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 th
at 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?”
Copyright © 2017 by Christine Elizabeth Johnson
ISBN-13: 9781488017674
A Tailor-Made Husband
Copyright © 2017 by Winnie Griggs
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