by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
Rather than returning it, the man had the gall to take a step away from her. “Might I glance through at a few more?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t. Some of my notes are”—she paused, searching for the right word—“personal. I know it looks like random sketches to you, but those pictures are more like a diary of my thoughts.”
His smile disappeared. “My apologies. I meant no intrusion.” He gave the scuffed-up book back. “Luke Edwards, from Montana. Pleased to make your acquaintance, though under less than favorable circumstances.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Edwards.” She gave him a polite nod and shook his outstretched hand with her ungloved one. “I’m sure the circumstances were unavoidable.” Sparks tingled in her palm at his touch. She glanced up, back at their clasped hands, and up again. Did he feel the energy, too? Retrieving her hand, she blurted out the first thing that popped into her head. “You don’t look like a frontier cowboy.” Brilliant observation. Could she take that comment back? “What brings you to the fair?”
“Not everyone in Montana is a cowboy, Miss Gilbert.” He pointed to the bench, offering to sit with her. “Perhaps you’d let me—” The wind curled its fingers and snatched through his dark hair, triumphing in glee as the gust grabbed the bowler off his head and tossed it a goodly distance into ship center. He pivoted to see where it’d blown off to and then back to Bettina. “Pardon me a moment.” For a man in a formal suit and starched collar, he dodged nimbly through the shuffling travelers as the boat anchored.
Bettina tried to hold back a grin. But watching the good-looking Montanan dive and resurface among the throng reminded her of a duck bobbing for fish, albeit unsuccessfully. She shouldn’t laugh at his misfortune. But there he was again, bopping up with a hand signal for one more moment. She couldn’t help herself. She giggled and pressed her fingers against her mouth. Their eyes connected. For a brief moment, she saw into his heart. Bettina knew something shifted in hers. She lowered her hand to wrap her waist where he’d held her from disaster, and realized she’d lost a glove. Peering around and under the bench, she couldn’t find it. She stood to search for her hero. Possibly he’d found it along with his hat? But Mr. Edwards had disappeared in the press of oncoming fairgoers, and she was pushed along the ship’s railing toward the gangway by the last rush of passengers.
Chapter 2
Hat in hand, thanks to a quick-acting fellow, Luke searched for a dark purple velvet hat with matching ostrich plumes and a white blouse in the shoulder-to-shoulder sea of humanity moving off the ship. If he didn’t find her now, the possibility of getting to know Miss Bettina Gilbert over one of those novel carbonated sodas shrank exponentially on the six-hundred-plus acre grounds. She’d had a navy-blue jacket over her arm to match her skirt. Possibly she’d donned it?
Straining to see ahead, he slid on a small object along the wooden deck. Picking it up, he saw the pitifully dirt-laden lace resembled a rag more than an expensive ladies’ accessory. At the very least, should he find Miss Gilbert, he could gallantly return her missing glove. Ladies spent a lot of money on custom gloves. Perhaps she could salvage the pair by dyeing them in tea? Reason enough for pocketing it.
The fact she fascinated him, and wasn’t one of the many chosen by his overly helpful self-appointed matchmakers, propelled him to weave in and out of the queue until they closed ranks at the narrow departure point. “Excuse me.” He zigged into an opening. “Pardon, if you don’t mind.” He zagged into another break between bodies until he’d made it down both sets of outer stairs.
At the top of the gangway platform, he caught sight of a purple blur bouncing a few feathers at the entrance to the moving walkway. As it had yet to operate, she skirted the construction with the sway of the crowd—and then, shorter than most, she was gone as if swallowed by a wave. Luke inched forward toward escape from the suffocation of shoulders, umbrellas poking at him, and the heat of so many bodies squashed in too small a space.
On the pier, still navigating the narrow boardwalk, the crowd parted, thinning at the harbor Peristyle as they accessed the fair’s sidewalk system. Surely a proper miss would avoid the casino. But her sketches of the architecture? Maybe she wanted a closer look.
Luke threaded through the massive columns acting as the entrance gate, searching up and down the rowed arches. Not a hair. He hightailed it to the highest point of the nearby footbridge spanning the first man-made lagoon, centerpiece for the Court of Honor. With dozens of people passing over, he stopped and scanned as far through the fair walkways as he could for the enchanting Miss Gilbert and her distinctive purple plumes. No luck. She’d vanished into the vast opening-day masses. Evidently God had other plans in mind for his potential wife, if He planned one at all. Would You mind, Lord, if I—
“Mr. Edwards, did you manage to acquire the chairs and bring them back?” Mrs. Lydia Fitch asked. The lady’s sister lived near downtown Chicago and had sold the Montana women antique replacements for two broken pieces of exhibit furniture. With the state’s contingent working together, though spread throughout several buildings and varying exhibits, he’d agreed to oversee the shipment after the disastrous arrival of a smashed crate. Though why he couldn’t meet the ship at the dock escaped him.
In the mass arrivals, he couldn’t find a trace of Miss Gilbert, while the woman who’d made a top project out of his matrimonial status could find him in a wink. Though only receding thunder from the morning’s rainstorm, Luke distinctly felt the heavens laughing. You do have a sense of irony, don’t You, Lord?
Luke plastered on a patient smile. “Yes, ma’am, I did. I’ll have the chairs off-loaded and brought over once the harbor master clears them.” Truth be told, he enjoyed all the fuss the ladies made over him. They’d adopted him as if he were a favored nephew when they learned he wanted to come to Chicago and find a wife. The male to female ratio back home leaned heavily against him, regardless of his business success and ownership of both a silver and a copper mine. But a little less zeal wouldn’t be amiss. Somehow he hadn’t been able to impress on the Montana ladies that he was perfectly capable of finding his own wife.
“We do need a respite for weary attendees and a comfortable sitting area for those watching after our work in the pavilion salon.”
He chanced another scan of the grounds over Mrs. Fitch’s head. Well, not if pretty prospects kept disappearing.
She followed his gaze. “Are you looking for someone in particular or admiring the view?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and gave his attention to Mrs. Fitch.
Without a hitch, she turned back and continued. “Were you taken with my niece? She’s had quite the successful debut. The young men are lining up. I’m sure I could put in a good word for you with her parents.”
“Uh, I didn’t realize—” The very tender girl in question seemed more interested in needlework than discussion. She might be a bit youthful for his twenty-nine years. But then he’d thought the reason for the trip into the city had to do with replacing chairs for the botanical exhibit. He surely should have known better where Mrs. Fitch was concerned. He could be convinced to meet the pretty girl again. Wait. Botanical … botanist … if Miss Gilbert’s interests drew her to the Montana flora, then he might find her there. Though he had no idea if she came for the day or if she’d return frequently through the summer. Was she even a Chicagoan? Luke’s mouth went dry. What if she came from another country? His search could be enormously more difficult.
Mrs. Fitch tapped his elbow. “Would you like me to formally introduce you?”
“Yes.” An international bride might take more logistics but not unreasonable ones. Wait. Introduce him to whom? He gulped. “What?” In the few weeks since they’d arrived to set up their agricultural and mining displays, his several supporters were championing his marital opportunities with such fervor that they’d begun a daily habit of scouting every available lady working anywhere nearby. Some aware and some curiously clueless to the machinations of his determ
ined “aunts.” Evidently the mission was to first determine his interests. They might be more successful if they’d simply listen to him. He liked a woman with a strong personality who knew her mind. Any other might not be prepared for his home farther out on the range than in the city. Helena was very modern, but he wouldn’t have the miracle of electricity for a while yet, regardless of owning a copper mine. His self-appointed matchmakers had their own ideas of what a perfect counterpart looked like, and so far it hadn’t yet agreed with his. Was he searching for the impossible?
“I’ll invite Janey to see one of your talks.”
The Mining and Mineral building should have been far enough away from the Woman’s building to deter such regular romps through his day, but they had him outnumbered. It almost seemed as if they had assigned shifts. “But—”
“You can tell her all about our silver Lady Justice statue. Just leave out the part that she’s modeled after that hussy actress from New York, will you? Why they couldn’t use one of our lovely Montana ladies as the model …” She shook her head then brightened at her decision. “Yes, that’ll be a good start.”
“Mrs. Fitch—” If it hadn’t been frenzied enough, opening day seemed to set off a race to be the lady who found Luke Edwards a wife that was almost as important as whether they’d out-win the men in medals.
“No, no need to thank me. We promised to bring home a bride for you, and that’s quite what we’ll do.”
He stopped searching the distance and turned to look at his doting friend. Was there a competition going on? If he didn’t find a wife first, he might be trampled by the sweetest, most well-intentioned cupids, with Mrs. Fitch, Mrs. Moore, and Mrs. McAdow in a three-way tie for the lead. Who said women weren’t competitive?
“You know, it’d be so lovely to have family around. You might be quite taken with Janey once you get to know the little angel. She’s quite talented and would make quite the perfect wife for a success-oriented young man like yourself, if you’re looking for a smart match. You are truly looking for an accomplished homemaker, aren’t you?” She didn’t seem to breathe between sentences. The opposite of her shy niece.
Quiet. Contemplative. That personality might do well with his, but he still needed to feel an attraction. The moment or two he’d waited in the sunroom with Janey could hardly tell the full story. Neither had been aware the meeting was contrived for their benefit. At least he wasn’t.
“I’ve heard of young men sowing their wild oats. I’m sure that’s not you. Though you haven’t really shown much interest in the few you’ve met thus far. Janey, now, she’s quite a girl, don’t you think?”
He couldn’t help it, the word seemed to have been planted in his skull. “Quite.” He nodded. “Mrs. Fitch, you haven’t set up a contest between you all?”
“A contest? Why, what foolishness. No, the only contest I know of is to see who gets more medals, the men or the women.” She tapped his arm with her folded fan. “That wouldn’t be happening, either, if those lummoxes hadn’t crowed they’d bring home the most and only given us ten percent of the budget. And how is that going for the men, Mr. Edwards?”
A tiny purple speck caught his attention in the distance against the backdrop of a white wall like an iris rising from a late winter snow. Luke squinted against the bright sunshine. How had she managed to get that far ahead?
At this point, he had a choice to make. Let go of the first girl who’d captured his interest or indulge his curiosity about the adorably humble botanist-not-artist with olive-green eyes, a shapely figure, and the prettiest smile he’d ever seen. “Mrs. Fitch, would you excuse me?”
“Certainly.” Her words trailed behind him. “Shall I see you with the chairs—”
“Yes, this afternoon sometime.” He dashed north, in the direction of the state buildings. “Miss Gilbert! Bettina Gilbert!”
Chapter 3
Bettina toured several state manors filled to the brim with displays of every kind touting their local prides and products before entering the exhibits in the Woman’s building. The incredible size of this one building could easily take her the day if she gave each pavilion its due. Talented women around the country shared their art, inventions, and business endeavors. Basics like clothing design, gardening, and canning had a spot as well. With daily awards in progress, a jar of peaches already had its pretty blue ribbon proudly placed center front in Georgia’s booth. Corn and wheat throughout the cavernous structure held the most ground from states like Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska.
A few new growth records intrigued her, as did the artistically displayed farming achievements hanging on walls and in specially built presentations kiosks. The grains and grasses, whether woven or glued, portrayed everything from mosaics to decorative rope to corn husks twisted into rose bouquets. An ear of corn from Iowa could feed two people! Every so often, she sketched ideas to reference in her talk during the congresses next month. When had the world birthed innovation any more than now? She hadn’t even been inside the largest building Mr. Edwards mentioned. His fine-looking face sprang to mind, and she scanned the area. Silly. She’d met him all of twice in the space of an hour. It would take a week to explore those exhibits she’d planned to see, let alone all those not on her list. A man was not on her list. Even one as extraordinarily heroic and handsome as Mr. Luke Edwards.
Bettina straightened her shoulders and continued through the building’s magnificent offerings. She rounded another corner and took in the beautifully designed scientific botanical display the Chicago Tribune publicized as being created with precise classifications by the Montana women and a “not-to-miss” exhibit. Did he work this huge stall? A building inside a building, more accurately. Bettina slowed her pace and searched the faces around the area as well as inside the display salon.
Montana’s new botanical discoveries proved fascinating. Ten frames hung on an immense carved and polished wood pillar; books filled with seeds and pressed flora lounged on stands, and some on a highly polished table. Braided grain stalks and weavings covered the pavilion walls. The assortment of pinecones and the decorative arrangement showed the skill of florists as well as interior designers. Another ten frames of beautifully preserved wildflower bouquets, with a card noting Emil Starz as the preparer, fashioned an impressive visual of the variety and scope found in the mountainous region. She wanted to see this wild country in person. Blue eyes and dark hair flashed into her thoughts yet again. If only he knew how often in the last few hours she’d been disappointed not to find him in the crowd. Statistically speaking, an irrational hope. Though didn’t the statistics rise around his home state exhibits? How had a chance meeting taken over her mental processes? She blinked rapidly. Her parents would never approve.
Bettina touched the edge of a book to admire the seed-to-flowering phases, pressed and pinned in order of each stage as recorded by a Mrs. Jennie Moore. Every entry in perfect systematic order from kingdom to species, just as the article foretold. An occasional watercolor recorded a shrub or a leaf on a page representing a plant too large to put in the book. Unlike much of the vegetation in Illinois and the surrounding states, she’d not encountered several of the Rocky Mountain species before. The small Lewisia rediviva, known informally as the bitterroot flower, was not only beautiful but edible? She filed that tidbit into her journal with a quick line drawing and notation. How wonderful to walk among the fresh discoveries of the frontier. Probably the closest she’d get, knowing Mama’s feelings on how far Chicago was from Cleveland already.
“You would think he was smitten!” one well-dressed woman said to a small nearby group. They all wore matching black skirts and ornately embroidered white blouses with ruffled high-neck collars. A banner, in the colors of the new state flag, draped shoulder to hip embroidered in yellow-gold thread with the state name. The Montana women aimed to impress and were doing a good job of it, too, in their opening-day costumes.
Bettina perused the woven wall hangings, inhaling the earthy scent of grain and the v
arious grasses. The decorative presentation kept her mind wrestling with the longing to see it all in its natural habitat—until snippets of the nearby chat showered her with accidental gossip.
“Lydia, he hasn’t shown a bit of interest in any particular girl yet. None of us has uncovered the most likely candidate. Your Janey still has as much chance of landing him as any other girl at this point.”
“I do believe I heard him calling out to a Miss Gert or Bert … possibly Stuart.” The woman, Lydia, apparently, tapped a gloved finger against her cheek. “I’m sure I heard the name Serena. What do you suppose running after someone like that could mean otherwise? He’s smitten, I tell you.” She waggled that gloved finger at her friends. “Ladies, your duty to our poor, single Mr. Edwards is to find this Serena Stuart. His happiness may depend on it.”
Oh dear, that poor Mr. Edwards would find himself married, whether he liked it or not, soon enough if these ladies had their way. He was both charming and heroic. Bettina touched her hand to her waist where he’d held her from falling. Whoever he chose would be a fortunate girl.
Lydia nodded. “Yes, that’s the name. I’m sure of it. Though it makes me heartbroken that Janey may get passed over by such an eligible bachelor. She’s quite a catch, you know, for any of our Helena millionaires. He’d be a lucky man to have her.”
“They’d make a lovely couple,” another woman agreed.
Bettina sneaked a quick glance at Lydia. She seemed genuinely disappointed her niece hadn’t yet impressed this revered saint of a man. Mr. Edwards appeared to have earned admiration from those who knew him well—and one who didn’t, if she admitted the truth.
Several other ladies, evidently friends, bobbed their heads in agreement while tsk-tsking Mr. Edwards’s lack of taste. One said, “We’ll simply have to help him see her virtues so he doesn’t dismiss her lightly. But our promise is to help Mr. Edwards come home with a bride by the end of summer. I would truly hate to fail such a wonderful man after we all agreed to help. If I were only twenty years younger.”