The Substitute Bride: A Novella

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Or not. His mouth grew dry. He’d not heard back from Cora about his proposal, and now he was on his way there. What if she cashed the check and was even now headed out to South Dakota? Everything had happened so quickly, he’d not had time to do much other than pack his belongings. Cora was not an impulsive woman, from what he could discern in the letters. At least he’d gotten a telegram sent.

  Ellison rose and crossed the chamber to the wall cabinet and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. “You’ve been away from your hometown too long, I hear.”

  Louis’s gut clenched. Hometown? He had no hometown. “The home where I lived in Salt River burned, sir.” Not that it mattered, since he’d lost their temporary home when his father had drowned in the river. They’d moved to Salt River after his mother died and Father had finally ceased gambling and taken a job at the mill. But then his father died, too. And just recently, Louis’s benefactor in Michigan, Mr. Welling, also passed away. Except for his friend, Cora, Louis truly was alone in the world.

  Ellison sipped his drink, which sloshed in the snifter with the train’s steady movement. “I’m a Michigander myself, and Shepherd has become a bustling railroad center.”

  “Haven’t been back since I left.” Louis’s gut began to roil, and the train’s movement shuddered through him.

  “No?” The man quirked an eyebrow. “Mr. Stewart was sure you’d jump at the chance to return home.”

  Louis stifled the urge to cringe. “Is that why my supervisor recommended me for the job in Michigan?”

  “Precisely.”

  Mr. Stewart had always seemed so fond of Louis. “I have to admit, it came as a surprise.” Louis would rather have remained where he was and had Cora join him. He prayed Cora had received his telegram.

  If only his supervisor had realized that he was sending him back to the one place he’d vowed never to visit again, to never set foot in again, much less in which to reside. When Louis had learned Cora corresponded from the Poor House outside Shepherd, he’d vowed that one day he’d rescue her from the place. Why God? Perhaps this disruption was for Cora. But would the townsfolk accept her as a prominent railroad man’s wife or still see her as the woman from the Poor Farm? Would they recognize him and view him as the boy from the Poor House, with no family to claim him? A boy called Louis Smith because his father wouldn’t use his Penwell name.

  “We had another board member, not someone I personally know, who requested your services in Shepherd.” Ellison arched a brow at him. “We need a new man there. One with your excellent head for business.”

  “Thank you. I’ve tried to work hard.” Work was all he did. If work was like a sickness, it had been with Louis. In his Bible reading the night before, Solomon’s words in Ecclesiastes had convicted him, “Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit,” which certainly applied to his case.

  “Would you like a drink? Please, help yourself, Louis.”

  Other men drank. Some smoked opium, even. Some ran after women. Louis worked long hours and when he wasn’t working, he was at church—working there. “I’ll just have some seltzer water, thank you.” He patted his stomach.

  “Ah, yes, a good idea.” Ellison settled back into his chair and opened up the newspaper he’d brought on board.

  Rising, Louis straightened his pants legs. After he adjusted to the train’s movement, he retrieved a tumbler of seltzer water and then returned to his seat.

  Rest in me. Louis glanced at his companion in the cabin, but the man’s thin lips hadn’t moved. Rest. In. Me. Goose bumps rose up on his arms, beneath his shirt and heavy jacket.

  Mr. Ellison lowered his paper, folded it and placed it on his lap. Soon his eyelids began to lower, his head nodded, and then he began to snore.

  Louis retrieved and opened his packet of letters from Cora, trying to imagine how their meeting might go. Although they’d corresponded for some time, only recently had she mentioned something about performing occasional work as a substitute mail carrier. That hadn’t made sense, since the Poor Farm normally required the inmates to work. But Cora’s handwriting had become so shaky that perhaps Louis had misread her words. The matron of the Poor House had certainly tried to squeeze every last ounce of labor out of him the year he’d been imprisoned there. He’d not been in jail—but it felt like he’d been.

  Cora’s recent assertion that she’d been regularly attending the Christian Church, occasionally assisting in teaching Sunday school classes, also seemed out of character for someone who had been struggling with her faith. Perhaps their correspondence, in which he’d discussed the Bible, had found some fertile ground. The oddest thing Cora had mentioned was that she was dancing again—or had at least attended a dance. Yet, she’d said she was lame and likely would always be so. But God was a God of miracles, so who was he to question? Hadn’t he questioned this move with the railroad? He’d been in a cold sweat since he’d learned of his destination.

  He was looking forward to finally meeting his writing friend in person. All of these concerns could be put to rest before they married. Then, maybe someday soon, they could find a position elsewhere, away from the Hades of his youth.

  Chapter 3

  The sun hid behind clouds that threatened snow, on Sonja’s third day in a row of substituting for her father. In his mid-sixties, and in frequent poor health, Father should retire and let her carry the route. Instead, he wanted her gone. She nibbled her lower lip. I will not cry. I will not. Admitting to herself that her father didn’t care for her had freed Sonja to begin looking for ways out. Cora had encouraged her to look beyond her current situation. Directing her mare down the street to the post office, Sonja spied several of her Ladies’ Aid friends outside May’s Confectionary Shoppe. Boxes of chocolates, fudge, and taffy crowded the window display where the young women clustered. Were they hoping a beau would send them a treat this Christmas? Would Mr. Penwell be generous? Would he buy her candy for special occasions? Or even just to say he cared? But how could he care—he didn’t even know her.

  Christina Spivey yelled, “Don’t forget the Christmas pageant committee at Mamie Pettit’s house.”

  Beside her, pretty red-haired Lila cupped her hands around her mouth to amplify her breathy voice, “This Saturday afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there,” Sonja called out, as she directed the mare on. How she’d miss her friends when she was gone. But with them all married, she saw them less and less. She, Christina, and Lila were the only young women in the group of mostly elderly ladies.

  When the light carriage rounded the corner, one of the laborers her father had tried to connect her with eyed her. Even at this early hour, he tipped back a pocket bottle of what he called his “medicine” but which she knew contained whiskey. Would Mr. Penwell share this same bad habit? Sonja gritted her teeth. She’d made a rash decision. And were there wild Indians in South Dakota? She didn’t know. The poor tribe members in her state were being treated like criminals, forced onto reservations and their children sent off to schools—away from their families. She shook the sudden stiffness in her shoulders.

  Directing the mare to pull the buggy alongside the post office building, Sonja blinked as snowflakes lit upon her brow. This would be a chilly ride. If only she had her dog with her. Darren used to accompany her and nestle on the floorboard at her feet. But her sister had taken Sonja’s pet, with no protest from either of her parents. Moisture threatened to turn to tears in her eyes, and Sonja forced herself to offer a smile as the postmaster exited the post office and carried her father’s bag to her.

  “There ye go, lass.” Mr. McLaughlin arranged the canvas bag so that it lay flat on the carriage bed.

  “Father doesn’t want me riding his horse.” Although it might be easier for deliveries.

  The postmaster raised one shaggy eyebrow. “Of course not, lass. This little cart is what ye’ll need, and it’s sturdy enough even for the County Farm drive.”

  She cringed, remember
ing how rutted the road was. “Yes, but will my teeth be jarred out of my mouth?”

  The silver-haired Scotsman sighed deeply. “Iris sees no need to waste money on leveling the road, as she rarely has visitors. But I’ll give her another warning.”

  “Father was beside himself when he was thrown last week because of that deep hole in the road.”

  “The magistrate dinna think too kindly of it, either.” The postmaster sighed heavily. “Thank the good Lord ye are such a sturdy lass and can help yer pa.”

  Sturdy. Not exactly a complimentary word, although the postal superintendent surely meant it to be. Sonja towered over all the women in town and many of the men. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell Iris if she willna fix it, then she’ll have to send someone out to the road to collect her mail from a box, and she’ll nay like that, I assure you.” Mr. McLaughlin pulled his watch from the front pocket of his navy blue jacket and flipped the cover open. “Ye best be on yer way—the skies shout snow, lass.”

  She extended her gloved palm, where one snowflake drifted onto it. “Those snowflakes are coming!” Sonja flicked the reins on the gray mare’s back and off they went, the bag at her feet jostling about, even on the town road, which was fairly level.

  As she passed the telegram office, a square, log building, the operator came out. “Miss Hoeke, can you stop?”

  Had Mr. Penwell already responded to her letter? No, it would take much longer for the letter to have reached him.

  As she brought her horse to a stop, Mr. Hood strode to the side of the buggy. The distinguished-looking man waved a telegram in front of her. “Could you take a look at this? It was for your friend, Cora, and came in while I was out sick.”

  So many had been ill with sickness and some had died. Mr. Hood’s wife was fortunate she’d not lost her husband. “A telegram?”

  “My assistant decided to put it aside. But I’m wondering if we oughtn’t notify this man, Mr. Penwell, that Cora is gone.”

  Sonja accepted the telegram and scanned its contents. Stay put. Am on way to Shepherd. Louis

  Her heart began to pound in her chest. The poor man was on his way here to collect his bride, but Cora was gone. He must want desperately to marry her. Tears pricked her eyes. Poor Cora. Poor man. And here Sonja had thought Mr. Penwell might accept her as a substitute. Who had she been fooling? She chewed her lower lip. And Cora buried in a pauper’s grave—if only Sonja had saved enough money to have her interred elsewhere. How awful that would be to take Cora’s friend there, but Sonja would.

  “I’ll have to meet him when he arrives.” She swallowed. “And I’ll do my duty and take him to her grave, have no fear.”

  Mr. Hood shook his head. “Cora might not even get to stay put, Sonja.”

  A chill shot up her spine. “What do you mean?”

  His strong facial features tugged, but he said nothing.

  “Why would Cora’s body be moved?”

  “She’s in a pauper’s grave, Sonja.” Mr. Hood’s low, serious tone raised the hair on the back of her neck. “That means those body grabbers from the university will want to dig her up for their medical studies.”

  “No!” she gasped. It was insult enough that Cora had no proper headstone. “Do you really think they shall?”

  “Last night we got a request through the county board committee.” His high cheekbones flushed red.

  She’d paid for her friend’s medical treatment but hadn’t been able to afford a plot. With her earnings, Sonja had saved enough for a very small headstone—but what could she do if the state grave diggers came? Lord help me. God’s word said He knew their every need. She’d have to trust Him with this, too. Sonja forced back tears.

  “I guess I was hoping to ask this fella, Penwell, when he gets to town, if he might be willing to pay for a proper plot. I’m hoping he’s kin. Is he?” As the sun peeked through the snow clouds, Mr. Hood squinted at her.

  “No. I’m afraid not.” If things went as she’d hoped, he’d have been her future husband. It all seemed absurd now.

  “Well, you keep that message—you were her closest friend. And after she got so ill, she’d told me to give any telegrams to you if they came through.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hood. Have a good day.” She clucked her tongue and slapped the reins against the mare’s back.

  Apprehension niggled at Sonja as the mare pulled the carriage onto the county road that led to the Poor Farm and then to her last stop, the Wellings’ large farm. This would be her first contact with Mrs. Geisig since Cora’s funeral. Cora, an inmate at the farm, had been sick for months. There would be no more outgoing letters from her to her pen pal, Mr. Penwell, her only communicant in the outside world. Sonja had been at Cora’s side when she passed from earth to heaven. Her last words had been about the Penwell—“Tell him I’m sorry.”

  Something in her spirit troubled Sonja. She directed the horse to pull the cart to the side of the road and reached for the last two packets to be delivered. One to the Welling farm and one slim batch to Mrs. Geisig. Sonja untied the twine that held five slim missives together. A letter for little Liisa, a card for Joanna, and a college notification for Ronald—wouldn’t that be wonderful if he was accepted? Then, at the bottom, a slim letter for Cora.

  Sonja ran her finger over her friend’s name. Gone. And only forty two years old. Although there had been fifteen years between them, Cora’s youthful spirit and vivacity, despite her illness, had always drawn Sonja to her. They could talk about anything and everything, although Cora initially would have nothing to do with hearing God’s word. A tear escaped and Sonja wiped it away. Cora and the Lord had settled their differences before she’d gone home to Glory, and for that she’d be forever grateful. Sonja sniffed. She’d take this letter home, too, as she had the other. She was still violating the postal rules. But she had peace that God wouldn’t mind. And Mr. MacLaughlin had already told her it would be fine.

  The mare snorted as Sonja removed her soft gloves and then opened the letter.

  Dear Cora,

  I hope you don’t believe me impatient. I pray you received my other letter and I await your reply. Today I was informed of the position I shall assume, and it is a remarkable one. I leave you with this scripture, my friend, for I find that my supervisor is correct, such a job requires what Solomon so eloquently wrote: There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother: yet is there no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches; neither saith he, For whom do I labour, and bereave my soul of good? This is also vanity, yea, it is a sore travail.

  Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.

  Not very romantic.

  Sonja slipped the letter into her reticule, then tucked it beneath her skirts, and urged her horse on. While there was indeed truth in those Bible verses, was this Mr. Penwell a stodgy older man whose idea of a lovely evening was sitting in front of the fire and quoting her the Bible? She imagined an Ebenezer Scrooge type of individual with long strands of silver hair plastered to his head, bent over his pile of gold, all the while stealing glances at his Bible. She shivered.

  Maybe he’d never receive her missive. Maybe all would work out well on Mackinac Island. Maybe God had another plan. She flicked the reins and moved on.

  Enduring the bone-rattling drive to the Poor Farm, she drove past fields already harvested by the few inhabitants of the home. Hay had already been harvested from both their farm and the Wellings’ property months earlier. Mr. Welling always did this chore for Iris Geisig, never charging her a fee, which the plump woman usually crowed over. Ahead, the huge white Victorian farmhouse loomed, looking for all the world like the happy home of wealthy farmers. Appearances certainly could be deceiving. Sonja’s heart clenched as she approached, wagon wheels groaning over the uneven road. Liisa and Joanna paused in st
acking wood, at the side of the house, and waved at her. Cora was gone, buried in the Potter’s Field. And her body possibly about to be used in some university studies. Sonja shivered all the way down to her high boot tops.

  The proprietress wriggled out the front door, her enormous bustle requiring a tug. “Finally here, eh?”

  Resisting the temptation to tell the woman to have her drive repaired and then the mail would arrive earlier, Sonja pulled out the re-tied bundle of correspondence.

  Iris snatched the letters. “I’ve got a box of Cora’s things for you. Let me get it.” The coarse woman disappeared into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  She’d not had the chance to tell Mrs. Geisig about Mr. McLaughlin’s warning that she must repair her drive. Sonja shook her head and rocked on the porch in her black, lace-up boots, hoping to warm her toes. Curlicues and all manner of elaborate gingerbread details gave the house a deceptively charming appearance. Even when Cora was constantly coughing, she’d been forced to paint the railing out here. Sonja had assisted her on one of her substitute mail carrier missions, returning to the Poor House after she’d delivered the Wellings’ mail, which was the last stop on the route.

  A tall, blond young man strode up from the barn. She waved to Ronald.

  “Will you come back to tutor me tonight?” The seventeen-year-old wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

  “Sorry. Not tonight. But after church?”

  He frowned. “Iris says we can’t go this week because we’ve gone three times in a row…”

  “Which costs her good feed money,” she completed the statement for him, having heard the absurd explanation before.

  Mr. Welling, the neighboring farmer, used to supply Mrs. Geisig with additional feed and hay for her horses after she’d complained about the animals needing extra feed for the church trips. But, even before the generous man had died, the matron had given different excuses as to why the inhabitants couldn’t attend services.

  “I’ll drive out one day next week, then, after chores are done.”