The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson

by Laine Ferndale

  Owen said nothing. Their conversation was interrupted by a pair of blond women wearing evening gowns that clung to their curves and dripped with lace.

  “Good evening, ladies,” said Dubs.

  Owen managed a nod in their direction.

  “Hello Mr. Sterling,” the two girls said in unison.

  “And who might you be?” asked Dubs.

  “I’m Rebecca, and this is Eleanor,” one of the girls said. Before Owen had a chance to say a word, Dubs had jumped to his feet to pull out the remaining two chairs at the table. The girls took the seats eagerly, utterly oblivious to the scowl Owen directed at his smiling publisher.

  “We just wanted to ask you if your talk is going to be too scary,” Eleanor said. She affected the breathless whisper of a much younger girl.

  “Too scary?” Owen asked.

  “I’m terribly afraid of wolves. I just don’t know what I’d do if I ever saw one.”

  Eleanor and Rebecca fluttered their eyelashes, simpered, and generally flirted shamelessly. He knew it should be alluring, but their patter reminded him of Mrs. McSheen. He tried to imagine what Doc would say to these girls. Nils would probably just get up and walk away.

  “Wolves are actually quite social creatures,” Owen said. “I don’t find them frightening in the least.”

  Eleanor—or was it Rebecca?—leaned closer to him, displaying an expanse of creamy bosom in the process. “Well that’s because you’re a hero. Why, I bet a wolf would regret it if he tried to tangle with you.”

  “I’m sure Owen would protect you from these fearsome creatures,” said Dubs. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Wolves won’t harm you. In fact, they’re exceedingly cautious animals. And they have a very interesting kinship structure.”

  One of the girls clapped her hands. “Do you mean they have little wolf families? Like a mommy and a daddy and a baby wolf?”

  “Not ... exactly,” Owen said. He glanced at Dubs in exasperation, but the man merely nodded at him encouragingly. No help to be had there. “Well, it was lovely to meet you ladies, but I need to review my speech. Will you excuse us?”

  The girls huffed off. He was being rude, but his desire for small talk had dwindled into non-existence lately.

  “Was it necessary to be so brusque?” Dubs asked after the girls were out of earshot.

  “Yes,” Owen said. “Is it necessary for you to keep encouraging them?”

  “Just trying to help you out. The future Mrs. Sterling is going to pass right by while you stare at those scribbles.”

  “I wish to God people would stop mentioning ‘the future Mrs. Sterling’ to me,” he grumbled.

  “Well, pardon me for taking a friendly interest in your well-being.”

  “Oh, don’t take it like that. I’m sorry for being such a bear. I’m anxious for the speech tomorrow. And being on the road these past weeks hasn’t helped.”

  “Better get used to it. I’ve had inquiries for an even bigger tour when your next book comes out. San Francisco for sure, and St. Louis, and New York City ... it will have to be a month at least. You’ll take the States by storm.” He clapped Owen on the back.

  Owen nodded. What on earth was the matter with him? If a genie had popped out of a bottle and asked him to make a wish, this was exactly what he would have asked for. When he’d first moved to Vancouver, he’d written a list of milestones that he wanted to achieve and put it in his wallet. Write a best seller. Become a member of the Hotel Vancouver’s gentleman’s club. Give a keynote speech at the British Columbian Naturalist Society.

  Seemingly overnight, it had all been handed to him on a platter. Wealthy and powerful men invited him to dinner. He was traveling across the country, and people were paying to listen to his ideas. Hell, Parliament was even paying attention. Beautiful women asked for his autograph. His books were all sold out, and he’d recently signed a contract for a non-fiction book about the conservation movement. It was all happening, and yet he felt so bored and unsettled.

  After their novelty had worn off, the sparkling dinner parties had increasingly felt like a competition in which each person tried to insert the wittiest observation into the discussion. He felt as if he were attending a play, not having a conversation with real people. More and more, he found himself taking off on hiking expeditions just to avoid being Owen Sterling, Celebrated Hero.

  A small chime sounded, and the room quieted. Yes, it was exactly like being at a play. The president of the Naturalist Society walked to the front of the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for coming tonight. I am pleased to inform you that tonight’s lecture marks our highest attendance yet. I won’t bore you with the usual introductions, since the man who is speaking tonight needs no introduction. He is here to tell you about his research on the migratory patterns of wolves in advance of his big speech in Parliament tomorrow, but I’m sure he will be happy to answer questions about his other, more thrilling, areas of expertise.” A ripple of polite laughter washed through the room. “Please join me in welcoming to the lectern Mr. Owen Sterling.”

  Owen gave his talk. Everyone did a very good impression of listening, but when the talk was over, not one question was about wolves.

  “Mr. Sterling, could you recount for us the tale of your heroic rescue?”

  “Mr. Sterling, is it true that you may buy property soon? And if so, is this a sign that you might soon take a wife?”

  “Mr. Sterling, if you are remaining in town over the weekend, should we expect you at the Orphans’ Aid Society Fundraising Gala next week? We would very much love for you to attend.”

  He answered their questions as best he could and retreated to the back of the room as the standing ovation continued.

  “They loved you!” Dubs thumped him on the back. “I need to introduce you to two or three people, and then we can go and toast your success.”

  “Actually,” Owen said, “I think I’m coming down with a cold. I’m heading back to the hotel. Must protect the speaking voice, you know.”

  Before Dubs could react, Owen was out the door and into the cool autumn night. The Ottawa air was dry, tinged with coal smoke and burning leaves. He found himself wishing for some humidity, the faint tang of minerals in the breeze ...

  What on earth was he doing, ducking out early? He would almost certainly have benefited by meeting with the people Dubs had wanted to introduce him to. He was throwing away his good fortune. For fifteen years, he’d tried to work his way into the company of the great and the good, but a few days in Fraser Springs seemed to have stripped away all the polish he’d painstakingly applied to his manners. Doc and Nils hadn’t even known his real name, yet in one week he’d had more genuine conversations with them than he had ever had in Vancouver. Was it worth feeling like an imposter simply to get a chance to turn himself into a pale imitation of Dubs? To receive an invitation to the Orphans’ Aid Society Fundraising Gala?

  And then there was Jo. He thought about her, dreamed of her, caught himself staring at slim, auburn-haired women to see if they had her grey eyes. He’d made an effort to talk to the first few young ladies he’d been introduced to in Vancouver. But he’d quickly realized he was judging all of them against Jo, and none ever measured up. And how could they? Jo ran her own business. She could hold her own against any man, himself included. These girls seemed to think sitting through a single lecture or making dinner party small talk about the weather would impress him.

  He was checking off every item on his list of what success would look like, and it felt empty. He could buy that big house in the West End, but who would live in it with him? Lord, he had been so stupid. He had walked away from Jo, insulted her to her face. He couldn’t blame her for wanting nothing more to do with him; she hadn’t even acknowledged the window glass that he’d sent as a peace offering. He’d told her that he didn’t want to be pen pals, but even the most impersonal letter from her would have felt like a gift. Doc Stryker had warned him that she was proud and
protective of her independence, and he simply hadn’t listened. And now his life stretched out before him in an endless parade of roast beef dinners, smoky parlours, and ice cream shaped like swans.

  He was so distracted by these gloomy thoughts that he didn’t even notice that he had arrived back at the hotel. When he stopped at the front desk to get his key, the clerk handed him a stack of mail with Vancouver postmarks. His correspondence caught up with him in fits and starts on this tour. He flipped through the envelopes. A bill or two, some heavy stationery that obviously contained formal invitations of one kind or another, a packet from his clipping service ... and a long, thin envelope that bore her tidily handwritten name in the return address.

  The weariness of the day evaporated instantly. He practically ran up the stairs to his room, ripped open the envelope, and began to read.

  Dear Owen,

  As I write this, I am staring out the window you sent. It is so wonderful to have the parlour filled with light again. I don’t know how to thank you for such an extravagant gift.

  Your article has caused such a stir. Mrs. McSheen is reveling in her role in the whole affair. I half believe the rumour that she is having her letter to the editor engraved on a plaque. Business at the bathhouse has tripled, at least—you would laugh yourself silly to hear the polite city folk gushing about the “authentic wilderness experience” they are having. Doc Stryker will be offering his own “authentic wilderness experience” again soon, as the Society Ladies have been fundraising to rebuild his bar. I never thought I’d see the day.

  I am no good at these types of letters. Apologies have never been my strong suit. I am sorry, Owen. You accused me of cowardice, and I was so deeply offended. But you were right. After Albert died, I nearly lost everything. I sold my wedding ring. For two years I was a week away from bankruptcy. I know that I don’t have the courage to start from nothing again. So I panicked. I pushed you away.

  The window is the most beautiful, thoughtful gift that anyone has ever given me, and it makes me suspect that you listened when I tried to explain what’s important to me.

  You asked me if I needed you (even if you were an ass in the way you asked it). I’ve thought about very little except that question since you left. I understand that my life here is not the kind of life that you want for yourself, and I still don’t think I can bear to uproot myself, even for you. But I love you, Owen. You fill my thoughts, my dreams, and I’m half sick with wanting you to walk through my door again. I tried to explain it away as infatuation, but the fact is that I can no longer imagine sharing my life, my work, my bed with anyone except you.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting by sending this letter. Please write me back.

  Love,

  Jo

  Owen carefully folded the letter back up into thirds then unfolded it to read over again. He poured himself a drink then sat back down on the bed to read the letter a third time. Jo missed him. She thought about him all the time. She was swallowing her pride to tell him that she needed him after all. She loved him. He traced his fingers over the “I love you” inscribed on the paper. She’d actually written the words.

  His first instinct was to run the entire way to Fraser Springs in his shirtsleeves. But what would he do after he got there? Or at least, what would he do after he found Jo and kissed her senseless? Acting like an impulsive fool is what had spooked her in the first place. He needed to let her know that she could depend on him. He needed a plan.

  Late into the night, he scrawled dates and places and schedules and then crossed them out to begin again. Damn, the letter was already three weeks old. Time was not on his side, but estranging powerful people from Ottawa to Halifax by canceling the remainder of his tour didn’t make sense either. Just because Jo didn’t need him to be Vancouver’s Most Eligible Bachelor didn’t mean that he should throw the opportunity away completely. If he could turn this tour into another advance, he could arrive in Fraser Springs with a beautiful engagement ring in his pocket and enough money to last out the winter.

  Two more weeks until the tour was over. He’d be back in BC in time for Thanksgiving. He’d have to give notice to his landlady, settle his accounts at his favourite restaurants and shops, take a day or two to pack. He looked around the sparse hotel room. Strike that last one. Everything he needed was already waiting for him in Fraser Springs.

  Chapter 30

  Autumn was lovely in Fraser Springs. Jo and Ilsa hurried through one of the last items on the evening’s long list of tasks: repairing the pine garlands that festooned the bathhouse windows. They’d fallen during last night’s windstorm, and the wooden walkway outside the bathhouse was littered with green needles. With thirty guests arriving soon for their Thanksgiving party, everything had to look perfect. Already, the bathhouse smelled gloriously of roasting pork and wine mulled in cranberries, nutmeg, and cinnamon sticks.

  “Ouch!” Ilsa said. “You keep dropping these, and my hands are going to look like pincushions.”

  “Sorry,” Jo said, snapping out of her reverie enough to hoist the garland higher so that Ilsa could secure it to the window with a red bow.

  Ilsa sucked her sore thumb and shrugged. “Might send Nils for some cedar branches. They’ll smell lovely among the candles tonight.” She smiled. “Shall we also hang some mistletoe?”

  Jo smirked at her. “That’s Christmas, and you know it. And after all the work we’ve done scrubbing this place’s reputation, you want to bring the scourge of chaste kissing to our door?”

  Ilsa laughed. Her cheeks were pink from exertion, and the rich light of sunset falling on her blond ringlets made her look like she belonged in a church’s window or on a Valentine’s card. A small flurry of red and gold leaves spangled the air around the women. In winter, the hot springs would cast a haze about the town, smudging everyone’s silhouettes and wrapping the mountains in a thin gauze. The little shacks nestled in the hills would be invisible save for the wispy spires of smoke from their chimneys.

  “You got your eye on someone?” Jo teased. “I’ll be happy to hang the mistletoe on your account.”

  “In this town? Not unless a boatload of handsome strangers comes to our door tonight. Ah, well. I’ll hang it on the back porch where it won’t do much harm. Maybe it will still bring some luck, even if it’s out of season.”

  Off in the distance, the low hoot of the SS Minto announced its arrival. Ilsa stared towards the lake, trying to make out the ship.

  Jo touched her friend’s shoulder to retrieve her attention. “Come on. No time for daydreaming!”

  Together, they spent the next few hours preparing vast quantities of food, nestling the fragrant evergreen boughs among the candles, polishing the silver, and setting the good linens along the table. Soon, the sun was setting, and Jo went upstairs to change her outfit.

  Her one formal gown was pressed and lay on her bed. The emerald grosgrain silk had held up well in the years since her wedding. The dress had been a gift from Albert; it had arrived in a beribboned box tucked among layer after layer of tissue paper. It was the prettiest thing she had ever owned, and even now, she could recall the way Albert had looked at her as they’d stood at the altar.

  Jo undressed, then filled the basin with water. The warped mirror distorted the reflection of her body, lengthening and widening it depending on how she moved, but still she stared at herself, trying to see what Owen had seen. Cold air summoned goose bumps along her thighs, her arms, the tops of her breasts, coaxing up the fine hairs on her arms and legs, just as they had when she had stepped out of the pool and the water had sluiced off her and Owen had taken her in his arms and—

  Enough. She moved away briskly. No sense torturing herself with memories like that. She applied some scent behind her ears then laced her corset. It had been years since she’d worn one. The stays chafed against her own rib bones: the only good thing about wearing a corset was taking it off.

  Jo picked up the gown, surprised by its weight. She held it up to the window a
nd the emerald silk seemed to faintly glow, a stark contrast to the mist and the creeping darkness. After years of wearing serviceable, practical clothing, the crinolines and petticoats felt as heavy as pig iron as she put them on. Though she was glad to finally be in the good books of the Fraser Springs hostesses, she was not looking forward to an evening of trying to remember the dance steps of her youth while weighed down by an extra twenty pounds of dress.

  Cheer up. If the worst thing that happens to you is that you have to wear a pretty dress, you’re not that badly off, are you? No one was wrapping letters around bricks. No one was trying to run her out of town. She should at least try to greet the evening with a happy face.

  She practiced that happy face in the mirror. She fixed the smile with dash of colour from the rouge pot, pinched her cheeks, affixed the tortoiseshell comb to the side of her chignon, and studied the results. The dress smelled of the pine box it had been stored in, the scent reminding her of the woods she loved and the grotto that was her one safe place in the world. No, her life was not so bad. She had so much, and yet ...

  A knock at the door announced the first guest’s arrival. She gave herself one last inspection in the mirror and headed downstairs to greet her visitor.

  “Why hello, my dear, dear Mrs. Wilson!” Mrs. McSheen cried. Her dress had so many crinolines that she seemed to take up half of the dining room. As she walked, she listed side to side like a gigantic church bell. “A happy Thanksgiving to you! I know I’m the slightest bit early, but I wanted to come and make sure that you weren’t running into any difficulty. I should certainly know that hosting can be a challenge, especially with this many people. Why, when I threw my famous New Year’s party of ’07, people kept coming up to me and saying, ‘My dearest, I don’t know how you managed to pull it off without falling over from exhaustion.’”