This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Carrie Fancett Pagels
Hearts Overcoming Press
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever- except short passages for reviews – without express permission.
First Edition
October 2015
ISBN-13
ISBN-10
Cover Art by Hearts Overcoming Press
Dedication
To Teresa Mathews, an amazing lady—a beautiful woman inside and out. I thank God for your sweet spirit and friendship!
In Memory of Carlton Mathews, a godly man who blessed so many. Gone too soon.
Blurb
One liner: A Christmas Carol meets It’s A Wonderful Life
A letter for Sonja’s deceased friend arrives at the post office in Michigan, and with it a proposal. With her father threatening to kick her out of his home, Sonja impulsively responds, offering to travel west to be a substitute bride. At the same time, Louis’s railroad promotion sends him back to Michigan, the one place on earth he’d hoped to never return—where Christmas past was full of pain. A mysterious stranger leaves him marked copies of “A Christmas Carol” as he considers romancing Sonja in Christmas present. Will Louis discern the best choices for Christmas future? Does it include the Poor House, again? Even so—will God bring healing and love to him this year?
NOTE: The Character Chart follows, but the Author’s Notes section (including historical information) is at the back of the book, as are acknowledgements, and information about the author and her other books.
Partial List of Characters
This novella has a full cast of characters. Poor House/County Farm refers to the same location.
Louis (Smith) Penwell – hero, railroad manager
Abner Smith (Penwell) – hero’s deceased father
Andrew Ellison – railroad investor and executive
Cora – Louis’s pen pal and Sonja’s friend, deceased
Sonja Hoeke – heroine, substitute mail carrier for her father
Mr. Hoeke – Sonja’s father, recently injured while delivering mail to the Poor House
Mr. McLaughlin – postmaster
Mr. Akers – elderly gentleman and husband of Sonja’s childhood Sunday school teacher
Sonja’s friends – Christina Spivey, Mamie Pettit, Lila Swanson, Letitia Brown
Poor House director – Iris Geisig
Poor Farm residents – Ronald, Joanna and Liisa
Mrs. Peter Welling, the late Mr. Welling’s daughter-in-law, Mackinac Island resident
Mr. Welling, recently deceased, farmer and neighbor to the County Farm
Deborah Mitchell – Inn owner’s daughter
Dr. Timothy Queen – physician
Mr. Hood – telegram office manager
Mysterious woman – I’m not telling!
Chapter 1
Shepherd, Michigan
November, 1891
Sonja closed the post office’s heavy oak door behind her, shutting out the frigid breeze that had accompanied her. The blessed heat from the pot-bellied stove, center left, drew her closer. She trod across the wide-planked pine floors, and then held her hands out.
Bent behind the high, dark-stained counter, Mr. McLaughlin, the postmaster, glanced up over his spectacles. “Glad to see ye, lass.”
With no decorations, other than a few posters tacked to the wood-paneled walls, the Spartan room lay empty. From the fresh beeswax scent, the postal superintendent had already waxed the few furnishings in the room—a narrow table for folks to set boxes on, a straight-backed oak chair where elderly patrons could sit, and the counter.
“Has it been quiet this morning, Mr. McLaughlin?” Her words almost echoed in the chamber.
“Give it a few weeks, lass, as folks realize they need to get their Christmas parcels out.”
“That’s what Father says, too.” Among other things he often discussed, such as her need to find employment and to not merely be his substitute at the post office. “Hard to believe there’s already snow dusting the streets, sir.”
“Could be a hard winter.” He shuffled through a few envelopes. “Folks in these parts got their maple syrup to market just fine—and that’ll make the difference between hungry bellies and full ones this winter. Aye?”
“Yes, I pray so.” Sonja strode away from the stove and toward the postmaster, shivering,.
Conversation about Shepherd’s maple syrup always reminded her of the tragedy a decade earlier. An entire boatload of men had gone down in the river, their precious syrup lost, and one man, Abner Smith, dead. Where was his son, Louis, now? How did someone come to grips with losing everything—as Louis had? Sonja nibbled her lower lip. She was about to find out for herself what it was like to lose everything—if Father carried out his threats.
“How’s yer Pa faring today?” Mr. McLaughlin smoothed his bushy white moustache.
Ornery, demanding she find a husband, threatening to kick her out—just like her friend Cora had said he would do. But Cora was gone now. Buried in a pauper’s grave. Sonja blinked back tears.
“Ah, now, lass—he’ll be fine soon.”
Obviously he misunderstood her grief over her friend as fear for her father.
She dipped her chin.
Mr. McLaughlin tugged at his stiff, celluloid collar. “I need to head out back for a moment.” He jerked a stubby thumb over his narrow shoulder.
“Yes, sir.”
The silver-haired man pushed aside the curtains that separated the front office from the rear workroom. “I’ll return shortly, lass.”
Sonja circled behind the desk and reached for the stack of unfiled letters. Her heart leapt in her chest as she spied the top one—with Cora’s name. Sonja slid the missive closer. Mr. Penwell’s distinctive and elegant handwriting marked him as the sender. The poor man—his pen pal had died, but he didn’t yet know in far off South Dakota where he lived.
Would she, or possibly even her father, get into trouble if she opened the letter? This was, after all her father’s livelihood and she represented him when she substituted on his route. Sonja’s mouth went dry.
She exhaled a low sigh as sweet Mr. Akers opened the heavy door and entered the building, a heavy beaver coat draped over one arm, his cane looped over the other.
“Good day, Little Sunshine.” He greeted her with the same nickname he’d given Sonja when she was a child in his wife’s Sunday school class, more than twenty years earlier. A class Sonja now taught. Hard to believe Mrs. Akers had been gone to heaven for four years already.
“How are you, sir?” She watched as he laid the glossy coat on the counter.
“Perplexed, my dear, and disturbed.” He removed his tall, black hat and set it beside the coat.
“Oh dear, why are you mystified, Mr. Akers?” And why had he brought the fur here?
He leaned in and stroked his white beard. “Your father.”
She cringed, anticipating what the elderly man might say. Father wouldn’t. He didn’t. He probably had. “Please tell me he hasn’t asked you to marry me, sir.”
His aquamarine eyes widened. “How did you know, Sunshine?”
Groaning, she shook her head slowly.
“Well, of course that wouldn’t work, my Sunny Girl, since I think of you like a daughter—or maybe even a granddaughter. And because of that, I am about fed up with your
father’s efforts to marry you off.” He leaned on his silver, wolf’s-headed cane, shaking his head. “And now this latest ridiculous effort of your father’s, which I’m sure Mr. McLaughlin has shared with you.”
“I haven’t heard, sir.” Now what? She braced herself.
“Glad I came in, and happy McLaughlin’s not here right now.” Mr. Akers narrowed his eyes. “Your father is seeking employment for you at the new post office way over in Pinetown—or anyplace further north—and is saying he’ll put you out of his home if you’re not married by Christmas.”
“What?” Humiliation heated her cheeks.
“If I weren’t a widower, I’d offer you a place at my house and look after you.” His silver brows rose high. “But you know people would talk, Sonja.”
“Yes, sir, I do.” She tapped her fingernails on the countertop. What on earth is happening with Father?
Mr. Akers patted the long coat. “People can gossip all they want about you wearing this fur. But it will keep you warm on your route, my dear, and we don’t want you coming down ill like Cora, poor soul.”
Sonja closed her eyes for a moment. “I miss her.” Ached for her companionship. She missed Cora so much more than she’d missed even her closest sister, all of whom were married and gone. And all of whom delighted in tormenting her as they grew up in their domineering father’s household.
“Cora was a good friend to you.” Mr. Akers sighed and held the fur aloft. “The coat may be too short for you, since you’re so tall, and my wife was a normal-sized woman.”
Which meant Sonja was abnormal, as she knew. At almost six feet tall, she’d had a number of men imply that she was somehow defective, although Mr. Akers didn’t speak his words in an unkind way.
“Thank you, sir.” Father had ceased buying her new clothing a few years earlier, once she’d reached twenty-five, stating that she could easily find a husband to provide for her if she’d only be amenable.
“I’ll be praying for you, Sunshine.” He placed his hat back on his head, walked toward the door, and left, allowing a brief chill wind to enter.
Pulsing with anger at her father, Sonja’s hands shook as she grabbed a letter opener and did the unthinkable—slit open a piece of mail addressed to someone else—to her friend, Cora. She scanned Mr. Penwell’s words, written to a woman he hadn’t realized was dying.
My dear friend, Cora, It should come as no surprise that I would like to extend an offer of marriage to you. Your recent letters lead me to believe you are considering this possibility, too. I fear I am in a situation that now requires me to take a bride very quickly for a new, and elevated, position I am being considered for. My supervisor indicates a stable, married man must be placed in this prime railroad position. Would you write back to me immediately with your reply, so I might anticipate your arrival?
She scanned the next few lines, which referenced some of Cora’s recent letters written to him. Cora hadn’t lied to Mr. Penwell, but certainly she’d stretched the truth or had implied more than was true. Oh dear. Teaching Sunday school? Dancing? Yes, Sonja had insisted her friend come out with her to a barn dance—during which both of them watched from the sidelines. And Cora had once sat in on Sonja’s Sunday school class. But the letter made it sound like more, somehow.
Inside, was a bank draft. Sonja sucked in a breath at the large sum written on it. She looked around the room, expecting someone to appear to snatch it from her and accuse her of stealing. Then, she shoved the letter hastily into the deep pocket of her skirt.
What would it be like if she were to take Cora’s place and become Mr. Penwell’s bride? Dare she make the suggestion? Or should she suffer the embarrassment of being put out of the only home she’d ever known and shipped off to another town?
Of course, she wouldn’t cash his check, but use her own funds to travel west. Before she lost her nerve, Sonja opened her private drawer and retrieved her writing implements and stationary. She hastily penned a missive back to Mr. Penwell. Once the ink dried she folded it, put the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and purchased a stamp, placing her money in the cash drawer. On impulse, she went ahead and affixed the postmark, then set the letter into the outgoing mail container.
Heart pounding, Sonja drew in the room’s clean scent and imagined herself traveling by train almost all the way across the country. A log in the stove shifted and rumbled. What would it be like to leave central Michigan, where she’d grown up? Would Mr. Penwell even consider a substitute bride?
Mr. McLaughlin returned, his heavy soles pounding a steady beat across the floor as he pulled a wheeled cart filled with mail. “Thanks for holding down the fort for me, Miss Hoeke.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” A fortress away from her father was just what she needed.
The postmaster rolled the cart near the wall then grabbed her father’s bag. “Here’s yer Pa’s duffle. Not too heavy, or I’d carry it out for you.”
She accepted it and then stuffed the sack with the missives from the counter.
Her supervisor’s gaze fell on her “new” coat and he frowned. “Looks familiar.”
“Mr. Akers is so sweet. He brought me his wife’s coat to use for the rural route.”
The postmaster exhaled loudly. “No doubt your father asked Walter to propose, too.”
She bit her lip.
“Never fear, we’re working out a position for you as a full time postal assistant above the straits.”
“What?” The question came out harsher than she wanted. “I mean, where in the Upper Peninsula, Mr. McLaughlin?
“Actually, between the straits, on Mackinac Island—at least for the summer.”
“Mackinac Island?” That was where the Wellings’ son, Peter, and his wife, owned a large inn. According to old Mr. Welling, God rest his soul, his daughter-in-law descended from the wealthy Cadottes and had many family members who populated the island.
“Yes, your pa said you wanted to give him and your ma some solitude and asked if I’d recommend you. Which, of course, I’d be happy to do.”
So, she’d be shipped up north. At least she wasn’t going to be assigned to the Upper Peninsula. Above the Straits it was much colder and snowier than Shepherd, in central Michigan, in wintertime. And she would know one family on the island. But would young Mrs. Welling be busy with her own extended Cadotte family? Sonja blinked back tears. She’d hoped that Father’s notion of having the house to himself would pass, but it hadn’t. And Sonja prayed that her father would retire and let her continue to carry the route—if Mr. McLaughlin agreed.
“I can see by your face that you didn’t ask for that position at all, lass.” He sighed deeply.
“No.”
“Thought you were one of those gals who wanted her own route and not as a backup.”
“No, sir.”
“I thought that’s why you have always been so diligent in substituting.”
She stiffened at his use of the word substituting. Did he know she’d signed her letter, “A Possible Substitute”? She’d need a position in South Dakota, so she could get to know Mr. Penwell better, before they married—if he chose to take her up on his offer. But first she needed to make sure she received any mail sent to her friend. “I need a favor, Mr. McLaughlin. And it involves the mail.”
He cocked his head. “What is it, lass?”
“Might I accept any further correspondence for Cora? She has…had…no next of kin, and I was her closest friend.”
The postmaster’s quizzical expression softened. “I dinna see why not. Ye can be sure and certain that Iris won’t notify what few friends the poor woman had. Nay trouble—I’ll keep ‘em right here for you.” He slid open a narrow drawer where he stored an extra watch, scissors, and an ambrotype image of his Scottish mother.
“Thank you, sir.” Sonja drew in a deep breath. God, you know I need help. Please show me I did the right thing.
Chapter 2
The queasiness in Louis’s gut had nothing to do with this train but
everything to do with it rocking along toward their final destination—his nightmare. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, and touched the small Bible in the pocket of his best wool suit.
“Ever ride in the luxury car before, Mr. Penwell?” Andrew Ellison’s deep voice held conflicting notes of sympathy and humor.
Louis sat up straighter in his heavily-cushioned, plush seat. “No, sir.”
The railway investor sucked in deeply on his cigar and then exhaled slowly. “Well, get used to it. With this promotion you’ll always be able to choose the executive compartment from here on out.”
“It’s certainly well-appointed, Mr. Ellison.” On the far wall, a built-in buffed-to-a-gleam cherry wood cabinet housed a full array of crystal and silver pieces. Crystal brandy snifters and liquor bottles sparkled as they rocked slightly in the high-sided, mahogany tray atop the counter.
“Should be for the money we put into this.” The investor narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, spreading his legs apart. “But you don’t seem to be enjoying the trip.”
Louis raised a palm. “Oh, no, sir, I am grateful for the promotion.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“How could I not appreciate the luxury of this room—crystal carafes and our own refreshment bar, comfortable sleeping quarters and seats?”
“Perhaps it’s just the motion of the train giving you that sallow look.” Mr. Ellison’s pipe smoke drifted in Louis’s direction, bringing to mind the scent of his father’s favorite tobacco, a rich Virginia blend harvested in the area where the prominent Penwell family’s plantations had dominated for centuries.
“I’m not accustomed to traveling much by rail, despite my job.” Louis grabbed onto the excuse.
“You’re no longer stuck in South Dakota, with so few women as possible brides. And with that raise you should be a married man in no time at all and a good influence in the community—as your supervisor figures.”
The Substitute Bride: A Novella Page 1