The Telegraph Proposal

  When she heard the door click, Yancey let go of the chair and looked around. She had so many questions—all of them equally important and unfathomable—that she didn’t know which to ask first.

  Mrs. Archer held out both hands as she walked closer. “I’m so sorry, my dear.” She drew Yancey into a hug.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening.” Yancey pulled away.

  “I think you’d better sit down for this.”

  Yancey obeyed, her stomach hard with dread.

  Mrs. Archer looked at the floor, drawing a deep breath before raising her eyes to Yancey. “While you and my daughter were having tea last January, Antonia decided you and Mr. Adams would be a perfect match as long as you didn’t realize you were being set up together. She began a correspondence courtship between you as Portia York and Mr. Adams as Nathan St. John.”

  Yancey slapped a hand over her mouth. She had no breath to form words, even if she could think of something to say. Nathan—her dear Nathan—was gone. Had never existed except as a figment of someone else’s imagination. It was like hearing about Joseph Hendry’s murder all over again. She closed her eyes and concentrated on forcing air into and out of her lungs.

  “To maintain your confidentiality, Antonia opened your letters to him, rewrote them in her own hand, and then sent them to Mr. Adams. She did the same in reverse, typing his letters to you.”

  Yancey swayed. She let go of the hold over her mouth to grip the edges of the chair. She’d once asked why he typed his letters. He replied that his handwriting was illegible. She’d thought it odd because he was an educated man. A college graduate. Someone with that level of schooling wouldn’t have illegible handwriting.

  It wasn’t odd. It was a deliberate lie from a woman she’d considered a friend.

  She pressed one hand to her nauseous stomach. Her private letters—her intimate communications—had been read by Antonia. Even worse, by Hale.

  Yancey tasted bile and opened her eyes to look for a waste bin in case her breakfast came back up.

  “Mr. Adams would not let Antonia or me explain that you were as innocent as he.” Mrs. Archer placed her hand over her heart. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Palmer. I would offer you a refund, as I did to Mr. Adams, but—as Antonia set up your correspondence outside of the agency—you didn’t pay for our services. I don’t know what to do to make this up to you.”

  There was nothing to do. Nathan was gone and—in his place—was a man who loathed her. Who had berated her in public for something she hadn’t even done. Who waved his hand at her with insulting dismissal.

  “I hope you believe that I knew nothing of this.” Mrs. Archer gripped both hands in front of her heart as though praying. “As soon as I found out, I bought the first train tickets available so Antonia could offer a personal apology.”

  Yancey nodded, unable to form words.

  “What can I do?” Mrs. Archer placed her hand on Yancey’s knee.

  She flinched, unable to stop the instinctive recoil from a woman who—through no fault of her own—had just delivered a crushing blow.

  “Is there someone I can get for you?”

  There were at least a dozen people Yancey wanted. None of whom the matchmaker knew, so she shook her head.

  “Would you like to be alone?”

  No, but she had little choice unless she wanted to face the stares and whispers of all the people who had witnessed her humiliation and all the other people who’d heard the story by now. Her stomach lurched. Afraid she’d be unable to control her nausea much longer—and unwilling to subject herself to another embarrassment—Yancey summoned up enough breath to whisper, “I’d like to be alone.”

  Mrs. Archer patted Yancey’s knee before she stood. “Again, I’m terribly sorry. The only comfort I can offer is that Antonia will never do anything like this again.”

  Which was no comfort at all. Yancey closed her eyes again, concentrating on keeping her breakfast down.

  “Are you sure I can’t get someone for you? Mr. Jakob Gunderson, perhaps?” Mrs. Archer named the client they both knew had engaged her agency’s services.

  Yancey shook her head. Please leave. Please, please, please leave.

  “All right.” A slight breeze and a scrape of wood on wood accompanied the words. Soft footsteps soon followed. Stopped. “Antonia and I are at the Grand Hotel if you think of anything we can do to make this better. Again, I’m very sorry.” The door clicked open, more footsteps, and another click.

  Yancey’s control broke. She stood and raced to the metal waste bucket sitting on the floor beside the desk, leaning over it with barely enough time before vomiting.

  Heave after heave emptied her stomach of breakfast and her soul of every dream she’d transferred to Nathan St. John.

  Chapter Six

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Yancey turned her head enough to see Jakob, one hand on the door, the other holding a wooden crate with straw hanging over the top edge. She wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her wrist. If only she had some lemonade or tea to wash down the acidic bile coating her tongue and throat.

  “Hey. Are you all right?” He set the crate on the floor and closed the office door before hurrying to her side.

  With Mrs. Archer, pretense was possible. Not with Jakob. They’d been friends too long. Yancey shook her head, her chin trembling.

  Jakob wrapped her in a comforting hug. “What’s wrong?”

  In broken sentences interrupted by sobs, she told him her tale of woe as briefly as possible. She ended with, “And Hale had the gall to believe I instigated the whole, miserable thing.”

  Expecting to hear his shocked gasp or a promise of retribution against the man who’d wronged her so deeply, she was surprised by Jakob’s silence. She pulled back to look him in the face. He appeared more resigned than outraged. “I’m really sorry about that, Yance, but . . .”

  She stepped away from him, swiping at her cheeks even though most of her tears had been absorbed into his white shirt. “But what?”

  “What Hale did was wrong. No question. But ... I can see his side of it.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  Jakob shrugged. “Take it from someone who recently discovered that the woman he’d offered his heart to was in love with someone else. You aren’t thinking straight when it happens.”

  Oh.

  “And Hale will always see you as the girl who broke his heart by ruining his courtship of your sister.” Jakob spread his large hands in a helpless gesture, as though there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.

  “Hale never loved Luanne.”

  “Does he know that?” Jakob tipped his head to one side. “Or did you decide it for him?”

  Yancey stared.

  “Look”—Jakob dropped his hands to his sides—“I’m not defending what he did, I’m simply saying he has some good reasons for mistrusting you when it comes to his heart.”

  “But I’ve not said or done anything in the last year ... almost.”

  “I know.” Jakob nodded. “But two years ago you decided to ignore him for six months to make him realize how much he secretly missed you.”

  Yancey hung her head. “I forgot about that.”

  “And there’s the time you pretended to be someone else in need of legal advice, then showed up in his office.”

  She’d forgotten about that, too. “He still shouldn’t have yelled at me.”

  “Do you want me to pummel him?”

  Yancey looked into Jakob’s face. He seemed serious.

  But then he smiled. “I’m on your side, Yance. Just tell me what you want me to do . . . within reason, of course.”

  Hale pummeled into the dirt suited her just fine.

  She sighed. Might be worth it if Hale wasn’t a lawyer and his uncle a judge. Sure as sure, she and Jakob would both end up in jail. Short of disappearing or going back in time, there wasn’t much he or anyone else could do.

  Yancey eyed the door.
“I don’t suppose you could take half an hour off to walk me home?”

  Jakob glanced at the crate he’d set on the floor. “I can if you need me to.”

  Did she need him? Really? She’d survived worse than being called a lying, scheming, manipulative whatever Hale was going to add before his uncle cut him off. She’d once been linked to a scam bringing innocent women and girls to Helena to be sold into prostitution. Her name was left out of the article, but everyone knew she’d stood in as proxy bride for Finn Collins—the man accused of the heinous crime.

  She reached out and put a hand on Jakob’s arm. “Thank you, but I can manage. Your family needs you here today of all days.”

  He lowered his chin. “Are you sure?”

  No, but she needed to be. “I’ll manage.”

  He glanced at the door again. “Do you want me to escort you down the stairs?”

  Oh, someone was going to be a lucky woman when Jakob Gunderson offered his heart again. Too bad they loved each other as siblings, making anything more between them impossible. She could use a true knight in shining armor right about now.

  She squeezed his arm. “I’d prefer a moment alone.”

  He laid his hand over hers. “I’ll be running between downstairs and the third floor if you need me.”

  “Thank you.”

  After he left, Yancey took a few minutes to think over what Jakob had said ... and to prepare herself for what awaited her once she left the safety of the office. She took several deep breaths, checked her hair in the window’s reflection, and smoothed the front of her skirt.

  She paused at the door. People were bound to talk. She didn’t have to listen. She was innocent, regardless of what anyone else thought. But ... oh, how she hated it.

  She straightened her posture, opened the door, and put one foot in front of the other.

  Sure enough, the first thing she heard when she reached the bottom of the staircase was Mrs. Watson’s voice. “If you ask me, it’s about time he gave that Palmer girl a comeuppance.”

  “What do you think she did this time?” This voice was unfamiliar.

  “Whatever it was, I’ve never seen Mr. Adams so furious.” Mrs. Watson’s voice began to fade. “Did I tell you about the time . . . ?”

  Yancey ducked her chin and hurried out the back door to the alley behind The Import Co. She should go down to the telegraph office at the train depot to relieve her father so he could enjoy the grand opening, but she turned her feet toward home. There was chocolate cake left over from last night’s supper, and she intended to finish every last slice.

  Once she cleared the alley, she kept her head down and weaved through the lingering crowd. But not fast enough to avoid hearing their words. While some people were nicer than others, everyone assumed she had once again thrown herself at Hale Adams. Someone called her laughable and pathetic.

  Laughable and pathetic.

  The words chased her down the street and into her house, where there wasn’t enough chocolate cake to drown them out.

  * * *

  Jonas tapped his cane along the ground as he strode to Hale’s office. He wrenched the door open, not caring that it banged against the inside wall so hard it left a small dent in the wood paneling of the foyer. He marched through the waiting area and—the moment he cleared the double doors—pointed his cane at his nephew. “Your behavior to Miss Palmer was unconscionable.”

  “False.” Hale jumped to his feet, slapping the file he’d been reading atop the atrocious pile of papers and books strewn across his desk. “My behavior was civilized given what she deserves.”

  “And what is that? To be locked in the stocks where people can throw rotting vegetables at her or be burned at the stake?” Jonas named medieval punishments to shock Hale out of his unjustified rage.

  “Something like that.” Hale raked his fingers through his hair. “That woman has interfered in my life for the last time.”

  “She didn’t interfere in your life.”

  “With all due respect, sir, you’re wrong.”

  Jonas raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to ignore me as you did both the Archer ladies?”

  The mention of the matchmakers’ names brought Hale around the front side of his desk. “How did you know they were the Archers?”

  “It wasn’t hard to figure out.” Because that bossy woman who all but slammed the door in Jonas’s face had called her daughter by all three of her names. “Do you wish to remain in ignorance, or would you like to hear the facts of the case?” He gripped his cane, waiting for a response.

  Hale crossed his arms over his chest, his lips pressed flat.

  Given that he failed to say no, Jonas continued. “I’ve heard the entire story from Miss Archer.” Whom he tracked down after she ran down the stairs at The Import Co. He caught up with her just outside the alley door and—after stating his theories as though they were facts—the girl spilled out the entire story. “She’s the one who pretended to be Portia York, not Miss Palmer.”

  “After being talked into it.” Hale pulled his arms tighter.

  “No!” Jonas pounded his cane into the floorboards. “Miss Archer came up with the plan of pretending to be both Miss Portia York and a Mr. Nathan St. John—pseudonyms inspired by Miss Palmer’s initials, Shakespeare characters, the Revolutionary war hero Nathan Hale, and our second president, John Adams, respectively.”

  Hale groaned.

  Jonas had also groaned when he heard the noms de plume because they were as trite as the Archer girl was silly. “She said she tried to tell you several times but you wouldn’t listen. Rather ungentlemanly of you, Hale.” Jonas watched his nephew’s face, waiting for the moment Hale understood how unfairly he’d treated Yancey Palmer by assuming she’d engineered the whole affair.

  Hale looked out the window. “Given Miss Palmer’s past machinations, it was entirely reasonable for me to conclude she was the one who instigated a fraudulent correspondence.” He launched into a detailed account of Miss Palmer’s schemes, beginning five years ago when he arrived in Helena.

  The more he talked, the more of his father Jonas saw. Hale had disowned his father when he was eighteen, refusing to have anything more to do with the man who’d kept a second family hidden away for six years. Jonas had taken the long journey from Montana to New York to advise his sister on filing for divorce. When he’d confronted Lawrence Adams, the man had gone on and on about how he’d never intended to fall in love with another woman and how she’d kept him at arm’s length after their initial tryst, but their feelings for each other couldn’t be denied.

  It had struck Jonas then—as it was striking him now—that the way to reel in an Adams was to give him a taste of heaven and then withdraw it.

  Jonas mentally kicked himself for failing to see the father-and-son resemblance until this moment. How could he take advantage of Hale’s weakness? Yancey Palmer had captured his heart as the fictitious Portia York. It was possible she could do it again. Hale needed a champion, someone who could charm money out of a turnip.

  Miss Palmer fit the bill perfectly.

  And given her past history with Hale, she’d fall back in love with him, thereby absolving him of today’s debacle—something the public needed to see before they cast their votes in November.

  Jonas waited until Hale finished his story to begin his subtle campaign. “I know you’re angry at the girl, but that’s no excuse for you to be less than the gentleman you were raised to be.”

  Hale set his jaw. “I refuse to have anything to do with her ever again.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Son.” Jonas used the endearment to soften his verbal blow. “Helena may be big but it’s not that big. Yancey Palmer and her family are fixtures in this town. They—and she, in particular—are well-liked. To snub her would alienate the very people we’re trying to woo.”

  “I don’t plan to woo anyone.” The inflection in Hale’s voice told Jonas that his word choice had hit home.

  “Then you might as well go ba
ck out there”—Jonas pointed in the direction of The Import Co. with his cane—“and announce that you’re withdrawing your name from the campaign.”

  Hale’s mouth fell open.

  Taking advantage of his silence, Jonas repeated advice he’d given Hale in the past—advice the boy couldn’t keep ignoring. “You cannot continue to cut people out of your life whom you judge unworthy. You did it to your father and my sister. You cannot afford to do it to Miss Palmer, not while you are running for mayor and not when she is innocent.”

  Hale held himself rigid. “You’re sure Yancey had nothing to do with this?”

  “As sure as I am that you are innocent of any wrongdoing... at least regarding this mail-order bride business.” Jonas watched as his words eased the hostility in his nephew’s face.

  Hale took a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before letting it out in a whoosh. “I was so sure ... I mean, why wouldn’t I jump to that conclusion? It was logical, given her past history with me.”

  “Then if your logic was correct, what was your mistake?” When Hale first talked about becoming a lawyer, Jonas often quizzed him this way, stretching him to think beyond the easy assumptions and conclusions in order to see the opposing argument. Since then, Hale had learned how to debate, which was nothing more than finding valid points on both sides of an issue and presenting each with equal dedication. “Come, Hale. Work it through from beginning to end and tell me where you went wrong.”

  After a long moment, Hale said, “I failed to listen to Miss Archer’s full explanation.”

  “Meaning you jumped to your conclusion without hearing all the facts.”

  Hale nodded.

  “And then you compounded your error by accusing Miss Palmer—in a very crowded store, I must remind you.”

  Hale looked down. “Quite unforgivable of me. I will apologize to Miss Palmer the next chance I get.”

  “Which you will make sure is in a very public place.”

  Hale’s head snapped up. “I’m no longer a child, Uncle Jonas. I know what’s right.”

  Jonas smiled. “Excellent. Your chances of beating Harold Kendrick just went up by fifty percent. Speaking of our illustrious mayor . . .” Jonas paused for effect, turning Hale’s attention to more important matters. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Isaak. Kendrick will fight dirty. Do not sink to his level.”