.” Fiona adjusted the lace edging on her gown.
“Um, Mr. Blakeney isn’t the one calling for you.”
“What? Who then? I’m expecting Carson. He’s escorting me to Saugatuck for the choir’s performance of Handel’s Messiah.”
“That might be the case,” Louise said slowly, “but Mr. Evans is the one paying a call at the moment.”
Fiona bit back irritation. She did not have time to waste on Sawyer Evans. He was a fine accompanist and an uncommonly attractive man, but his prospects were dim to say the least. She hadn’t worked so hard to sing on the New York stage only to throw her future away on a sawmill worker. She must marry for Mary Clare’s sake, but not to just anyone. Her future husband must hold a position of authority. A tidy nest egg would help too. Carson fit her criteria perfectly.
“Tell Sawyer I’ll talk to him later. He probably wants to discuss future concerts.” If tonight went as planned, she need not sing ever again. A wave of disappointment swept over her. Singing had been her life for as long as she could remember. As a child, she’d sung to escape the gnawing hunger. As a young woman, she’d seen a beautiful singer arrive at a theater and decided that nothing would stop her from doing exactly the same. She could never have imagined the cost of that decision.
“I don’t think that’s it.” Louise twisted and knotted a length of ribbon that she probably used as a bookmark, considering her insatiable appetite for books. “He said he has something to tell you. Something important. He doesn’t look happy.”
Fiona stared at her roommate. Had Mary Clare arrived already? “He didn’t give you any idea what that was?”
“No.” Louise edged toward the door. “Just that he wouldn’t leave until he spoke to you.”
What a bother! If she didn’t get rid of Sawyer soon, Carson could arrive and think the worst. “Very well. Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.”
Louise cleared her throat. “He likes you, you know.”
The statement raised an unexpected flutter in her stomach. Fiona pushed it aside. After all, any woman liked to hear a man found her attractive or interesting. That’s all it was. She couldn’t possibly feel anything for Sawyer Evans. For Louise’s sake, she shrugged and continued her toilette.
“Mr. Evans is not the sort of man who likes fancy clothes,” Louise continued. “He’s an honest, straightforward sort.”
Fiona secretly admitted she found that aspect of Sawyer pleasing. Too many men in New York had lied and manipulated her in an attempt to get what they wanted. Carson wasn’t anything like that. He was always very straightforward about his aims and his background. The combination of wealth and openness was perfect. To gain his favor, she had to put her very best forward.
Fiona set down her brush. “Men adore a beautiful woman. Why, in New York, I was the talk of the theater circuit.” Though that talk had turned vicious toward the end.
“I’m sure you were,” Louise mumbled, “but this isn’t New York. People...well, they value different things.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Well...that different bait catches different kinds of fish.”
“I’m not going fishing with anyone,” Fiona pointed out, though she knew perfectly well what Louise was getting at. What the woman didn’t understand was that Carson did love the fancy gowns. That was the man Fiona needed to catch. “Carson and I are going to a concert.”
“Um, yes. At a church.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t wear my best gown in church?”
Louise flushed. “I just thought...well, never mind. Do as you please. I’ll tell Mr. Evans that you’ll be downstairs shortly.” She hurried from the room.
Fiona listened to Louise’s footsteps clatter down the staircase as she surveyed her appearance again. Perhaps a feather would look good in her hair. She eyed the white plume from both the left side and the right. Too much. Osten—whatever that word was. She tucked a comb into her bag and shut the clasp. Before leaving, she took one last glance in the mirror. Too pale. She pinched her cheeks for more color. Yes, that would do nicely. She looked fine, hopefully fine enough to push Carson Blakeney toward a proposal.
Her finger needed a ring—now.
* * *
Sawyer paced the boardinghouse drawing room. Though Mrs. Smythe was perched on the edge of the sofa, he couldn’t think of anything but how to tell Fiona the bad news. Not that he considered the news bad, mind you. Fiona deserved better than Blakeney.
“Do have a seat,” Mrs. Smythe insisted. “Fiona will be down shortly. You know how much appearance matters to her.”
Did he. He also knew her fiery temper, and the news he had to deliver was sure to set off that storm. He completed another circuit around the room.
“I have a question,” Mrs. Smythe interjected into his thoughts, “purely a matter of scientific inquiry.”
That caught his attention. “Scientific?” He’d never expected to hear that word come out of any woman’s mouth, least of all from Louise Smythe.
The petite woman’s chin lifted. “An experiment, shall we say?”
“Can’t say I like the sound of that.”
“Oh, it’s not trying. I simply wished to inquire about your thoughts on a particular topic.”
“What topic?” He had the suspicion he was stepping somewhere he shouldn’t go.
“A topic of which you are particularly well versed.”
“Oh?” This definitely sounded like trouble, but he couldn’t imagine what she thought was his area of expertise. Sawing logs, sure, but no woman had any interest in that. Mrs. Smythe couldn’t possibly know about his past. Or did she? He steeled himself.
She cast her gaze down. “Which would you say a man prefers—a practically dressed woman or one in all her finery?”
At first Sawyer breathed out in relief. Then he figured there must be a trap in her question, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Unless she was fishing for compliments. He had to tread carefully.
He cleared his throat. “I, uh, appreciate both. At the right time.”
She lifted her face, which wore a frown. “That doesn’t answer the question. If all extenuating circumstances are the same, which would you prefer?”
First she threw a word at him that the Sawyer Evans he’d carefully crafted wouldn’t understand. Then she insisted on an answer. Fine. He’d give her the one she wanted.
“You look good, Mrs. Smythe.”
A sigh of disgust escaped her lips just as Fiona glided into the room. Relief flooded over him until he recalled what he must tell the beautiful redhead.
“Sawyer, I’m surprised to see you.” Fiona always made a grand entrance, and today was no exception. Her right arm floated through the air as if scooping the entire world into her domain. Her hair, her gown, that gaudy necklace, everything about her was designed to make a stunning impression. But her talent impressed him more than all of that put together.
“Fiona.” He crossed the room, took her extended hand, just like before their concerts, and kissed it. “You look lovely this afternoon.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Louise roll her eyes and heard her snort of disgust. So, the widow was jealous. The idea made him grin. It had been a long time since women competed for his attention. Before the war, he’d drawn his share of female interest even though Father and Mother had long planned for him to marry Julia Spencer. When he courted her, Father had congratulated him on following the plan. Then he learned what sort of man his father truly was, and the world shifted abruptly. He enlisted. Julia abandoned him and married another man. His father opposed him in every way. It was war at home as well as on the front.
“Louise said you had an important message for me.” Fiona’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Has a ship arrived?”
“A ship? Why would you care about a ship’s arrival?”
She seemed to relax. “Then none has docked?”
“Right. No ships.” He glanced at Louise, who was still perched on the edge of the sofa, at least pretending to read a book. He didn’t want to break the important news with anyone else present, so he rattled on about the other news of importance. “Stockton wants the schooner finished as soon as possible, so Garrett asked me to take over his duties at the mill.”
He puffed up a bit at the confidence the sawmill manager had shown in his abilities. Sawyer hadn’t been raised for hard labor. Father always said that was reserved for the lower classes. But Sawyer liked the good, honest feel of aching muscles and a job well done.
“That’s why you insisted on speaking to me? Because you’ve been promoted?” Fiona didn’t look the slightest bit impressed.
He should have known. “I thought you might be happy for me.”
“Of course I am.” Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes darted toward Louise with the obvious intent of sending the widow scurrying.
Louise gathered her book and rose. “Please excuse me. Mrs. Calloway must need help in the kitchen.” She left the room.
“There.” Fiona breathed out. “I thought she would never leave.”
Sawyer hadn’t been mistaken. Fiona definitely had more than the usual sense of purpose this afternoon.
She strolled toward the parlor entrance. When he didn’t follow, she returned and threaded her arm around his. “Now tell me the real reason you called on me today.”
Sawyer swallowed. This wasn’t going to be easy, and he didn’t relish that she was standing so close when he delivered the news.
“Well?” she demanded.
He cleared his throat and said a quick prayer that he didn’t botch this. “Uh, word about Mr. Blakeney arrived at the store.”
“Word.” Any hint of merriment drained from her voice.
“Uh. Yes.”
“And they sent you to tell me.” She let go of his arm.
He nodded, his throat as dry as sawdust.
“It’s not good news, is it?”
Sawyer blew out his breath. Best to get it out. “He’s gone. He headed upriver to Allegan.”
He couldn’t miss the dots of color on her cheeks.
“Carson left,” she said bluntly.
“I’m afraid so.”
“When will he return?”
“Uh, he didn’t leave word about that. He just paid his hotel bill and left.”
It took a moment for understanding to settle in. Then her eyelids blinked rapidly. Oh no, she was going to cry. She never cried. That was one thing Sawyer loved about Fiona. She was a strong woman not prone to fits of emotion.
“Well, then. That’s that.” But there was bitterness in her voice. “I should have known.”
Sawyer wished he could find the right words. Blakeney was all wrong for her. Fiona needed a strong man who could match her energy and wits. Blakeney was one of those slippery types who made promises he never kept. It had taken all of Sawyer’s will to hold his tongue around them.
“You deserve better,” he said.
She gave him a sharp look. “Who? You?” Her hands braced her hips. “Why should a woman set her sights on a man who hasn’t two pennies to rub together?”
Chapter Two (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Fiona was left empty-handed with her niece due to arrive any day. She couldn’t raise the girl in a boardinghouse. Without a reliable income, she couldn’t raise Mary Clare at all. Though she fumed at Blakeney’s cowardice, she did so in the privacy of her room. By evening, she was able to set aside her anger and work on a solution.
She spread out every newspaper she could find on the dining-room table. Chicago. Holland. Grand Rapids. Even one very old paper from New York that must have been brought in by a lumberjack stopping on his way upriver to the camps. Even though it was almost three months old, she couldn’t discount any possibility.
“What are you doing?” Louise ducked in, book in hand.
“What I should have done long ago.” Fiona shot the widow a forceful glance. “Something we both should have done. Find a husband.”
“Oh.” Louise dropped her book on the table.
“Pride and Prejudice?” Fiona had heard of that novel. “I would have thought you’d read that one by now.”
“Several times. It’s one of my favorites. Elizabeth misjudges Darcy so.” Louise sighed. “And yet it all works out in the end. Love conquers all.”
Fiona raised her eyebrows at Louise’s romantic wistfulness. The quiet widow apparently still harbored hope for a loving marriage. She had shown no interest in Garrett Decker, the man looking for a bride, but had swooned over Garrett’s younger brother, Roland. They all had, but Roland had settled on the schoolteacher, Pearl, putting an end to their hopes. When the Decker brothers married Pearl Lawson and Amanda Porter in January, the most eligible bachelors in Singapore were taken.
Only lumberjacks and mill workers were left until Carson Blakeney made an appearance. He’d seemed the perfect gentleman with his fine manners and expensive suits, but he’d turned out to be a coward. Once again, the area offered only unsuitable bachelors. Sawyer Evans was intriguing. She’d never met anyone with more natural musical ability, but he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—provide the sort of future she had in mind for Mary Clare. That was proved by his shocked expression when she flatly suggested it. Then he’d gone and spit out some nonsense about it having to be the right time. Yet another coward!
“Love might win out in storybooks, but real life isn’t nearly as tidy,” Fiona pointed out. “Now that the Decker brothers are married and Carson left town, there isn’t a decent prospect in the area.”
“Mr. Blakeney left town?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? He apparently had business to attend to elsewhere.” Fiona pretended to search the newspaper, though it was not opened to the advertisements.
“I’m terribly sorry.”
Louise truly was. Fiona wasn’t accustomed to sympathy. Most women held her at arm’s length, as if she wasn’t good enough to associate with them.
“Well, what’s done is done,” Fiona asserted, “and there’s nothing that will change it.”
“Thus the newspapers.”
“Thus the newspapers.”
“Mr. Evans likes you,” Louise stated.
“Humph.” The memory of Sawyer’s stammered response still hurt. She’d practically asked him to marry her. “Well, I’m not interested in him.”
“Oh.” Louise sank into the chair beside her. “He’s doing well. Amanda said he’s now the manager at the sawmill.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“And you’re still not interested? Garrett Decker was mill manager when he advertised for a wife.”
“He didn’t advertise,” Fiona pointed out. “His children—with the help of Mrs. Calloway—placed the notice in the newspaper. Speaking of which, I intend to locate another prospect at once.” She scanned the first column. No personal advertisements.
“Because the hotel hasn’t reopened yet?”
“That’s part of it.” The occasional concerts at the boardinghouse this winter reduced the cost of her room and board but didn’t give her money to send home. When the hotel closed in January, they’d all been shocked, but Mrs. VanderLeuven told Fiona that she couldn’t make ends meet in the winter once the lumberjacks left for the camps. “It will reopen soon.” It had to.
“I hope so.”
Fiona looked to Louise. The widow had been out of work all winter also. That’s why they were now sharing a room—which would soon include Mary Clare. Three wouldn’t do, not with one being a child. Another room would be required, preferably for Louise. “Did you plan to seek employment there?”
Louise lowered her gaze. “It was a possibility.”
“You could also remarry. That was your plan when you came to Singapore.”
Louise shook her head. “It was the only option at the time. Now?” She sighed. “I still hope for a loving husband who follows the Lord. I can only marry a man of strong faith.”
Fiona mulled that over. She had once felt the same, but circumstances had destroyed that hope. No man of faith who heard the vile and unfounded rumors about her in the New York newspapers would ever accept her for a wife.
“I hope you find him.” But the issue of Mary Clare’s pending arrival weighed on Fiona. Neither she nor Louise could wait for a husband to drop in her lap.
“It’s just a dream.” Louise’s eyes misted, and Fiona wondered what had happened in the widow’s marriage to leave her so reluctant to reenter the institution. Direct inquiry had gotten Fiona nowhere, so she stated the obvious.
“Then you must find employment. You might tutor students, I suppose.”
Louise brightened. “I would like that.”
“Talk to Pearl. She’ll know which students need extra help—and which parents can afford to pay for it.”
“Thank you.” Louise leaned close and lowered her voice. “You don’t need to resort to marrying a man you’ve never met. You could give vocal lessons.”
Fiona laughed. “Have you noticed the type of families in the area? Farmers. Mill workers. Lumberjacks. None of these place a high value on musical prowess, not enough to pay for lessons. No, my course is set. I must marry.”
“Why not go back to New York?”
No doubt that was the question all the women had wanted to ask her since they first arrived in August, but only quiet little Louise Smythe had actually done it. Maybe that woman had more gumption than Fiona had credited to her.
“There is only heartache in New York.” Fiona wasn’t ready to reveal more. The men there had courted her either for show or for their own purposes, never with marriage in mind. Fortunately, she always discovered the truth before it was too late, but rumors still threatened. By active involvement with her church and charity, she’d managed to stop most of them. Until last spring. Mr. Winslow Evanston wooed her with gifts and charm that blinded her for a time. When she discovered his lies and refused to become his mistress, he vilified her in the newspapers. Never again would she trust a man without a ring on her finger. “I doubt I’ll ever go back.”
“Me either.”
Fiona really looked at Louise. Her features were nondescript, but she had a strong chin and surprising inner fortitude. “Your husband died in the war, right?”
Louise looked away. “Yes.”
Heartache. Fiona could recognize that from miles away. And it wasn’t just because he’d died. No, that marriage hadn’t been a happy one. It couldn’t have been, or the family would have taken her in.
“Well, then. We both need a good husband.” Fiona ran her finger down the second column. “Here’s one—‘Handsome man seeks pretty, vivacious wife. Must cook.’”
“That fits you but not me.”
“You can cook.”
“Not as well as you. The bread and rolls you make melt in my mouth.” Louise shook her head. “I don’t fit one single criteria. Besides, I’d rather not marry a handsome man.”
“Why on earth not?”
“They tend to think too highly of themselves.”
Fiona snorted out a laugh. “Honey, they all do, and I can guarantee you’ll never find an advertiser that admits he’s homely.”
“Maybe I won’t turn to an advertisement.” Once again Louise had squared her shoulders and set her jaw. “Maybe God will send the right man here.”
“To Singapore? You’ve seen the kind of men who come here. Rough lumberjacks and mill workers. There’s not a one who cares about book learning. I doubt many of them can read. You’ll never find a gentleman here.”
Louise looked crestfallen.
Fiona regretted her rash words. “Then again, you never know. Anything could happen.”
“It is possible. Roland and Garrett Decker are gentlemen.”
“Married gentlemen.”
“Yes, but not when we first arrived. Another might step off the next ship. I must hope for it.” Louise trembled as she picked up her book. “I believe I’ll go to the parlor and read. Best wishes on your search.” She rose.
The windows rattled, drawing both ladies’ attention. They’d heard it often enough since arriving. First the wind. Then the rain or snow. But this was particularly vicious, considering the calm earlier that day.
Louise left for the parlor, and Fiona tackled the advertisements again. She circled the one she’d read to Louise, even though the part she hadn’t read aloud wasn’t nearly as promising. ‘Willing to work hard to build a new life.’ That sounded like a homesteader. Fiona wasn’t opposed to hard work, but she couldn’t bring Mary Clare into that sort of life, not when the girl displayed such vocal talent.
She crossed that one off and resumed the hunt.
* * *
Sawyer noted the increased wind when he left the boardinghouse kitchen after getting an early supper. He trudged to the mercantile, still irritated over Fiona’s jab. She clearly didn’t think him worthy of her, but she knew nothing about him. He would have defended himself if she’d stayed in the room. Then again, what could he say? He couldn’t admit his past. He’d broken all contact with his manipulative, philandering father. Even though he ached for his mother, Sawyer would never return home. He wrote his mother and prayed for her, but he wouldn’t risk encountering Father. Without that parentage, he could never impress Fiona. She wanted a man with money. He didn’t want a woman to love him for his father’s money. He wanted a woman to love him. But not yet. That’s why he had to talk to Roland.
The wind tore at his open coat and bit into his neck. He hopped up the steps to the mercantile and pushed open the door. The bell rang. He looked around. The place was empty except for Pearl Decker, who stood behind the sales counter.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. May I help you?”
Pearl had come to Singapore as the new schoolteacher, but it didn’t take long for Roland Decker, the mercantile manager, to fall for her. The big fire last November that leveled the schoolhouse had sealed things between them. He proposed. She accepted. And in January, when the itinerant preacher came around, they married.
Sawyer stepped a little farther inside and looked toward the back. No one was gathered around the stove. No one was shopping. “Where’s Roland?”
“He headed up to the lighthouse. Word arrived that there’s a ship headed for trouble. Mr. Blackthorn lit the light early, trying to warn them off. Naturally, every able-bodied man went to have a look.”
“You don’t say. Maybe I ought to go too. But first I need to ask you something.”
“Oh?”
His palms sweated. Why did he get nervous around women? It had been that way ever since his fiancée, Julia, rejected him.
He cleared his throat. “That, uh, advertisement we were joking about earlier this afternoon... I, uh, wondered if I could have it?” The few scraps of paper in his pocket didn’t contain any of the words.
Pearl blinked. “Oh! Of course.”
She moved the ledger, then looked under the counter. Then she disappeared from view.
Sawyer moved to the counter and peered over. She was on her hands and knees.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Decker?”
She looked up, her faced flushed. “I don’t know where it went.”
“It? There were just scraps.” He pulled the few he had from his pocket.
“Well, uh, not exactly.” She stood, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I owe you an apology, it seems. I rewrote the advertisement, hoping to persuade you, but now it’s gone.”
Sawyer got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Gone where?”
She swallowed. “There’s only one place it could have gone. It must have gotten mixed up with the advertisements for the store that I gave to Mr. Hennigan earlier.”
“What?” Sawyer gulped as his mind spun with possibilities. “Are you saying that it will be printed?” But he knew the answer. The presses would already be whirring at this hour. By morning, all of Singapore would think he was in the market for a wife.
“I’m so sorry,” Pearl said again. “Perhaps nothing will come of it.”
“I hope so.” Scowling, he tipped a finger to his hat and hustled back out into the wind, where he could concentrate on something much easier to handle. The biting cold was real. That advertisement wasn’t. He’d just ignore it. It didn’t give his name, after all. Maybe the whole thing would blow over in a few days.
A mournful whistle drew his attention toward Lake Michigan. What was a misplaced advertisement compared to a ship in trouble? One or two vessels had lost propulsion since he arrived in Singapore. Most got into port safely, but some had grounded on the shifting sandbars. With the southwesterly gale blowing in and the sandbars that formed over winter, a ship could easily find itself aground.
He squinted at the lighthouse and made out the light. The sun must be near the horizon by now, but heavy clouds obscured it. Soon enough it would get dark. Hopefully the ship would reach the river mouth before then.
The lighthouse was perched atop the big dune that separated Singapore from the shores of Lake Michigan. Since the first lighthouse had been undercut and toppled into the river, this one was built farther from the water, and the dune had been reinforced with slabs of limestone to stop the seas from eroding the sands beneath it.
The town was nestled between the growing lakeshore dunes and older ones that had once been covered with trees. These days, any gale filled the streets with sand. It even worked its way into the buildings and had to be swept out and shoveled away constantly.
He hurried up the dune. Roland Decker and a handful of men were gathered near the lighthouse, peering at the lake. Already the waves were crashing onshore. Six to eight footers, he’d judge, and they would only build. A passenger steamer rolled in the trough maybe a quarter mile offshore. No smoke trickled from the stack.
“Engines must be down,” Sawyer noted to the group, which included mill workers Edwards and Tuggman plus Ernie Calloway from the boardinghouse and Roland’s brother, Garrett. The lighthouse keeper, Blackthorn, must be up in the tower, but two of his boys had gathered with the men.
“That’s what we figure,” Roland confirmed. “Mr. Blackthorn says there’s a sandbar about a hundred yards from shore, directly in their path. If they ground, the waves will tear them apart, and that water’s too cold for anyone to survive.”
Sawyer whistled. “Better hope they get their engines going.” How many people were aboard? It looked like the ship that had brought Fiona to town. The thought of women and children going down made him ill. “Have they put up any sail?” He couldn’t see if the ship had masts, not without looking through the glass.
“Don’t think they got any,” Edwards muttered.
Sawyer clenched his hands, visions of Fiona flailing in stiff seas flashing through his mind. “They need something to generate enough power so they can steer toward the river mouth.”
“That’s something we can pray for,” Roland said. “Let’s do it.”
Sawyer hesitated. Like most, he tossed up the occasional plea, but the barbarities of war had dimmed his belief that God answered every prayer. This was crucial, though, so after Roland led the prayer, Sawyer answered amen.
God often worked through men, so he pointed out, “We need to be ready to rescue them.”
The keeper appeared at his elbow. “Too dangerous. We can’t go risking people’s lives when there’s not much chance we could reach ’em.”
Sawyer couldn’t accept that. “What boats are available?”
Roland shrugged. “We could launch a rowboat.”
Even the strongest men couldn’t row into that sea. “We need sail or steam. Anything around?”
“My mackinaw boat,” Blackthorn offered.
Sawyer was familiar with the small sailing craft. “That’s got an awfully shallow draft. It’ll struggle to make any headway in these waves.”
They all knew it.
“We need a deep-draft sailboat or, better yet, a steam tug,” Sawyer pointed out. “Can we get the Donnie Belle down from upriver?”
“She must be all the way up to Allegan by now,” Edwards said. “She left here Monday and don’t come back this way for another week.”
Sawyer frowned. Singapore didn’t have a steam tug. Neither did Saugatuck, not one that was running this time of year. Without a tug, the people on that steamer didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter Three (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
“There’s a passenger ship in trouble,” Mrs. Calloway announced to Fiona as she hurried through the dining room on her way to the kitchen. “We’re going to need every bed in the place made up and every spare blanket brought over to the lighthouse.”
A passenger ship! Fiona’s heart leaped into her throat. Mary Clare. What if her niece was on that ship? She pushed aside the newspapers, husband-hunting forgotten, and raced to the entry hall. In a second, she donned her cloak.
“Where are you going?” the boardinghouse proprietress asked.
“I have to do something to help.” Fiona couldn’t bring herself to mention the fear that was building in her chest. A seven-year-old girl. A sinking ship. Icy water. What if?
“You can help right here. We need to carry blankets to the lighthouse.”
The lighthouse would do. From there she could see what was happening and learn what would be done. If the passengers were brought ashore, she could then bring Mary Clare here and warm her up.
“What about the rooms?” Fiona headed for the staircase without removing her cloak. “We’ll need to warm the beds and have something hot for them to drink.”
“All taken care of, dear. Louise has already begun preparing the rooms, and Pearl and Amanda are on their way. Come with me to the linen closet, and we’ll grab the extra blankets.”
Fiona took a deep breath. There wasn’t anything she could do right now. Mrs. Calloway had said the ship was in trouble, not that it had sunk. “The ship is still afloat, then?”
“Aye, bobbing like a cork, I understand.”
Fiona breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. “Is it a large ship?” Maybe if it was very small, Mary Clare wouldn’t be aboard. Lillibeth had said something about a group of orphans.
“From what I hear, it’s like the one you came in on.”
Oh, dear. There had been scores of passengers on the Milwaukee. If rescued, where would they go? Mary Clare could join her, but the rest? “We’ll never have room for everyone.”
“We’ll squeeze them in. Some can sleep in the parlor or on the dining-room chairs.”
As Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway upstairs, she recalled all too clearly the crowded conditions when she was growing up. Parents, two grandmothers, seven siblings—one with a husband—and a baby all squeezed into the tiny tenement apartment. She and three sisters and the grandmothers shared a single bed—three facing one direction and three the other. She’d been kicked in the back and shoulders numerous times, but the boys had it tougher. They’d line up the wooden chairs for beds—three chairs per bed. Ma and Pa gave up their bedroom to her oldest sister’s family, while they slept atop the kitchen table.
Mrs. Calloway was suggesting the same sort of discomfort, except this would be temporary. Fiona hadn’t known relief until she began getting paid to sing and moved to a boardinghouse room of her own. It had felt like the height of luxury, and she would never go back.
At the linen shelves, Mrs. Calloway grabbed a stack of blankets and handed them to Fiona. “Is that too much, dear?”
“I can carry more.” Fiona had always been strong. As a girl, she’d prided herself on the ability to lift more than boys her age. Contrary to common belief, she did not shirk manual labor.
Mrs. Calloway added a few. “No more, or you won’t be able to see in front of you. Come now, let’s get these downstairs and then head over to the lighthouse.”
After Mrs. Calloway donned her outerwear, they trudged through town. The wind howled off the lake, filling the streets with sand and whipping those particles through the air so they stung every inch of exposed skin. Fiona lowered her head against the wind. Thankfully she’d thought to pull the hood of her cloak over her head, or her hair would be filled with grit.
The drifts of sand made progress through town difficult, but fear for Mary Clare drove Fiona on. Climbing the dune taxed her limits. She gasped for breath and had to pause several times while Mrs. Calloway plodded on, apparently oblivious to the exertion. Maybe Fiona wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. The years on the stage had apparently taken their toll.
She pressed onward.
At the top of the dune, the lighthouse flashed a signal in a repeating pattern, but her attention landed on the men standing near the lighthouse entrance. One form was unmistakable. Sawyer. Relief flooded her. She’d never known a stronger man. He could do anything. He would save Mary Clare.
“Sawyer!” The wind shoved her cry back at her.
He would never hear. She must wait until she reached him.
Mrs. Calloway had gained the top of the dune and was talking to an older man bundled in oilskins. Fiona didn’t recognize him. Then again, it was dark except for the flashes of light from the tower above. Sawyer joined them, and the older man handed him what looked like a large coil of rope.
Fiona pressed for the summit. Her pulse pounded as a foot slid backward in the soft sand. The lake roared, and the stinging grit got worse with each step. Unlike Louise, she had never climbed the dunes or gone to the lakeshore. From sailing into the harbor, she recalled that the lighthouse sat high on the dune that separated Singapore from the lake, but she could not recall if there was much of a beach on the other side.
“Sawyer!” she called out.
This time he turned toward her. After giving the coil of rope to another man, he loped down the short distance and relieved her of the blankets.
“Take my arm,” he said.
The security of his strength washed over her. He would help her. He would ensure Mary Clare was safe.
“Must help,” she began, but could get no further before gasping for breath.
They managed the last few yards to the top of the dune, near the man clad in oilskins and Mrs. Calloway. There Sawyer released her and returned the blankets to her care.
“There you are,” the boardinghouse proprietress said to Fiona. She didn’t display the slightest shortness of breath. “We ought to put the blankets indoors in case of rain.”
The man in the oilskins pointed to the keeper’s house. “Jane’s inside.”
He must be the lighthouse keeper, for Jane was the lightkeeper’s wife. Though Mrs. Calloway turned to go to the lighthouse, Fiona had to make sure Sawyer knew about Mary Clare. He had stepped away to talk to the rest of the men.
She nudged his arm. “You need to rescue them.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know if we can with those waves.”
“You must.” She fought desperation. “My niece. She’s only seven. She could be on that ship.”
His expression, highlighted in the eerie light of the lighthouse, twisted with concern. “We’ll do what we can.”
But she could see the doubt in his eyes before he rejoined the men. Poor Mary Clare! Fiona knew no fear when she could take charge, but this was beyond her control. Lord, please save little Mary Clare.
She looked toward the water but couldn’t see anything. The beam from the lighthouse didn’t illuminate the landscape directly below. It pierced the sky above them, a beacon to the ship. Beyond and below the dune, she glimpsed occasional dots of light bob up and then disappear. The beam from the light briefly revealed the tossing tempest.
How could anyone survive those seas?
Mrs. Calloway nudged Fiona with her shoulder, directing her toward the keeper’s quarters. “Come.”
Fiona couldn’t drag her gaze from the unfolding situation. Her feet stayed rooted to the spot even when Sawyer and the men headed down the dune toward Lake Michigan.
“We need to be ready,” Mrs. Calloway urged. “The survivors will need warm, dry blankets.”
Only then did Fiona notice the first spits of rain. Somehow she followed, her legs moving though her mind was still on the embattled ship. Surely they would survive. God would not take the life of one so young. Yet, she could name many who had died even younger. Mama had lost a boy who lived less than one day on this earth.
“Mary Clare,” she whispered into the windy night. “I failed you.”
If she had found a husband sooner. If she hadn’t gotten entangled with that vindictive Evanston in New York. If only she had cast caution to the wind and taken in Mary Clare at once rather than head off on this quest to find a husband well off enough to give her niece all she deserved. What did it all matter now, when the little girl was sick and frightened on a sinking ship?
She looked back but could see only darkness cut by the beam of the lighthouse. This fretting was useless, borrowing trouble from the future. She had to trust Sawyer and the men. She needed to trust the ingenuity of the officers aboard the imperiled ship. Most of all, she needed to trust God. Turning back to the task at hand, she hurried to catch up to Mrs. Calloway.
They covered the distance in little time, pushed forward by the steady wind. Mrs. Calloway stomped her feet on the lighthouse stoop to knock off as much of the sand as possible. A coiled rope mat helped remove more before they stepped inside.
“Jane! We’ve brought blankets,” Mrs. Calloway called out.
A girl of perhaps twelve appeared. “Mother said to leave them on the hall chair.”
“Thank you, dear. Is there anything else you can use?”
Fiona set her stack of blankets on the chair, which was situated opposite the entry table. A simple pewter card receiver sat on the end of the table nearest the door. She couldn’t help wondering how many callers Mrs. Blackthorn got. The tray was empty. The hall stand was not. It bristled with coats, hats, scarves and gloves. A number of umbrellas filled a brass urn beside it.
Mrs. Calloway handed her the rest of the blankets. Fiona had to rearrange a bit to keep the stack from toppling.
“Mother said there could be dozens of passengers,” the girl said. “She’s making soup, but we don’t have enough bread.”
“Don’t go begging these kind folk,” came a voice from the back of the house.
“It’s no bother at all, Jane,” Mrs. Calloway called back. “I’ve got plenty left over, and we can get more on the rise in no time.”
Fiona wondered why Mrs. Calloway didn’t just go back to the kitchen, but then she looked down and saw the sand coating their skirts and coats. No woman wanted that tracked through her house. A considerate visitor stayed in the entry. Fiona recalled all the times she’d barged straight into the boardinghouse parlor without shaking out her skirts. Mrs. Calloway never said a word, but it must have made her sigh with frustration.
“Anything else we can bring after we get the dough ready?” Mrs. Calloway asked loudly.
Jane Blackthorn appeared at the end of the hall, hands covered in flour. “No need to go to that trouble, Mabel. I’ve got a batch ready to go. We might need bandages.”
The two women proceeded to discuss preparations while the daughter returned to the kitchen and Fiona waited. Her thoughts drifted back to Sawyer and the men. What had they encountered at the lakeshore? The waves must be huge in this wind. Their crashing could be heard inside the keeper’s quarters.
“Do you know what they plan to do?” she blurted out.
The two women stared at her.
“Some of the men went down the dune toward the lake,” she added.
Mrs. Calloway looked to Jane before answering. “I expect they wanted to have a closer look-see at the situation.”
Fiona prodded. “What will they do?”
Mrs. Calloway shook her head. “They’re probably seein’ what they can do to save those people on the ship.”
The lump grew in Fiona’s throat. “Then they are wrecked.”
“Samuel says they’re stuck on a sandbar,” Jane said. “The waves could tear the ship apart.”
Samuel must be her husband, the lighthouse keeper.
Icy fingers of dread wove their way around Fiona’s heart. “Then there’s little hope.”
“There’s always hope,” Mrs. Calloway said. “All things are possible with the Lord.”
The paraphrased scripture would normally settle Fiona’s nerves, but not tonight. “But how will anyone get to them in these waves?”
The two older women looked at each other.
Mrs. Calloway answered. “Apparently your Mr. Sawyer—” she often added Mr. to a man’s first name “—said during the war he saw someone send a line out to sea using a mortar.”
“A cannon?” Fiona gasped. “You have one?”
Jane shook her head.
“If the ship’s close enough,” Mrs. Calloway said, “they’re going to try tying a lead weight on the end and throwing it.”
That sounded far-fetched, but Fiona wasn’t going to say that, not with the ladies’ husbands involved.
“If that doesn’t work,” Mrs. Calloway continued, “they’ll use the mackinaw boat to try to get to the foundered ship.”
Boat meant small. Fiona’s head spun, and she leaned against the wall for support. All she could envision was Mary Clare’s lifeless body dragged from the icy water. Just hours ago, she’d been upset that her designs on Carson Blakeney had come to naught. What were her plans compared to people’s lives? Innocent people faced death on that ship, and brave men would risk their lives to try to save them. Sawyer in the lead.
“Now there,” Mrs. Calloway said, “no one’s gonna do anything foolhardy. They’ve all got a good dose of common sense.”
Jane nodded. “Samuel knows better than to send anyone out in impossible conditions.”
Even worse.
“But if no one tries to reach the ship...” She couldn’t fathom that. “They must try. They must.”
Again, the women stared at her.
“Now, what’s got you all upset, dear?” Mrs. Calloway asked. “The good Lord will take care of everyone.”
Fiona had always thought her faith strong, but she was no longer sure. Not sure at all.
* * *
Sawyer had seen the lake rough, but tonight was about as bad as it could get. When the waves and the cold were put together, the chances of rescuing anyone were slim. But they had to try. A little girl, Fiona had said, her eyes filled with an emotion he had never seen from her—fear.
Sawyer recalled the little girl who had held out her hand to him when he marched south from Atlanta during the war. Rail-thin, her lips had barely moved, but her eyes had told a terrible story. All she’d wanted was food, but he didn’t have any. That failure still haunted him. He could not fail Fiona’s niece.
A line of waves crashed and rolled ashore, pushing inland nearly to the edge of the dune. The men huddled there, just out of reach of the water. For now. With the wind steady, the waves would build. Soon there wouldn’t be any beach.
The ship was lodged on the sandbar. The lights aboard, likely lanterns since the engines had failed, vanished behind towering waves and then reappeared in the trough. Otherwise, they hadn’t budged. Blackthorn figured the sandbar—and now the foundered ship—was roughly a hundred yards offshore. Not impossible if they had a solid steam tug. She would pitch and roll like crazy, but they could get to the ship and get passengers onboard. It would take several trips, and hauling the passengers, especially the women and children, from ship to ship wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.
The mackinaw? Impossible. The shallow-draft sailboat was designed to carry a lot of cargo, not weather heavy seas. It would flip over and fill with water in minutes.
“Maybe the ship will last till morning,” Garrett Decker yelled into his ear.
That was their best hope. That and the wind dying down. But if the passenger ship started to break up, they’d have to attempt the impossible. Sawyer could swim. But not a couple hundred yards into huge seas in icy waters. The ship might attempt to launch its boat, but that would be just as precarious as the mackinaw.
If only he had a cannon. They could attempt to fire the rope, attached to a shot, toward the ship and then rescue folks using that line. He’d seen it accomplished once, during the war, but the unit had resources that Singapore didn’t.
Sawyer rubbed his arms. “Let’s try heaving the line.”
They’d practiced a few times, failing miserably. This time Sawyer put Edwards on the spot. The man had boasted of his prowess. Let him prove it.
The wiry crew chief warmed up by swinging his arms several times. Then he grabbed the lead weight, reached back as far as he could and threw. The weight arced in the light from the lighthouse and then splashed into the water. Tuggman hauled it in.
“It’s useless,” Blackthorn said. “No one’s gotten near the ship.”
That was a kind way of saying they’d all fallen short by at least half.
“I’m praying she doesn’t break up,” Roland stated.
Sawyer shivered, though it wasn’t terribly cold. The southwest wind was warm, but the cold sweats had started coming on ever since he first saw the situation. Fiona’s desperate plea only made them worse.
“She’s breaking up!” Tuggman shouted.
Sawyer gulped. The worst had just arrived.
* * *
Fiona paced the small hallway in the keeper’s quarters after helping Mrs. Calloway haul bandages and liniments from the boardinghouse to the light station. The boardinghouse proprietress had vanished into the kitchen after asking Fiona to wait out front for word from the men. Nothing more could be done until survivors arrived.
Mrs. Calloway and Mrs. Blackthorn reappeared, busily calculating how many bed linens were available throughout town.
“The empty bunkhouses,” the latter suggested.
Mrs. Calloway shook her head. “It’s all at the boardinghouse. If only the hotel was open. There would be plenty there.”
“The VanderLeuvens would understand if we borrowed some,” Jane Blackthorn replied. “It is an emergency.”
Fiona couldn’t count blankets and bedding when lives were at risk. In addition to Mary Clare and the rest of the passengers, now Sawyer and the men attempting a rescue were in peril. When Samuel Blackthorn returned to check the light, he’d informed them that Sawyer and a few of the mill workers had gone to launch the mackinaw.
Blackthorn had shaken his head. “It’ll take the grace of God to bring them back alive.”
Fiona’s stomach churned. She was no sailor, but even she knew that a little sailboat didn’t stand a chance in such angry seas.
Mrs. Blackthorn returned to the kitchen, leaving Fiona alone with Mrs. Calloway.
“I can’t wait here.” She plucked her cloak off the wooden peg and threw it over her shoulders. “I’m going down to the beach to help.”
Mrs. Calloway stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. “Now, what do you think you’re gonna do that those men can’t do?”
“Something.” She couldn’t stand to wait.
“Do you think your Sawyer wants to be worrying about a woman when he’s got a boatload of people to rescue?”
Fiona didn’t miss the wording. Mrs. Calloway figured Fiona was upset because she feared for Sawyer’s life. She didn’t know that Mary Clare could be on that ship.
“Let them do what needs to be done,” Mrs. Calloway added. “And you be ready to help here when it comes our turn.”
“How can you be so calm when your husband’s part of the rescue party?”
“Faith in God above, child. Ernie is in God’s hands, and that’s the best place to be.”
Deep down Fiona knew Mrs. Calloway was right, but she couldn’t shake the fear. “My niece might be on that ship. My sister sent her here.”
“Oh, child.” Mrs. Calloway embraced her in a motherly hug. “God’s got hold of her. You have to believe that.”
Fiona was trying. “It’s so hard. What if...” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“Hush now. You just turn that precious girl over to the Lord’s care.” Right then and there, Mrs. Calloway prayed over the ship, the rescuers and the passengers, including Mary Clare.
A smidgen of peace wove through Fiona. Everything would be all right. She hoped.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs coming down from the tower. Both women looked toward the door to the tower. Fiona held her breath.
Mr. Blackthorn pushed open the tower door. His face was ashen. “The mackinaw’s gone under. They’re lost.”
Fiona gasped. Sawyer. All this time she’d been worried about her niece, who might not even be on the ship, when she should have prayed fervently for Sawyer. She had sent him out, had begged him to rescue her niece. Now he was gone? Guilt crashed over her. She moved her lips, but no sound came out of her mouth.
She’d sent Sawyer to the grave.
Chapter Four (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Sawyer spit out a mouthful of water and coughed. The cold lake had shocked him for a moment, and he hadn’t been able to move. It took aching lungs and an iron will to swim for the surface. The icy air rushed into his lungs even as the frigid water slowed his limbs. He had little time to get out and warmed up, or he would be the first casualty.
Where was his crew? He spun, but in the darkness it was difficult to see.
Shouts came from all around. Someone hung a lantern over the water, and Sawyer spotted one, two, three heads bobbing on the surface. All the crew had survived, but the overturned hull of the mackinaw drifted farther and farther away with each wave.
Again the light shone toward him, and the shouted words became clearer.
“This way!”
The rolling waves splashed against his face. He rubbed the water from his eyes. That cost him effort. His legs were growing sluggish. Soon he wouldn’t be able to move them any longer, and he would sink beneath the seas.
Fight!
Something inside him pushed him to move toward the lantern. It must be on another boat. Maybe even the steamship. Their lanterns wouldn’t have survived the capsizing.
“Grab hold!”
A life ring landed nearby. Sawyer grabbed it as best he could, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp it. He slung an arm through the center and felt himself moving through the water toward the light.
“My crew!” He couldn’t accept rescue while his crew languished in the water. He let go of the life ring.
“Hang on! We have them,” the voice from above shouted.
Sawyer threaded his other arm through the ring and tried to hang on, but he kept slipping off. Then someone grabbed onto his arms and lifted him from the icy water. Sawyer clawed and scrambled as best he could until he ended up on the slanted deck of the doomed steamer.
“Tuggman, Calloway, Edwards,” he croaked.
“Here, sir,” each said in turn.
Sawyer closed his eyes in gratitude as a heavy blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and a mug of hot and painfully strong coffee was put in his hands.
“Some rescue.” He drew in a ragged breath as he recalled the moment they’d capsized.
They’d been near the steamer, ready to hand over the rescue line when a wave caught the mackinaw and flipped it over in a second. Sawyer hadn’t had time to react. One moment he was completing his mission, and the next he was in the water.
“We got the line you brought,” said an unfamiliar voice.
The rescue line had made it, but what good would it be without the mackinaw? Unless one of the ship’s boats could be launched.
“Your boat,” he gasped.
“Already preparing for the first passengers.”
Passengers! Sawyer’s eyelids shot open. Fiona had been upset about her niece. “Is there a young girl on board?”
An older gentleman stepped into the lantern light. By his somber and simple attire, he was either a preacher or part of one of those clans who advocated simplicity.
The man tucked his thumbs under his suspenders. “Well, there are several young women under my care, but they are already spoken for.”
Sawyer couldn’t fathom what the man meant, but it wasn’t what he needed to know. “I’m talking about a little girl. Seven years old.”
“Oh.” The gentleman’s manner eased. “No children aboard.”
Sawyer heaved a sigh. At least Fiona could rest easy on that account.
The deck shook and slanted more severely. Sawyer slid toward the deckhouse and caught his balance before he slipped back into the water. This wreck was in a precarious position.
He pushed to his feet. “We have to get the passengers off now. Women first.”
If God heard prayers, the rest of them would make it to shore alive.
* * *
“The first survivors are ashore!”
The hurried shout came from a windblown mill worker who opened the door to the keeper’s quarters.
“Survivors?” Fiona pulled herself from gloomy thoughts. “Who?”
“Passengers.” Having delivered his message, the man left with a slam of the door.
“Mary Clare. It has to be,” Fiona whispered. “Maybe Sawyer.” At Mrs. Calloway’s grim expression, she added, “And Mr. Calloway.”
“They’d send the women and children first. If your niece was on board, she’s here now.” Mrs. Calloway grabbed a stack of blankets and piled them in Fiona’s arms. She then took the rest. “Regardless of who it is, they’ll need warmin’ up, and that’s our job. Follow me.”
The girl who’d first greeted them opened the door to let them out even while her mother assured them that she wouldn’t be far behind with the hot coffee.
The moment Fiona stepped outside, the wind slapped the breath from her. Sand stung her face. She squinted against it and could make out a small group huddled atop the dune. They were all standing. If survivors, they must be freezing in this wind.
Mrs. Calloway plowed toward them. Fiona followed.
Each step felt like slogging through knee-deep snow, thanks to the force of the wind coming at them. They hadn’t far to go. Shuttered lanterns and the light cast from the lighthouse guided the way. Mrs. Calloway arrived first, but she didn’t hand a blanket to anyone. Fiona hastened her step. Moments later, she too reached the small group of men and women. She recognized each one as a citizen of Singapore.
“Where are they? The survivors?”
“Not here yet.” Mrs. Calloway point to the blackness in front of them where the dune dropped off toward the angry lake.
Sawyer had disappeared down that dune. For the last time. Fiona caught herself. Assuming the worst wouldn’t help the situation. She would be needed soon, and one of those survivors might well be Mary Clare.
She strained to see into the darkness, but shouts met her ears before anyone crested the dune. Though the words weren’t distinct, the intent was clear. Someone needed help.
“We’re right here,” Mrs. Calloway shouted. Her strong alto was well-practiced in giving orders that could be heard throughout the boardinghouse. In this case, that voice cut through the howling gale and gave comfort to the survivors.
Fiona tensed. Soon she would know.
Long minutes passed before the first figures appeared. The light was too poor to make out faces, but it was obviously a group of women with two men. No children.
“Mary Clare.” Her niece’s name slipped from her mouth. Had she drowned, or was she not on the ship?
Fiona raced to meet the group, Mrs. Calloway on her heels.
The men took the blankets, one at a time, from her arms and gave them to the women. Even in this poor light, Fiona could tell they were all young, perhaps eighteen to twenty years of age, and dressed in simple dark gowns. Each one gratefully wrapped a blanket around her shoulders as Mrs. Calloway directed them out of the wind and toward the keeper’s quarters.
“Is that everyone?” Fiona asked the men, who were heading back down the dune.
“No, ma’am,” one oilskin-clad man responded. “Just the first of ’em.”
Fiona tried to ask more, but the men sprinted down the dune. Before she could follow, Mrs. Calloway called for her in that strident tone of hers that allowed no argument. Fiona worked her way back to the women, who were huddled sipping steaming mugs of coffee in the shelter of the lighthouse.
“Take them to the boardinghouse,” Mrs. Calloway instructed. “Pearl and Amanda will be there to help you get them situated.”
“But—” Leaving the rescue scene was the last thing Fiona wanted to do, but Mrs. Calloway shot her a look that reminded Fiona of her mother. That look meant there would be no negotiation. Fiona was expected to obey. But so many questions were unanswered. “Sawyer,” she began.
Mrs. Calloway cut her off. “If he lived, you’ll see him soon enough. If he died, he’s in God’s hands.”
End of discussion.
Fiona turned to the ladies, who had followed the conversation with wide eyes. By Fiona’s count, there were six of them, all dressed identically.
“Are you able to walk?” Fiona asked.
Each woman nodded.
“We’re going down the dune into town. See the two-story building with all the lights in the windows?”
One of the women followed Fiona’s outstretched arm and nodded.
“It’s the boardinghouse,” Fiona explained. “You can warm up there and have a place to sleep.”
“And soup and bread,” Mrs. Calloway interjected. “Jane sent a kettle there with her oldest. We’ll take care of the rest here before sending them on.” She squeezed Fiona’s arm and shouted in her ear. “Don’t fret. God has Mr. Sawyer and your niece in his care.”
As Fiona headed down the slope with the ladies, she hoped that care left them both on this earth. While watching the young women converse with each other, she realized the opportunity to find out if Mary Clare was on the ship stood right in front of her. She hurried to join them.
“Excuse me, but were there any children on board?” Fiona asked rather breathlessly.
The women looked at each other and shook their heads.
“A little girl?” Fiona prompted. “About seven years old. Dark brown hair.” She began to indicate her niece’s height, but it had been a long time since she’d last seen Mary Clare—longer than mere months, more like a year. The girl could be much taller by now.
“No, ma’am,” the oldest looking one said. “No children at all.”
Fiona breathed out a sigh of relief. God did answer prayer.
* * *
Sawyer was shaking by the time he got into the lighthouse keeper’s quarters. Even sitting next to the kitchen stove didn’t warm his fingers and toes. The pea soup and buttered bread did more to shake off the chill. The men buzzed in and out, boasting about the perilous rescue and the fact that they’d saved everyone before the ship broke up.
He didn’t have the strength to boast. Instead he ate more of the soup and tried to soak in the heat from the stove.
“Out, out.” Mrs. Blackthorn and Mrs. Calloway waved their arms as if shooing crows from a cornfield.
“You men must have someplace better to tell your tales than in the middle of the kitchen,” Mrs. Blackthorn added.
Mrs. Calloway nodded in agreement. “Mr. Roland brought dry clothes for those of you who are wet through to the bone.”
“You can change in the parlor.” Mrs. Blackthorn led them away. “The drapes are drawn, and the stove’s got it toasty as can be. You’ll feel a whole lot better once you’re dry.”
Gradually the kitchen cleared out except for Mrs. Calloway, who gave Sawyer a sharp look.
“That applies to you too, Mr. Sawyer. Go and get into some dry clothes.”
The woman reminded him of his nanny when he was a boy. Mrs. Dougherty didn’t take one bit of nonsense from Sawyer or his brother, Jamie. The memory brought a chuckle to his lips.
Mrs. Calloway braced her hands on her hips. “There’s nothing funny about freezin’ half to death. Get into some dry clothes. That’s an order.”
The smile died on Sawyer’s lips. He’d heard his share of orders during the war. Whether they were foolish or wise, he was expected to obey without question. Mrs. Calloway clearly envisioned herself as the field general. But Sawyer was so exhausted that his legs could collapse if he tried to stand. Until the soup revived him, he preferred sitting right where he was.
He tugged at his thick wool shirt. “Everything is pretty dry already from the stove’s heat.”
“Nonsense. You men don’t know what’s good for you. Now, hurry along.” As if to emphasize her command, she walked toward the kitchen door, where she waited expectantly.
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll finish the soup first. It’s taking off the chill.”
Mrs. Calloway sighed. “Can’t talk sense into a hardheaded man.”
“I promise to change into dry clothes once I finish eating.” Sawyer placed a hand over his heart as a pledge.
“I suppose that’ll have to do.” An odd smile twisted her lips. “I expect one other thing’ll help warm you right through.” She lowered her voice from a shout to normal volume. “I oughtn’t be tellin’ you, but Miss Fiona pretty near fainted when she heard your boat had gone down.”
“She did?” Sawyer found that difficult to believe. Fiona was not prone to fainting spells. In fact, she was the strongest woman under trying conditions that he’d ever met.
“Of course.” Mrs. Calloway waved a hand. “A woman who thinks she’s lost someone she loves can lose her head.”
“You mean her niece.” Sawyer couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to relay the information to Fiona. “Tell her that there weren’t any children aboard.”
“I’m not talkin’ about her niece. By now, she’ll have heard that the little one wasn’t on the ship.” Mrs. Calloway moved close. “You know exactly who I mean. When the word came in that the rescue boat capsized, she was beside herself.”
Sawyer grimaced at the matchmaking attempt. “Must have been concerned for everyone. After all, everyone can see she set her cap on Carson Blakeney.”
“The Carson Blakeney who dashed out of town without bothering to say goodbye? Balderdash. He’s not worth the clothes on his back.”
Sawyer knew that, but Fiona didn’t. Her shock when he told her of Blakeney’s departure made that clear. The biting retort that followed still stung. “She made it perfectly clear that I don’t measure up to her standards.”
Mrs. Calloway clucked her tongue. “Do you always believe everything a woman tells you?”
Sawyer swallowed the memory of Julia’s hidden attraction to another man. That was another woman and another time. Fiona was different. “Shouldn’t I?”
Mrs. Calloway laughed and threw up her hands as she left the kitchen. “Young people these days.”
Sawyer savored another spoonful of pea soup while her words sank in. Mrs. Calloway believed Fiona liked him. The idea warmed his heart. Then again, her obvious desire to marry coupled with the arrival of her niece could bring a whole lot more attention than he was prepared to accept. He couldn’t take on a wife and family. Not now. Not even for Fiona.
Chapter Five (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Louise had dressed and gone downstairs by the time Fiona awoke. She’d stayed up late making sure each survivor had enough to eat and a place to sleep. None of them could tell her if Sawyer lived. Guilt gnawed at the back of her mind even while she helped with blankets, nightgowns and hot tea.
Only when Mrs. Calloway returned in the wee hours of the morning did she get her answer.
“Chilled to the bone,” the boardinghouse proprietress had said. “Won’t surprise me if he catches a cold.”
“But he’s alive.” Fiona had leaned against the wall, exhausted.
“That he is.” Mrs. Calloway had said that with a twinkle in her eye. “No doubt he’ll come a callin’ soon as he can.”
Fiona had made a flippant comment, trying to allay the woman’s matchmaking efforts, but deep inside she was truly grateful. At least she hadn’t caused his death by insisting he rescue her niece, who wasn’t even on the ship.
“But they did manage to rescue everyone,” she’d commented.
“That they did. My Ernie was right there at the forefront, bringin’ them up the dune to safety.”
That must be why she was so relieved. Everyone was safe. Not just Sawyer. Then why did his face keep popping into her mind? Why recall the grace of his fingers moving across the piano keyboard? He never hit a sour note and never touched a piece of music. The first time she’d hummed a tune, and he then played it with harmony and bass notes included, she’d called him a modern-day Mozart. His face had actually gotten red.
She smiled at the memory, but that’s all it was—a pleasant memory between two friends. Nothing more than that.
Reassured, she had retired to the comfort of her stiff and somewhat lumpy mattress. It didn’t even bother her that Louise was already asleep and snoring softly.
This morning, Fiona stretched her arms with a big yawn. Once she’d dressed and completed her toilette—all without seeing a soul—she headed downstairs. Just how long had she slept? The six ladies, who had received the upstairs rooms, were either still sleeping, or they’d been awake for some time.
She got her answer the moment she set foot on the main floor. Giggling and excited exclamations came from the direction of the parlor. They were definitely awake.
“Good morning, Miss Fiona.” Mrs. Calloway breezed from the kitchen with a platter of cinnamon rolls drizzled with sugar icing.
Fiona’s stomach rumbled. “You’re serving breakfast?”
“More like morning tea at this hour, but everyone woke at different hours. You’re the last.”
The last. With a sigh, Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway into the dining room. An older gentleman—perhaps forty or so—and his wife sat across from each other at the table. Otherwise the room was empty.
The man rose. “Good morning, Miss O’Keefe. You look lovely this morning.”
Fiona accepted the compliment with a smile, though she scrambled to recall their names. They had arrived at the boardinghouse not long after she’d settled the young women in rooms.
“I’m sorry I didn’t save a room for you,” she said as she took a seat. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Understandable.” The gentleman settled back in his chair. “The situation was soon rectified. Miss Eaton and Miss Geneva agreed to share.”
So he had taken care of matters himself. Fiona had never excelled as a hostess. Her talents lay elsewhere. Her mother would have realized the need from the start and doubled up everyone. Pearl and Amanda would likewise have assessed the situation correctly, but Pearl was helping the passengers clean up while Amanda manned the kitchen. Fiona assigned sleeping accommodations and distributed nightshirts and nightgowns, but her mind had gotten stuck wondering if Sawyer was alive.
Fiona lifted a roll from the platter with the serving knife and set it on the plate in front of her before passing the platter to the husband and wife. If only she could recall their names!
She forced a smile. “Are you familiar with the young women, then?”
The wife chuckled, but her husband answered. “We are their escorts.”
“Is one of them your daughter?”
“No.” The woman laughed, but again she let her husband explain.
He set down his cup of coffee. “We are escorting them to our community on Low Island.”
Fiona had to admit ignorance. “Where is Low Island?”
The man smiled graciously. “In northern Lake Michigan.”
“I see. Forgive me, but I’m not from this area. I was born and raised in New York City.”
“Is that so?” the man said while his wife made a surprised sound. “I have never been to that great city. How does it compare to Chicago?”
Fiona had no answer for him. “I spent little time in Chicago before taking passage on a steamboat similar to the one you took here.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You were stranded here also?”
“No. Not at all.” She didn’t feel like explaining the mail-order advertisement that had brought her here. “This is...a promising town.” The words stuck in her throat. It might have been if Roland Decker’s glassworks or Carson Blakeney’s new mill had gotten off the ground, but both ventures failed—though for entirely different reasons. Roland could not be blamed. A fire had destroyed his building before it was finished. Carson, on the other hand, was a coward and a liar. She suspected he had little intention of starting a new mill in a town that already boasted two sawmills.
“I was hoping another ship would call here soon,” the gentleman was saying.
She’d gone and let her mind drift again.
“I’m sure one will.” She took a sip of her tea, which was piping hot. Mrs. Calloway always brought scalding hot tea to table this time of year since it cooled rapidly in the colder-than-normal dining room. “What is the name of the community, Mr...?”
The man wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me. I should have realized you couldn’t possibly remember everyone’s name given the frantic nature of matters last night. I am Mr. George Adamson, and this is my wife, Bettina.”
Even while completing introductions, a shriek of joy came from the parlor, followed by exclamations of “mine” and “no, mine.”
Mr. Adamson frowned and set aside his napkin. “My apologies for their unseemly behavior. It will be put to a stop at once.”
Mrs. Calloway, who could hear across town even when standing next to a running saw, breezed into the room with some of her apple chutney. “Never you mind, Mr. Adamson. It’s a pure delight to hear young ladies’ high spirits.”
His frown didn’t ease. “I can’t imagine what they’re carrying on about.”
“Something in the local newspaper, I presume. The weekly arrived bright and early this morning, and they’ve been reading it front to back ever since. Now have a bit of my chutney. I’m rather proud of it, if I don’t say so myself.”
Fiona stared at the departing Mrs. Calloway while Mr. Adamson resumed his seat at the table and dished some of the chutney onto his and his wife’s plates. She had read the Singapore Sentinel many times. There wasn’t one thing over the course of months that would elicit that sort of reaction from young women with no connection to the town. The newspaper typically droned on about the number of board feet cut, who visited whom for Sunday dinner and which ships had called or were expected. It was a perfectly fine medium for inducing sleep.
After the initial outburst, the women quieted. That appeased the Adamsons, but it didn’t quell Fiona’s curiosity. Like a small child, silence brought suspicion, not comfort. Until now, they had made no attempt to hush their voices. Those ladies were up to something.
Fiona finished her tea and rose. “Forgive me, but the day is long and much remains to be done.”
The Adamsons graciously released her, but they could not have known her purpose. Once out of the dining room, Fiona walked to the parlor. There she found all six ladies huddled around the sofa, four of them on their knees, though definitely not in prayer. The newspaper was spread out on the seat of the sofa, and six faces peered intently at the newsprint.
“He sounds wonderful,” the blonde said, sighing.
Her high voice and petite figure only made her youth more evident. If Fiona was to guess, she would place her as the youngest. Other than hair color, height and weight, little distinguished the women, who were again dressed in the matching navy blue dresses.
“More than wonderful,” countered the brunette who’d acted as the leader of the group from the moment they arrived. “He is everything a woman could want in a husband.”
A husband! This sounded very much like they were reading an advertisement for a wife, but there had never been such a thing in the Singapore Sentinel. What on earth were those girls up to?
The other five ladies nodded, hanging on every word their leader said.
“Perfect.” The blonde sighed.
The redhead echoed the sentiment.
“However, he is just one man, and we are already pledged,” the brunette pointed out.
Already pledged? Fiona stared. This was unseemly behavior for women engaged to marry. Moreover, not a one had mentioned traveling with her betrothed. Fiona mentally counted the rescued passengers. There were not enough men of the appropriate age to match to the six ladies. Moreover, the Adamsons said they were escorting the ladies to some island far to the north. This got more and more peculiar, and Fiona intended to get to the bottom of it.
“Excuse me.” Fiona glided across the room, ignoring the guilty looks on the ladies’ faces and their quick attempt to refold the newspaper. “I could not help but overhear. Am I correct that you found an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper?”
The girls relaxed, and the leader reopened the paper. “There it is, as plain as day.”
Fiona couldn’t see it, unless she got on her knees and crouched with the rest of the ladies. That might be all right for some, but not for a star of the New York stage. She held out a hand, and the leader passed the newspaper to her.
It didn’t take long for Fiona to locate the unlikely advertisement. The wording stunned—no, shocked—her.
Up and coming industrial magnate seeks cultured wife gifted in the social and musical arts. Must be willing to entertain and manage a home. Skill in baking highly valued. Prospective groom has brunette hair and a comely visage. Apply at the Singapore Mercantile.
Fiona let out the breath she’d been holding. Industrial magnate? Lover of music? Reasonably attractive? He did sound perfect, but why on earth would someone of that stature need to advertise for a wife? Even if circumstances did prompt such desperation, why seek such a woman in the least likely place? For a second she thought of Carson, but he had sandy blond hair, not brunette. No, this made no sense.
“This must be a joke,” she announced. “There aren’t more than a handful of unmarried women within miles. No one would advertise in Singapore for a bride.”
“Maybe this isn’t the only place he advertised,” the brunette suggested.
Fiona couldn’t deny that possibility, but the result was the same. She refolded the newspaper. “If you are already promised, I suggest you focus on your beau, not some foolishness published in the newspaper.”
She then carried the newspaper—and source of the ladies’ excitement—from the room.
* * *
“What am I going to do now?” Sawyer shook the newspaper in front of Roland Decker. As he’d feared, the advertisement had made its way into print.
Roland shrugged. “It’s a good way to catch Fiona’s attention.”
“I’m not the one bent on catching her attention. You and Pearl are.”
“Now, Sawyer. Anyone and everyone can see that you’ve had your eye on her for a long time.”
Sawyer had no idea he was giving that impression. “She’s pretty but only interested in someone whose wallet is fat.”
“That’s why the advertisement highlighted your potential.”
“Potential?” Sawyer raked a hand through his hair. “Every word is completely false.” Well, not completely. He could be an industrial magnate if he chose to ride on Father’s coattails and obey the man’s every demand, but Roland didn’t know that.
“Then make it true.”
“How? I can’t become a wealthy businessman overnight.”
Roland leaned on the mercantile counter, that grin of his not budging. “I didn’t see anything in the advertisement about being wealthy.”
Sawyer read the offensive points. “Up and coming industrial magnate.”
“Doesn’t say what you are now.”
Sawyer moved on. “‘Must be willing to entertain and manage a home.’ If that doesn’t point to wealth, I don’t know what does. The poor don’t entertain. Moreover, I don’t have a home.”
“You will. Now that you’re manager at the mill you can afford one.”
“But I don’t have one now, and even if I did lease one, none of the houses here are big enough to require managing. That implies a servant at least, possibly a whole staff.”
Roland chuckled. “That’s a stretch, I’ll admit, but can’t you just see Fiona bossing the servants around?”
The problem was, he could. Sawyer let out a sigh.
“Besides,” Roland continued, “there’s no harm done. No one knows who is looking for a wife, only that applications are accepted here.”
The doorbell tinkled, drawing Sawyer’s attention. He lowered his voice. “And you think no one will ask who it is?”
“Not likely.”
Mrs. Wardman approached.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Roland said. “How are you doing this fine day? Anything I can get for you?”
“I’m curious about this advertisement. My girls are far too young, naturally, but I have a cousin over in Allegan who might be interested. I’d write and suggest she send a letter, but I’d have to know who the prospective groom is.”
“Now, that’s strictly confidential, ma’am. You must understand.”
Mrs. Wardman leaned over the counter to whisper, “Is it Mr. Stockton?”
Roland gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You know I can’t say.”
“It is him, isn’t it? Well, I thought that he’d never remarry after losing his wife.” Mrs. Wardman chattered on, never once looking at Sawyer.
Maybe Roland was right. No one would think that the prospective groom was him. Like Mrs. Wardman, they’d think it was Stockton. Wouldn’t the dour entrepreneur think that was funny? Well, maybe not.
Before Sawyer could get another word with Roland, woman after woman came into the store with the same question. Who was looking for a wife? Each bought something, making Roland beam. Apparently this little scheme had at least improved business. It sure didn’t make Sawyer feel good, though.
When the last lady departed, Sawyer asked, “Any of them say they were going to apply?”
Roland’s grin broadened. “Not yet, but it’s early.”
Sawyer groaned. He was ready to make his escape when the doorbell tinkled again. This time Mrs. VanderLeuven walked in. Sawyer stood up straight. The hotel proprietress must be coming back to reopen. Either that or she’d gotten word about last night’s shipwreck.
“Mrs. VanderLeuven!” Roland exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d come back to town.”
She waved a hand. “Soon as we heard about the wrecked ship, we packed up the wagon and drove the old road down from Holland.”
“News got to Holland that quickly?” Sawyer was astonished. Though people often traveled the ten miles between the two towns, the VanderLeuvens would have had to race to get here this quickly.
“They saw it up at the lighthouse.”
That made sense. From the Holland light tower, the keeper could easily see off the shore from Singapore. The wreck hadn’t gone under but sat like a great hulk on the sandbar.
“Though I’ll miss my family in Holland,” Mrs. VanderLeuven was saying, “I had to come help. People might be needing a place to sleep and something to eat.”
While she and Roland discussed what would be needed to reopen the hotel, Sawyer pretended to browse the display of oilskins. The VanderLeuvens’ return could mean resuming the concerts. That meant time with Fiona. Though marriage was out of the question right now, he loved making music with her. He’d never heard a clearer soprano.
When Roland and Mrs. VanderLeuven finished their business transaction, Sawyer caught the woman’s attention. “Perhaps I could talk Fiona into a concert in the dining room to encourage business.”
“I’m afraid I can’t pay,” Mrs. VanderLeuven responded, “not until we’ve started turning a profit.”
That was disappointing. Sawyer wouldn’t mind adding to his savings, but a bit of goodwill might improve business enough for the VanderLeuvens to once again pay them for playing. “Consider it a gift.”
The portly woman’s cheeks flushed. “Why, Mr. Evans, what a kind gesture. Of course we would welcome a concert. The usual time?”
After Sawyer assured her that Saturday evening would be perfect, she left.
Roland’s grin spread across his face. “Not interested in Miss O’Keefe?”
“This is strictly business.” Even Sawyer had a hard time believing that.
* * *
When Fiona overheard the blonde young woman talking about the advertisement later that afternoon, she put a stop to it.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about your fiancé?”
The blonde sighed. “I can’t think on someone I ain’t met.”
The girl’s atrocious grammar and cheap muslin dress marked her as poor. Fiona had once been exactly the same. Changing her speech took practice, but improving her dress took money. She’d worked long and hard before she could afford her first pretty gown. Until then, a kindhearted singer had given Fiona one of her cast-offs for the stage. Away from the theater, Fiona had hidden in the shadows so no one would connect the poor girl with the singer on the stage.
Fiona stared at the young woman. “Are you saying you’ve never met your fiancé?”
The girl shrugged. “Ain’t been no chance to.”
“None of us has met our beau yet,” the bubbly redhead said, “but we’ll meet them soon. We’re going to Harmony to get married.”
Fiona drew in a deep breath. The similarities to her arrival in Singapore didn’t drift past without notice. “You’re all answering advertisements for a wife?” She hoped they weren’t all going for the same man.
The leader shook her brunette locks. “No, ma’am. We each got a husband waitin’ for us.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. “Then you’ve written to them already.”
Again the leader shook her head. “Mr. Adamson chose us.”
“Chose?”
“Yes, ma’am. He held an interview, and we got picked. Dozens applied.”
The whole process appalled Fiona. “Do you know anything about the man you’re going to marry, Miss...?”
“Clara.” The leader straightened her spine. “Call me Clara.” She then proceeded to introduce the rest.
Fiona forgot their names in an instant except for Dinah, the blonde, who wasn’t yet eighteen years of age.
“We all got a description,” Clara finished up. “My fiancé’s name is Benjamin. He’s twenty-eight and tall with dark hair like mine.”
The other ladies then described their future mates, all of whom were older and whose hair color came remarkably close to their own. When their matching dresses were taken into account, there was something odd about this whole situation.
“What do they do? Their occupation?” she asked.
Clara gave her a blank look. “They’re all farmers, of course. We’re creating a community free of strife and vice.” She reeled that off as if quoting something she’d been told to memorize.
Fiona was appalled. “Surely you had another choice.”
Each girl shook her head.
“Marry a drunken bum,” Clara stated frankly. “We’ve been workin’ in the shirtwaist factory after getting thrown out of the orphanage.”
“Thrown out?” Fiona could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Because we’re too old,” the redhead, Linore, explained. “That’s why we’re getting married.”
“Next ta Bleek Street, Harmony sounds like paradise.” Dinah sighed. “No drinkin’ or brawlin’.”
That did sound too good to be true.
“Then they are all upright men of God?” Fiona prodded.
“That’s what Mr. Adamson says,” Clara answered.
Each woman nodded in affirmation.
If what Mr. Adamson claimed was indeed the truth, Fiona could understand why these women had agreed to go to this island community. But what if it wasn’t?
“Can you leave if your fiancé doesn’t turn out the way he’s been advertised?” Fiona would definitely have made certain that option was available. She’d held on to it when answering the advertisement that brought her to Singapore. Even now, that possibility remained, though it would get much more difficult once Mary Clare arrived. She had not set aside the fare for two to travel to Chicago.
The women all stared at her as if she were mad.
Clara vocalized their response. “Why would we leave? It’s better than what we got now.”
Fiona recalled the newspaper that had so gripped their attention. “Then why the interest in the advertisement for a wife?”
The women looked at each other and giggled.
This time the one with the chestnut-colored hair answered, her jaw thrust out. “A girl’s gotta dream, don’t she?”
“Well, I can tell you for certain that this advertisement is only a dream. There’s not a man in this town who fits that description.”
Instead of solemnly nodding, like she’d expected, the ladies grew quiet, their eyes wide, and stood as one, smoothing their plain skirts as if they wore silk. A hush came over the room.
A man cleared his throat behind Fiona.
She whirled to see Sawyer standing in the doorway, hat in hand. “Sawyer! Mr. Evans, that is. I’m glad to see you’re well.”
His complexion reddened as if—no, it wasn’t possible—he were blushing. He stepped from foot to foot, clearly uneasy. “I’m fine.”
“So I see.”
The ladies giggled behind her.
Fiona left the room and led Sawyer to the front porch where they might have a bit of privacy. The chill air bit into her, and she hugged her arms close for warmth.
“You had something to tell me?” she prompted.
Sawyer cleared his throat again, though his eyes darted toward the parlor windows. “I just wanted you to know that the VanderLeuvens are back in town and are opening up the hotel. We can begin the concerts again.”
Fiona breathed out. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss the income she’d received from her concerts. Almost three months without pay had stretched her funds very thin. “That’s wonderful. An answer to prayer.”
“You’ve been praying to have a concert?”
“I’ve been praying for an income.”
The color left his face. “An income?”
“I do need to pay for room and board,” she pointed out.
“Of course.” His color returned, this time to a bright red. He avoided looking directly at her.
“All right. What’s wrong? Spit it out.” Fiona hated when a man wouldn’t express himself outright.
“Um.” Again he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to say that at least for now we’ll have to do them without pay. Mrs. VanderLeuven said she needs to start turning a profit first.”
Fiona’s temper rose. Under that rationale, the VanderLeuvens would never pay them. She’d heard the rumors of unpaid debts and heavy loans on the property. But it did no good to rail at the messenger. It also wouldn’t help pay the bills when Mary Clare did arrive. She needed steady employment. The thought of cleaning rooms or scrubbing dishes at the hotel left a foul taste in her mouth. She’d clawed her way out of poverty. She would not descend back into it.
“I see.” The terse reply was the best she could manage.
“Then you’ll do it?” The hint of hope in his voice gave her pause.
He wanted her to sing at the hotel again. Maybe he looked forward to it. She did too, and not just the singing. Sawyer was surprisingly handsome and charming. And his piano and violin playing made her want to close her eyes and drink it in. Too bad he was only a sawmill foreman. Still, a concert couldn’t hurt. Maybe she could persuade Mrs. VanderLeuven to give them a percentage of profit from the meals ordered that night.
“I will,” she confirmed. “For now.”
The faint sound of women’s giggling reached her ears. She turned to see the ladies glued to the parlor windows. They weren’t watching her. No, every eye was fixed on Sawyer. No wonder he’d looked so uncomfortable. It wasn’t her at all. Drawing the attention of six women left him unnerved.
She glanced back at Sawyer. Granted, he was a fine specimen of masculinity with his broad shoulders, height, muscular build and shock of dark brown hair. Brunette for brunette. That’s how Mr. Adamson had matched the girls. Under that criteria, Clara would go with Sawyer. The woman did have a proprietary gleam in her eye.
Sawyer looked away. “Are those the women we rescued? I didn’t realize they were so young.”
He didn’t say they were pretty, but he thought it. She could tell.
Something fiercely protective rose in Fiona’s breast. “Yes, and they are all engaged to marry. Every last one.”
There. That ought to douse the spark of interest in his eyes.
Chapter Six (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)
Sawyer had never been nervous before a concert in the past, but Saturday he tugged at the collar of his good shirt. The tie was choking him. Or was it the fact that the whole town knew about the advertisement? Fiona was bound to say something, and he had no idea what he’d tell her. He couldn’t come right out and reveal that he was the bachelor supposedly seeking a wife. He certainly couldn’t tell people that he hadn’t placed the advertisement and had no intention of marrying right now. That hadn’t worked for Garrett Decker, and it wouldn’t work for him.
Still, as the days passed without a single response, he began to wonder what was wrong. Was it the advertisement or him? Had Fiona figured out that he was the prospective bridegroom?
As always, he stopped at the boardinghouse an hour before they performed. The brief walk to the hotel left them plenty of time to warm up before many guests and diners arrived.
She wore the emerald green gown—her favorite and the one she seemed to think most like those worn by the upper class. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that those born to wealth most often chose conservative colors and styles. The worst of them would look down their noses at Fiona’s exuberant attire. He found it refreshing, for her gowns matched her temperament perfectly.
“I expect a large crowd,” she said as they walked the boardwalk between the two businesses. “It’s been a long winter, after all.”
“We did perform a few times at the boardinghouse.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it. The hotel is roomier and more...professional.”
Sawyer was again reminded of the talent and perseverance that brought her to the New York City stage. Many dreamed but few reached that lofty goal. Fiona had. Again he wondered why she would leave her blossoming career to answer an advertisement for a mail-order bride in a lumber town. According to Pearl, Fiona still searched the personal advertisements. Yet she had not responded to his.
He held the door of the hotel for her and escorted her into the dining room. A smattering of applause greeted them, and she flitted from one table to the next, thanking them for their gracious response to her return.
That left Sawyer to warm up on the piano. After a couple months of inactivity and icy temperatures, it was slightly out of tune. He could fix that but had forgotten to bring the tools with him. He’d been preoccupied with the looming catastrophe caused by that advertisement. Even if Fiona wrote to him, he couldn’t mislead her into thinking he wanted a wife. Not now. And she seemed determined to marry as soon as possible.
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Christine Johnson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The Husband HuntTheatre singer Fiona O’Keefe is on quest to form the perfect family for her orphaned niece. It’s a shame handsome and musically talented Sawyer Evans can’t support a household on his sawmill manager wages. For that, Fiona needs a respectable gentleman of means. And if she can’t find one in Singapore, Michigan, then she’ll just have to look for a husband in the mail order want ads…Sawyer doesn’t want Fiona to marry a stranger…or anyone other than him. It would be easy to reveal that he’s secretly heir to a railroad fortune. But Sawyer’s determined to be a self-made man, so he isn’t willing to take his father’s money. Instead, can he prove to Fiona that the man she needs is already by her side?