Mail-Order Bride Switch

by Dorothy Clark

  “The fee is one dollar and a half per night. When they pay they are assigned a room, their money is placed in the till on the shelf under the counter, and they are given the key to their room. The keys are there.” He pointed behind the desk to numbered cubbyholes holding keys. “Duplicate keys are in my office—through that door under the stairs.”

  “Your office also has a door from the hall in your private quarters.”

  “Yes. It’s convenient to be able to enter or exit from either side. Now...any additional charges for the guest are noted beside their name in the ledger, and a note specifying the charge is placed in their box. Also, any messages they may receive during their stay are placed in their boxes. This—” he turned a small leather folder her way “—contains all of the other services offered by the hotel along with their costs.” His lips lifted into that wry smile that was so contagious it pulled the corners of her own mouth upward. “You’ll note there are few at the moment.”

  She glanced at the list of services, her mind playing with an idea. Perhaps she could act as a hostess. She was skilled at that. She had performed that service for her father often.

  Hotel

  Meals served in your room: 5 cents

  Checking daily for telegrams or posts: 1 cent

  Maid service—bed made, rooms swept or dusted: 2 cents per service

  Fresh towel: 3 cents

  Dining Room

  Breakfast served at six-thirty

  Dinner served from twelve o’clock until three o’clock

  Supper served from six o’clock until eight o’clock

  Meals: 50 cents

  Extra dessert: 5 cents

  “I’ll show you the upstairs rooms later. That way...” He motioned her toward the stairs, which turned and ran a short distance to an arch in the opposite wall.

  Her breath caught. Her fingers twitched. She stopped and stared. Close to the front corner of the room stood an upright Steinway piano. A padded settee and several chairs were clustered around the instrument.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “What? Oh, no. It’s only...do you play the piano?”

  “Not so anyone would want to hear.” His eyebrow lifted, his gaze fastened on hers. “Do you play?”

  She tipped her head and answered him in kind. “Well enough that people like to listen.”

  He chuckled, a low masculine rumble that made her smile. “Good. You’ll be able to entertain our guests.”

  At last, something she could do to repay him for her escape from Emory Gladen. The cost of the ticket and the money she had used weighed heavily on her. The tension across her shoulders lessened.

  “This hallway leads to the guests’ dressing room—” he gestured toward the door at the end of the hall on their right “—and two guest bedrooms. These are the rooms I want ready in case any passengers decide it’s too dangerous to travel farther and choose to stay overnight.” He opened the doors. “I tended the fires earlier. You’ve only to make up the beds and set out the towels in the dressing room. You’ll find the linens in the cupboard in the hall. I’ve got to finish shoveling. Oh, and when you finish the rooms, you’ll find beef stew in the refrigerator to be heated for dinner.”

  She stared after him, wanting to tell him she didn’t know how to make a bed or cook. But the thought of the anger that shadowed his face and eyes whenever he mentioned Millie held her silent. What if he annulled their strange marriage? She had nowhere to go. And she was indebted to him for the ticket and money she had used.

  Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t helpless. Surely she could make a bed. She would worry about the cooking later.

  She opened the cupboard in the hall, stared at the shelves piled with sheets and blankets and pillowcases. She closed her eyes and thought about her bed at home, then filled her arms with the items she needed and carried them to bedroom number one. She dropped them onto the seat of a chair and faced the bed. What did Millie do?

  Tears welled again. So did her anger. One thing was for certain—Millie didn’t cry. Was her maid more capable than she? Of course not! It was only a matter of applying oneself. She blinked the tears away, pulled the coverlet off the bed and tossed it over the chair back. First she needed a sheet for the guest to lie on. She pulled one from the pile, laid it on the bed and unfolded it. It was too big. She folded the extra length out of her way at the bottom, but that did not work on the sides; they simply fell down. She let them hang, and unfolded the second sheet on top of the first and repeated the process.

  It looked quite good.

  She smoothed out every crease and wrinkle, unfolded and placed two blankets on top of the sheet. A smile curved her lips. This wasn’t so difficult. She stuffed the pillow into the case, remembered Millie pummeling hers, and punched and fluffed it. The blue-and-white coverlet finished her job.

  She stood back and examined her work. There was not a wrinkle showing anywhere. She let out a long, relieved sigh and hurried to the cupboard in the hall to get the linens for bedroom number two.

  * * *

  Garret stomped the snow from his boots, wiped them on the rag rug and hurried across the lobby. Finally, he was through shoveling for possible guests. With all the narrow connecting paths, the town looked like a rabbit warren. But at least people could get around. He opened the door to his private quarters and froze. Smoke! He bolted for the kitchen.

  “Oh...oh...” Virginia stood in front of the stove waving a towel through the air. Smoke billowed and curled from a large pot sitting on the front burner plate. The smell of burned stew mingled with the stringent odor.

  He leaped forward, snatched the towel from her hands and lifted the pan off the hot surface.

  “Oh!” She whirled around, bumped into him and rebounded toward the stove.

  “Careful!” He grabbed her with his free hand, pulled her against him and backed toward the sink, bringing her with him. He set the pan in the sink and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed out and covered the burned stew. The pot hissed. The smoke stopped. He looked down into her watering eyes. Tears? Or stinging smoke? “What happened?”

  “I—I don’t know.” She placed her hands against his chest and pushed away. “I—I put wood in the stove, then found the refrigerator and the stew in it.”

  She found the refrigerator?

  “I put the stew in a pan and was heating it as you asked. I stirred it with a big spoon the way I’ve seen Martha do, but it started bubbling and splashing out of the pan.” Her eyes watered more.

  Tears. He held back a frown and waited for her to finish her explanation. “Some landed on my hand and I went to wash it off and put lotion on it. When I came back the stew was burning and smoking, and I couldn’t make it stop.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t know which was more pathetic, the way she looked or her story. “Who is Martha?” He had a sinking feeling he knew the answer before she spoke.

  “Our cook.”

  “And Millie helped her in the kitchen.”

  “Yes. Garret—”

  He shook his head, set his jaw and looked at the scorched mess in the pot. There went the possibility of stew for today’s dinner or supper for any guests...or them. “We’ll talk later. First I’ll...” He lifted his head, looked toward the sitting room. “There’s the bell. I have a guest.” He looked down at his rough clothes and scowled. “The way I’m dressed, it would be best if you register him and show him to his room to make certain everything is satisfactory. Can you do that?” She seemed capable of that much.

  She straightened, brushed back a curl that had fallen free to dangle in front of her ear. “Yes.”

  “All right then. I’ll tend to the fireplace, to stay close in case you need my help.” He snatched up the towel he’d dropped and handed it to her. “Wipe your
cheeks and eyes.” The bell rang again. He waved her forward and hurried through the sitting room after her, hoping he wasn’t making another mistake in trusting her to handle the guest. He eyed her golden-brown curls falling from her crown to her shoulders, the way her expensive gown fitted her slender form, and the graceful way she moved even when she hurried. She certainly looked the part of a successful businessman’s wife. But he needed help, and there was no one to hire. Maybe she could learn.

  He opened the door and Virginia swept through it, her long skirts floating across the floor. She smiled as she moved behind the desk. His pulse skipped. He’d never seen her look so composed, so capable, so... beautiful.

  “May I help you, madam?”

  Madam. He’d assumed the guest was a man. He stepped into the lobby, glanced toward the woman standing in front of the desk. The woman looked his way and stared. Great. He probably had soot from the pan on his face. And his clothes! He sure didn’t look like a successful hotel owner.

  “Madam?” Virginia’s soft voice called the woman’s attention back to her.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, I—” The woman covered her mouth with her gloved hand, coughed. “I’d like a room, please.”

  He strode to the fireplace and squatted to add wood to the fire and scrape at the ashes. He’d clean up as soon as he’d shoveled the snow from the back porch.

  “Would you like a room here on the first floor, madam? It’s very convenient to the sitting area and the dining room. But if you would prefer a room upstairs, that can be arranged, also.”

  What was Virginia doing? He’d told her to assign the two down—

  “The downstairs room sounds convenient.” The woman coughed again, cleared her throat. “I’ll take it.”

  “Wonderful.” Virginia smiled and turned the register around. “Sign your name and write your address here, please.”

  “I don’t have an address at the moment. I’ve been traveling.”

  Traveling? The woman didn’t look that prosperous. Her cloak and hat were worn. So was the old carpetbag sitting on the floor at her feet. Of course, he didn’t look like a hotel owner in the clothes he had on.

  “No matter. Just write ‘traveling.’”

  He sneaked a look over his shoulder at Virginia. She was doing a good job handling the registration. He glanced back at the woman, noted the awkward angle of her hand while she signed in.

  “And how long will you be staying with us, Mrs. Fuller?”

  “I don’t know. It depends...on the weather. At least two nights.”

  “That will be three dollars, please.”

  The woman ducked her head, pulled the reticule from her wrist. There was the dull clunk of coins hitting against one another.

  “Here you are.”

  “And here is your key. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room, Mrs. Fuller. I’ve put you in room number two. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”

  The woman bent and reached down.

  He stood, shook his head, gestured at the bag, then pointed to himself.

  Virginia gave a small nod of understanding. “Leave your bag, Mrs. Fuller. It will be brought to your room.”

  He waited until she stepped out from behind the counter and led the woman to the short hallway off the lobby, then moved to the desk and picked up the woman’s bag.

  “The sign says the Stevenson Hotel. Is that the proprietor’s name? I always think it’s nice when people call their businesses by their name.”

  The woman’s quiet voice floated out of the hall. He stepped to the edge of the arched opening and waited for them to enter bedroom number two.

  “Yes, it is. My husband is Mr. Stevenson.”

  Husband. His heart jolted. He’d never wanted that word applied to himself.

  “Here we are. This is your room, and that is the dressing room. You will share it with the occupant of room number one, if I rent it out tonight.”

  Good! Virginia had thought to tell the guest about the dressing room. He hurried forward, stepped into the bedroom doorway. “Madam’s bag.” He set the patched carpetbag on the floor and backed out.

  “What a lovely room.”

  He paused to listen, pleased by the woman’s approval.

  “I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed that doesn’t rock back and forth beneath me.”

  The bed springs squeaked.

  “I’m sure you’ll find it quite comfortable. I’ll—I’ll send someone by later to tend the fire.”

  It was the first time Virginia had hesitated. His fault. He should have told her—

  “No need, my dear. I see there’s a coal box. And I’ve been tending fires all of my life. But I’m afraid there is a problem with the bed. It’s...undone.”

  Undone! He’d told her—

  “I’m so sorry. Let me fix it for—”

  The door closed, shutting off Virginia’s voice. Fix it! What—? He stared at the knob, clenched and unclenched his hands, then spun on his heel. He stalked to his office, strode straight through it to the door that led to the hall by their bedrooms, and yanked it open. Three long strides took him to her bedroom door. He opened it, stared at the quilt in a pile on the bare mattress. The woman couldn’t even make a bed!

  He drew a deep breath, clamped his lips closed on the words scorching his tongue and strode back down the short hall. Going back to the guest’s room would only make things worse. And he hadn’t time. The woman would expect dinner to be served and, thanks to his bride, the stew he’d prepared was an inedible burned lump! He’d have to apologize to the woman, go to her room and make her bed while she was eating her midday meal. If he could even feed her! He was no cook.

  He stomped through the sitting room into the kitchen, grabbed the ruined panful of burned stew out of the sink and threw it out the back door with all his fury propelling it. He watched it arc into the air, then stared at the dark hole in the snow where it landed.

  If only he could get rid of his bride as easily! He wanted no part of her! Even if she was beautiful. If it weren’t for that contract...

  He left the door open to get rid of the smell and headed for the pantry. He had to find something to feed his hotel guest. It would have to be cold food. He had no time to make more stew.

  And his bride would be of no help. That was certain. He’d be better off with a cookbook!

  Chapter Four

  Please don’t let her leave on the next train out of town, Lord! Virginia turned from the door she’d hastily closed and faced the guest. “I’m sorry your bed isn’t properly made, Mrs. Fuller. I’m afraid I—” she took a breath and threw herself on the woman’s mercy “—I’m to blame. We are only just married and Garret doesn’t know that I can’t make beds or...anything.” She straightened under the woman’s stare. “But I will learn.”

  Mrs. Fuller nodded, placed her fisted hands on the mattress and pushed up from the bed. “There’s no maid?”

  She shook her head, hurried to the side of the bed and pulled off the covers and sheets. “Whisper Creek is only coming into being. Garret says there is no one in town to hire.”

  “I see...”

  She glanced from Mrs. Fuller’s back to her reflection in the mirror. The thin, lined face was pensive, and one hand fiddled with the cuff of a glove. Was the woman trying to decide if she would stay or go back to the depot and wait for the next train? Her stomach knotted. If Mrs. Fuller left, Garret Stevenson would likely pack her and her belongings off to the station, as well. She yanked a sheet from the pile of linens she’d tossed on a chair and spread it on the bed, but could think of nothing to do with the extra length except fold it out of the way at the bottom as she’d done before. Her situation was hopeless. She couldn’t do this work! Tears welled.

  Mrs. Fuller’s long skirts rustled and her boot heels clicked against the floor.

 
Her stomach sank. The woman was leaving. She blinked away her tears and squared her shoulders.

  “Not that way, dear. Like this...”

  She stared, rendered speechless as Mrs. Fuller stepped to the other side of the bed, took hold of the top edge of the sheet and tugged. The fabric unfolded.

  “Now center the sheet so there is extra length all around—at the top and bottom and sides.”

  She swallowed back a fresh spate of tears at the woman’s kindness, grabbed hold of the sheet and copied Mrs. Fuller’s actions. “But what do I do with all of this extra fabric?”

  “Have you ever wrapped a present?”

  “Yes, of course. But...” She stared at the bed, then looked up at the woman standing across from her. “You’re saying I should wrap the mattress?”

  The blue eyes fastened on her warmed. “Exactly. Let me show you.”

  She could have hugged the woman. “How very kind of you.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I’m happy to help. First, you tuck the extra length of sheet at the top between the mattress and the one beneath it that rests on the ropes.” Mrs. Fuller slid her arm under the top mattress, lifted it, then used her other arm to sweep the extra linen between that mattress and the one beneath it. She copied the older woman’s actions on her side of the bed.

  “Good! Now, we go to the bottom of the bed, pull the sheet nice and tight, then tuck it under as we did at the top. And then we’ll do the same on the sides.” Mrs. Fuller edged along between the bed and the wall smoothing the sheet with one hand and tucking it under the mattress with the other.

  She glanced over at the wrinkle-free linen on Mrs. Fuller’s side of the bed, frowned down at her side. “What did you do at the corners? Mine are all puckered.”

  “I folded them—like you do on a present.” The older woman came to her side and demonstrated.

  “Oh. I see.” She fixed the other corner, slid her palm over the perfectly smooth sheet and smiled. “And I do the top sheet and blankets the same way?”

  “Yes, except you tuck all of the extra length under at the bottom.”

  She nodded and spread the other sheet over the bed. Making it even with the edge of the mattress at the top, she tucked the extra length under at the foot of the bed. Satisfaction surged when Mrs. Fuller nodded and smiled. She reached for a blanket.