Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  The lamplighter passed by, singing as he lit the fixtures along the way. The man had a pleasant baritone. Who was it who said she was his sister-in-law? The sparrowlike woman with the two hip-high sons who nearly danced a jig when Garret offered them each a sour ball—Mrs. S—it started with an S. Sowell—that was it. Garret smiled to himself. He wanted to put names and faces together as rapidly as he could. Miss Masterson was right about the confusion of meeting so many new people at once.

  Rose. The name suited her. Oh, she wasn’t a hothouse rose. If anything, she was a wild rose—a hearty yellow one with a fair share of thorns and a heady fragrance. Between watching the Widow Orrick’s daughters and Prentice, she seemed to collect children about her. This Rose, no doubt, would have a handful of crickets and ladybugs about her. Garret shook his head. Normally not given to fanciful thoughts, he chalked up that whole vision as one triggered by overwork and exhaustion.

  He turned off the light and headed up the stairs to his living quarters. He’d no more than made it up a few of the risers when a knock sounded on the store’s door.

  Chapter 3

  Rose shoved an errant curl back from her forehead and tried her best to ignore the mosquito bite on her right shin. The more she tried to forget that silly irritation, the more it itched. She’d dabbed camphor on it earlier today and gotten some relief, but her petticoats must have rubbed off the cure. Then again, the benefit of wearing long skirts was that she could balance on her right foot and use her left heel to—

  Fingertips resting on the building, Rose nearly tumbled into the emporium when Mr. Diamond abruptly opened the door. “Mercy me!” she exclaimed.

  His strong hand caught her arm and righted her. “Miss Masterson, are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She could feel the warmth clear through the wool of her cape and the serge of her gray dress. She couldn’t very well explain what she had been up to. No lady confessed to scratching as if she were a mangy pup, and she certainly didn’t refer to her limbs in the presence of a man. “Thank you. I lost my balance.”

  “It’s my fault. I need to sand the step. It’s a tad rough, and I can’t have any of my customers tripping. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  “I’m fine. Just fine. You’ve had a busy day. I thought you might be tired. Here.” She stooped and lifted a basket, then shoved it into his hands.

  “What is this?”

  “Just a warm supper. I doubted you’d feel much like cooking anything after working so long and hard.” She flashed him a smile. “The jar ought to look familiar enough. It’s one of your own.”

  He lifted the blue gingham cloth and smiled. Rose was glad she’d decided to bring by the simple meal, after all. It didn’t take any longer to make a big pot of chicken stew and a large pan of corn bread than it did to make small ones for herself.

  Mr. Diamond closed his eyes for a second and inhaled. “This smells great. I’m hungry enough to eat the basket, too.”

  “I slipped a pair of peach tarts under the corn bread, thinking you could have one for dessert and the other for breakfast. If you’re that hungry, you could eat them both tonight. I hope you enjoy your meal.” She stooped and lifted her other basket.

  “I will. But wait—what is that?”

  “Oh—this is for Mrs. Kiersty. Bless her heart, she’s down with a terrible case of quinsy. Soup and tea are about all she can tolerate.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Doc Rexfeld started her on slippery elm lozenges, and that honey I bought from you today ought to be quite soothing, too, don’t you think?”

  Garret looked into her eyes and nodded. “I’m sure the honey will be helpful. I recall using honey and lemon for coughs and sore throats. Permit me to send along a lemon.”

  Her lips parted in surprise but quickly lifted into a smile. “Oh, that would be so kind. I’m sure she’d appreciate your generosity.”

  He left the store’s door wide open and set his supper basket on the counter. “It’ll only take me a second.” The fruit display to the left of the register held a full complement of choices. Rose watched the storekeeper ripple his long fingers over the fruit to select the lemon. He returned to the door. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Diamond.” She accepted the fragrant lemon, slipped it under the cloth and into the basket, and turned to leave.

  “Wait. You shouldn’t be wandering alone in the dark. Let me escort you to her place and back home.”

  Rose gave him a startled look. “The lamps are lit, and Buttonhole is safe as a sanctuary. You’re kind, but your worry is needless. God bless you, Mr. Diamond.”

  “God bless you, too, Miss Masterson.”

  She made it all of three steps down the walk before he had hold of her arm. “Where does Mrs. Kersey live?”

  “Kiersty. She’s at the boardinghouse.”

  “Why doesn’t the cook at the boardinghouse make her soup?”

  “Mrs. Kiersty is the cook. I’m afraid the owner, Mr. Hepplewhite, is able to scramble eggs and sear meat, but that’s about the full extent of his culinary skills.”

  Garret chuckled. “Add to those two skills the fact that I can make hot cereal and slap together a sandwich, and you have the full extent of my kitchen expertise.”

  “Ah, but you can always open up a jar or can of something.”

  “Eating into my profits, eh?” He swiped the basket from her. “I confess, I’ve had the Hormel canned meat. Smoked oysters and tinned sardines aren’t too bad. Tonight I strongly considered celebrating by sitting down with a box of Cracker Jack.”

  Rose stopped beneath the lamppost and gawked at him. “Mr. Diamond, you cannot be serious!”

  “Truth is the truth. You’re right. After such a busy day, I was far too tired to bother cooking.” He hefted the basket. Jars clinked against one another. “This basket is far too heavy for you to carry. How much soup did you put in this?”

  “Two jars. I also included some applesauce.”

  “I smell bread though.”

  “Yes, well, Mr. Hepplewhite and the others need bread. There are a few loaves for them.”

  Garret stared at her for a long moment, then quietly stated, “I’ll bring flour, yeast, and eggs to you tomorrow.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “I agree,” he interrupted smoothly. “There’s absolutely no need for you to do the labor and supply the ingredients. I’m new here, but I aim to be part of the community. You wouldn’t want to make me feel unwanted or unnecessary, would you?”

  “Mr. Diamond, you’ve most assuredly chosen the profession best suited to your skills. I declare, I’ve never met a man who could find a bit of down fluff on a sleeve and sell the person a Christmas goose—at least, I never had until I met you.”

  His scowl looked anything but genuine. The glint in his hazel eyes and the lilt in his voice proved so. “Miss Masterson, I’m affronted by such an accusation. I’d never sell a customer a Christmas goose at this time of the year. Pillows would be far more suitable as replacements during spring-cleaning.”

  “Joel Creek’s farm isn’t far out of town. His wife tends to bring eggs, butter, and milk in once or twice a week, and she made a few superb pillows last year.”

  He held her arm as they stepped off the boardwalk and crossed the street. “You are a treasure trove of information, Miss Masterson. I can see I’ll need your assistance in getting to know everyone.”

  Rose didn’t mind being friendly or making introductions, but if all Mr. Diamond wanted was to coax information out of her so he could sell things, he was barking up the wrong tree. But no—he’d just offered her staples so she could bake for their neighbors, and he’d wanted Mrs. Kiersty to have an expensive lemon to help her throat. Surely that proved him to be compassionate and concerned.

  “I chose to open my store in Buttonhole because the town seems to have a gentle charm and caring about it.”

  She remembered aloud, “I came for the same reason. I visited several pla
ces before I decided to live here.”

  The jars clinked softly in cadence with his steps. “Meeting so many folk today confirmed my impression of how friendly everyone is. It heartens me to see how you’re an integral member of the community after living here just a few years.”

  “Seeing the changes you’ve made and how you want to conduct a quality emporium, I can promise you, everyone is going to embrace your presence here. I daresay it took me almost a year to be regarded with the ease with which you’ve been welcomed.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “I’m afraid they didn’t quite know what to think of me. They eventually despaired of fitting me into a normal mold and decided I’m a bit dusty in the attic.”

  “Dusty in the attic?” He echoed her words with a measure of amusement equal to that which she’d instilled in them. “Just what is so dusty about your attic?”

  “When I moved here, most of the gentlemen in Buttonhole felt I needed a man to tend my personal business, but I neither depend on nor answer to anyone except the Lord. Their wives and marriageable daughters felt I posed competition for the eligible young swains. It took them some time to realize none of that was true. Now they accept me with genteel amusement. The fact is, I’m happy to be a spinster. The apostle Paul wrote about the ability of a single person to serve unhampered by marriage, and I find delight in doing just that. I confess, it’s not the usual choice a woman makes, so they’ve decided I’m gently daft.”

  He pursed his lips and whistled a few notes. “Miss Masterson, as long as we’re making confessions, I’m afraid I have one of my own to make.”

  “You do?” She stopped and looked at him.

  The left side of his mouth kicked up in a rakish grin. “I’m just as dusty in the attic. At least, I plan to keep a very dusty attic for a few years.”

  Rose held her silence. She knew full well the mamas in the town were about to turn the table on this salesman. All day long he’d charmed and convinced them to visit his store and tempted them to snap up what he offered. “Have you seen my wonderful …?” “Wouldn’t you like …?” “It’s perfectly suited to you….” Tomorrow he’d be in church, where those selfsame women would have their daughters gussied up. “Have you seen my wonderful daughter?” “Wouldn’t you like to sit with us?” “The church is lovely, isn’t it?” “Perfectly suited for a beautiful wedding.”

  “For shame, Miss Masterson.”

  Rose snapped out of her thoughts and gave him a startled look. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mr. Diamond chuckled. “I hoped you’d be a kindred spirit and accept me as a man who needs to establish his business before he could devote himself to one of the local ladies and start a family. I can see you’ve already cast me to the vagaries of the matchmakers and consider my cause lost.”

  “I know the matchmakers.”

  “Ah, but you don’t know me.” He took her arm again and steered her toward the boardinghouse. “Suffice it to say, I’m about to confound Buttonhole’s citizens by failing to fall madly in love with one of the fair maidens.”

  “Do you read much, sir?”

  “It’s among my favorite pastimes.”

  “Perhaps it’s best if I just quote from Robert Burns. ‘The best-laid plans of mice and men oft go astray.’”

  He opened the door, and his breath washed over her as he dipped his head and added in a tone only she could hear, “Don’t stop there. ‘And leave us naught but grief and pain for promised joy.’ I’m not about to be ensnared by the plans and promises of others. I’ve plenty of plans for myself.”

  Punctuality, for being a virtue, should carry with it some level of protection. The wry thought made Garret smile as he wiped the last dab of shaving lather from his chin. He’d determined to show up on the church steps just two slim minutes before the service began. After worship, he’d gladly greet his new neighbors, then make his excuses and go to the parsonage to dine with the minister and his wife.

  Garret had concentrated his attention on setting up the store, and he’d been so busy with the grand opening, he’d failed to see the obvious. Rose Masterson did him a great favor by letting him know he was considered eminently eligible. Or was that imminently?

  He’d awakened this morning with a plan in place—he’d keep a friendly distance and let the good parson and his wife spread the message that Garret Diamond couldn’t commit himself to a bride until he’d established himself.

  Oh, he’d certainly not mind meeting the young ladies who were prospective bridal candidates. It would be wise to get to know them, learn of their temperaments, personalities, and quirks. Rushing recklessly into marriage simply wouldn’t do. If he kept a slight distance at the start, it would permit him to meet the full selection instead of misleading one particular young lady into thinking he’d been smitten by love at first sight. It wasn’t right to dally with a girl’s heart, and since he had to wait to marry until his business flourished, it was essential to make his decided lack of romantic intentions quite clear from the start.

  When the time came, he wanted a woman who would be his helpmeet in the fullest sense of the word—to help with the store, to be a loving wife and a good mother. Hardworking. Sweet spirited. Caring. Virtuous.

  Caring and virtuous … He thought of Miss Masterson. She hadn’t bought the honey for herself. It wasn’t expensive in the least, but if Miss Masterson’s finances were half as strained as Mrs. Evert claimed, her small sacrifice of giving that jar to Mrs. Kiersty was akin to the widow in the parable who tithed her last mite. When he delivered the flour, butter, yeast, and eggs he’d promised, Garret would slip in a jar of honey for her to keep for herself.

  With that decision made, Garret smiled at himself in the small mirror over the sink. He purposefully avoided splashing on his customary bay rum, snapped his elastic suspenders in place over a spanking new French percale shirt, and secured a turn-downed collar he’d saved for today. He felt a momentary twinge of homesickness. Great-aunt Brigit knew just the right amount of starch to use.

  The school bell pealed. Parson Jeffrey had mentioned the church didn’t have a bell yet, so they used the school’s bell as a call to worship. Half an hour ago, it rang twice. Now it rang thrice. Ten minutes until the service. Garret donned a subtle charcoal-and-black vest, grabbed his suit coat and hat, and went downstairs. He allowed himself a few minutes to eat a shiny red apple before he stepped out his door … and into a sea of pastels and foamy lace.

  Chapter 4

  Good morning!” a chorus of sopranos sang out.

  “No better way to start the day than with worship.” He shut the door to the mercantile and removed his hat. A gentleman didn’t keep his hat on in the presence of ladies. It also gave him something to do with his hands. “I’m sure the preacher has a good message for us today.”

  “You won’t hear a word of it if these gals won’t stop flocking and clucking like hens.” A spry old man hobbled through the bustled dresses and batted away a few feathers arcing from Sunday-best hats. He extended his hand. “I’m Zeb Hepplewhite, owner of the boardinghouse, and I’m invitin’ you to come sit by me on the bachelor bench.”

  Garret had no idea what the bachelor bench was, but from a few crestfallen sounds the girls around him made, he surmised he’d just been tossed a rope. He shook Zeb’s hand as if it were a lifeline. “Pleasure to meet you, Hepplewhite. I’d be honored to join you.”

  Once seated in church, Zeb rumbled, “This back bench is bachelor territory. Back bench t’other side’s for the mamas with crybabies. Front pew on the left is for the parson’s family, and front pew on the right is courtin’ row. A buck sits there with a gal, and the good folks of Buttonhole take it to be a declaration of intentions.”

  Garret nodded his understanding as he looked at the rows of oak pews that lined the boxy white church. “Thanks,” he said in a low tone. “I might have blundered badly.”

  Zeb opened his hymnal and covered his chuckle with a rusty cough. “Wouldn’t be the first perso
n to. Miss Rose sat here on the bachelor bench the very first Sunday after she moved to town. As it turns out, ‘twas a fitting choice. Oliver Sneedly told her she was in the wrong place, so she scooted across the aisle. Was a few months afore the folks hereabouts stopped squawking and let her be. She has a knack of taking a fussy babe and hushing it.”

  As the congregation stood to sing the first hymn, Rose Masterson slipped into the crybaby pew. Garret had seen her three times by now, but this was the first time he caught sight of Miss Rose when she’d bothered to tend to her appearance. She made for quite an eyeful. Tamed coils of golden hair framed her face and peeped out beneath a sensible black straw hat trimmed with a minimum of folderol. The midnight blue silk military loop and hooks on her snowy bodice might have looked mannish on someone else, but the way they graduated in size from her tiny, cinched waist up the front served to prove just how feminine she could be. Her deep blue skirt draped over a very modest bustle, giving her a silhouette any man would find admirable. Then her head turned.

  She had a smudge of white on her right cheek.

  Rose didn’t have a vain bone in her body. If he were a gambling man, Garret would bet his bottom dollar it wasn’t powder on her cheek. It had to be flour. He reached up and brushed his own cheekbone in a silent message.

  She didn’t understand.

  “Flour,” he mouthed silently.

  Any other woman in the world would have been mortified. Rose’s eyes lit with appreciation, and she swiftly rubbed away the white with her gloved hand as she sang every verse and the chorus of “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing” by memory. She looked back at him, her brows raised in silent query.

  Garret nodded and grinned. She’d erased the evidence of her baking, at least from her face. As she lowered her gloved hand, the flour made a faint swipe on the side of her dark skirt.