The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  As his gaze stayed fixed on hers, it took every bit of confidence—and bravado—she had to lift her chin and smile at him.

  His eyes narrowed in a silent yet clear I know you are hiding something and I will discover what it is.

  “Zank you for ze offer, but no.” She breathed deeply, then focused on the bookshelf to distract her mind from his disturbing presence. The first book that caught her eye was William Shakespeare by Victor Hugo. She pulled it out. Her heart flipped. It was in French! But it was about Shakespeare. As much as Papa liked Hugo’s writings, Zoe’s own dislike for the English bard propelled her to put the book back.

  If Mr. Tandy had one book in French, surely he had more.

  She tipped her head back for a better look at the top shelf. Was that—? She eased onto her tiptoes, stretching her neck. It was! All twelve books of Jean de La Fontaine’s classic work Fables.

  Her heart pounding, Zoe glanced around for something to stand on. No ladder. No stool. She doubted the wooden crate could support her. The only option was the high-backed gold damask chair. Even if the bottom of her boots were clean, she could not stand on a chair. Doing so was gauche.

  Leaving without those books was unacceptable.

  She had no choice but to ask for help.

  From Mr. Gunderson.

  She pointed at the top shelf. “I would like to purchase ze books by Jean de La Fontaine. Ze red leather ones.” She lowered her arm.

  “It’ll be ten dollars.”

  “Per book?”

  “For the set.”

  The price was low. Almost an insult, actually. La Fontaine’s works were a reading staple for every French schoolchild.

  “I will take zem all.”

  “That’s a lot of money to throw away on something you can’t read.” He pushed off the railing and strode over to her, looking none too pleased to be helping.

  He was tall, as tall as Jakob, who was a foot taller than Zoe. She knew because Jakob had measured her after he refused to believe that she, in her stocking feet instead of her heeled boots, was exactly twelve inches shorter than his six foot, five inches. Mr. Gunderson seemed larger than his brother. No, not larger, because she had seen them side by side. More intimidating. More enveloping.

  More the type who, once he decided to marry, would toss the woman he was courting over his shoulder and carry her to the nearest justice of the peace.

  Miss Carline Pope would say that was so romantic.

  That would not be romantic. It was inconsiderate, and something Jakob, thankfully, would never do. He was patient, kind, good, gentle—

  Mr. Gunderson’s throat cleared.

  She looked up at him . . . and found herself struck mute. His eyes were as green as the valley north of town. The lovely flecks of brown in the center softened the green—like the barks of trees adding balance to a forest. Fitting because Mr. Gunderson was as unmoving and dependable as a tree.

  Dependable?

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded, her mind too confused to form words. She liked thinking of him as a man who could be relied on. Why? She disliked him as much as he disliked her.

  With little effort, he reached the books, then handed them to her one at a time, building a stack that caused her arms to stretch downward. He laid the last one on the top.

  Oof slipped from her lungs before she could stop it.

  “Heavy?”

  “A little, but I am stronger zan I look.” The book stack reached her chin and weighed down her arms. She hesitated and then, with what little courage she had, she looked up at him again. “Why are you like zis to me?”

  His gaze darkened. “You know why.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I need to protect my brother from a woman who isn’t what she claims.”

  Mr. Gunderson stood there and stared at Zoe as if he could see into her deepest secrets. He believed she was a liar, a schemer, and a fraud. He was a truly handsome man . . . who, sadly, had the bullish manners of a goat.

  This man—this arrogant brother of her suitor—would not get the better of her. She would wear him down with kindness and love until he welcomed her into his family.

  “You are wrong about me,” Zoe said softly.

  He grabbed the top book and flipped it open, turning the page to her. “Read. In English.”

  She looked to where he pointed. “‘A lion of great parents born, passing a certain mead one morn, a pretty peasant maiden spied, and asked to have her for his bride.’”

  “Continue.”

  Zoe resumed translating the lines. “‘Ze sire with dread ze lion saw, and wished a milder son-in-law. He was embarrassed how to choose, ’twas hard to grant, and dangerous to refuse.’ Why must I read zis to you?”

  “You’re good,” he said in a flat voice. “Polished, demure, with just the amount of naïveté for a man to find alluring. It’s only logical to believe you’re working with someone. I know about the boy.”

  “Ze boy?”

  “Nico.”

  Zoe tensed. He knew about Nico?

  “According to Alfred and Martha Deal, Nico’s your brother,” Mr. Gunderson continued. “You and I both know that’s a lie.”

  “I never claimed he was my brother.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Nico is a friend from New York. He traveled west with me.” She intended to leave her answer at that, but Mr. Gunderson stood still, gaze suspicious, clearly expecting her to create an elaborate lie. She, though, was not Nico. “He calls me his sister because, like me, he has no other family. We are both orphans.”

  “Have you told Jakob about him?”

  Zoe swallowed nervously. As long as Nico failed to visit The Import Company, she had no opportunity to introduce him to Jakob.

  Mr. Gunderson released a wry chuckle. “I can tell from your silence you haven’t.” He closed the book and added it to the stack. “You can have the collection and every book on these shelves if you will leave Helena. I’ll even buy you a ticket back to France.”

  “Is zis a bribe?”

  He flinched. “What?”

  “Like what Mayor Kendrick offers his political opponents so he can win.”

  “Who told you about him?”

  “Zat is inconsequential. Zat you wish to bribe me is shameful. How can people speak so highly of your character? It is abominable.” Emboldened by his gaping mouth, Zoe shoved the stack of books against him; one slipped and hit the floorboards. She scooped it up. “No man can purchase me,” she said and slapped the book on the stack. “I will meet you downstairs to make payment. Unless you are too self-righteous to take my money.”

  Zoe strolled to the table, grabbed the three McGuffey Readers and her reticule, and descended the stairs with her head held high. She was proud of not cowering before him. Mostly because she knew he was watching her walk away.

  Her lips curved. Oh, how wonderful it felt to best him!

  * * *

  Isaak followed the woman down the stairs, his arms weighted down with her pile of books. Unease prickled along his neck. She was buying English primers like someone who needed to learn a new language, had translated the first few lines of the French book without pause, and hadn’t blinked at the ten-dollar charge for purchasing the set.

  Which didn’t make sense.

  She should have struggled to understand the foreign words, hesitated when he named the high price tag, and stammered some excuse about how she didn’t have enough money with her but would be back later to collect them—with Jakob, of course, who would plunk down the funds on her behalf.

  Then there was Aunt Lily’s staunch patronage. She wasn’t one to be taken in by a pretty face or fine manners. She’d spent the last several weeks with Miss de Fleur yet continued to sing her praises.

  And just now, the woman had acknowledged that Nico wasn’t her brother. Not with a blush or any other evidence she was uncomfortable, but a straightforward explanation.

  Not the actions of a woman acting a part.<
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  If that weren’t enough, Mrs. Deal—whom Isaak had questioned extensively—had raved for a full twenty minutes about what a wonderful cook and teacher Miss de Fleur was. That and the return telegram from the culinary society in New York City confirmed that the woman told the truth about her father being a chef.

  Evidence on top of evidence that perhaps—perhaps—Miss de Fleur was telling the truth.

  Isaak reached the bottom step. He waited to see if she went to the counter to pay or to Aunt Lily to beg for money. To his surprise and dismay, Miss de Fleur not only went straight to the counter, she pulled money from the blue silk purse that matched her form-fitting bodice. She laid bank notes against the white-painted counter one by one until eleven dollars lay side by side.

  “Mr. Gunderson, you may keep ze extra quarter as my gratitude for carrying my books down ze stairs.” She gave him a cheerful smile before returning her attention to Emilia, who was gathering up the money.

  No, not cheerful. Something more impudent, except without defiance or rudeness.

  And there was something familiar about her smile, something that weakened his resolve to see her as nothing but his enemy.

  How can people speak so highly of your character? It is abominable.

  She wasn’t afraid of him or his inquiries, which only made sense if she was telling the truth. He wanted to reject the notion out of hand.

  “—listening to me?” Isaak heard his Aunt Lily’s voice the same moment he felt pressure on his forearm.

  He looked to his godmother. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?” Amazing how normal his voice sounded when his mind was vexed by a puzzle.

  “I was wondering if you still had that Minton china. Mrs. McCall looked in your ledger and saw no record of a sale, but we couldn’t find it in the storage room.”

  He set the books on the counter. “I have it in the back with inventory going to The Import Company.”

  Aunt Lily frowned. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve raised the price.”

  Isaak brushed his hands together to rid them of dust. “I’m sure we can work within your budget.” There wasn’t a more frugal woman in Helena than Aunt Lily. She entertained with great class without spending a fortune. Uncle Jonas said it was the reason he could contemplate the expense of running for a senatorial seat once Montana became a full-fledged state.

  Isaak snuck a look at Miss de Fleur. Ten dollars was a large sum to spend on books in a foreign language, except if she was telling the truth, then they were written in her native tongue. Was paying ten dollars for a set of twelve books frugal or wasteful?

  Miss de Fleur looked his way. Her lips curved again in that oddly familiar manner.

  Isaak tugged at his shirt collar and turned his full attention on his godmother. “Would you like to come to the back room and look at the china?”

  “I said as much, didn’t I?” She looked to the other two women, who nodded their confirmation.

  “I’m sorry. I—” He closed his lips over the rest of his apology. Admitting he was distracted by Miss de Fleur’s smile was unwise. “I’ll take care of Aunt Lily while you two finish up out here.” He stepped back to allow his godmother to precede him.

  Aunt Lily placed her hand on Isaak’s arm as they walked toward the storage room. “I hope you’ll still be coming on Saturday to discuss your campaign with Jonas. He’s enjoyed planning how to beat that awful Harold Kendrick.” She glanced around, as though looking for unseen listeners. “Losing the mayoral race to him—especially when Jonas knew Kendrick was bribing his way past a fair election—knocked more out of your godfather than he’ll admit.” She gave Isaak a significant look, one he interpreted to mean the information she’d shared was a secret between them.

  “I understand.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be forever grateful that Grover agreed to add a fourth territorial judgeship to Montana.” Her right cheek indented with a conspiratorial grin. “Just as I’ve never seen Jonas as devastated by losing that mayoral race, I’ve never seen him as elated as when he recounted Kendrick’s reaction when told the President of the United States was Jonas’s personal friend from when they were law clerks together in Buffalo, New York.”

  It had been a rather stunning revelation to everyone in Helena, except Hale, who could also recount stories of personal interactions with President Cleveland.

  “Now, about that china . . .”

  For the next five minutes, Isaak assisted his godmother with her purchase. The instant she and Miss de Fleur left the store, he retreated to his office, where the same moment played over and over in his mind.

  What was so familiar about that smile?

  He sucked in a breath. Miss de Fleur’s self-satisfied smile was just like the one Pa gave Ma on the rare occasions when he won an argument but was going to be gracious and not gloat.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Forsythe House

  Friday, late afternoon

  De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 28

  “What’s your strategy for dealing with Kendrick?”

  Isaak lifted the pencil off the journal page where he was jotting notes and looked across the desk between himself and his godfather. “Per Hale’s advice, I planned to wait and see if Kendrick did anything underhanded first. If he does—and if I can prove it—I’ll send proof to the papers.”

  “Hale is helping you with your campaign?” Uncle Jonas leaned forward and rested his forearms on the pinewood desk. Behind him was a wall of shelves from floor to ceiling, most of them filled with either law books or biographies of men he admired. “I thought Hale wasn’t interested in politics. At least that’s what he kept telling me last year, when I was pushing him to run for mayor. Has he changed his mind?”

  Isaak shook his head. “No, sir. However, he’s as concerned about Kendrick being mayor for another four years as the rest of us are.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Uncle Jonas grinned. “We’ll make a politician out of the boy yet.”

  Not if Hale didn’t want it—although Isaak wasn’t sure that was the case. Hale had offered his help as soon as Isaak declared he intended to run. The way Hale spoke, he’d be happy to be the mayor of Helena; he just didn’t want the hassle of campaigning. To someone like Uncle Jonas, who thrived on meeting people and persuading them to his point of view, Hale’s reluctance to put himself forward was a foreign concept. Uncle Jonas thought it was a weakness he could force out of Hale with enough pressure.

  His godfather usually had uncanny insight into people, but he underestimated Hale. Any man who could hold out against Yancey Palmer’s incessant pursuit had more resolve in his pinkie finger than most men had in their entire beings.

  The scent of baking bread wafted through the upstairs library.

  Uncle Jonas inhaled. “Miss de Fleur is helping your aunt prepare for Pauline Hollenbeck’s welcome-home breakfast tomorrow.”

  Isaak’s mouth watered at the yeasty smell. Next to sweets, he loved bread best. Based on the aroma alone, he could have saved himself the trouble of telegramming Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane in New York City to verify Miss de Fleur’s employment as a household cook. After overhearing Yancey tell Carline the name of Miss de Fleur’s high-society employer, Isaak had wired a telegram the following morning. A return telegram—one using a wasteful amount of words—arrived yesterday confirming Miss de Fleur’s employment and heaping praise on her skill as a chef.

  One more truth in a growing list of them.

  Isaak tapped his pencil against his journal. “I’m afraid I misjudged Miss de Fleur when she first arrived.”

  “In what way?” Uncle Jonas looked up from the notes he was writing.

  “I thought she was one of those women who pretended to be a mail-order bride to swindle money out of her gullible, would-be groom.”

  Uncle Jonas pursed his lips and nodded. “An assumption I shared, so I made a few inquiries to verify her story.”

  “As did I.”

  “A reasonable precaution. We
both know Jakob is the type to leap first and look later.” Uncle Jonas set his pen in its holder. A furrow deepened between his brows. “I’ll admit I like Miss de Fleur a great deal—and Lily adores her—but even though I’m fairly certain she’s telling the truth about herself, I’m not altogether convinced she’s the best match for Jakob.”

  Relieved that his godfather had spoken his misgivings first, Isaak said, “Yancey cautioned me that trying to separate Jakob from the woman he was falling in love with would be unwise.”

  “Yancey’s a smart girl.” Uncle Jonas speared Isaak with a meaningful look. “And she’s a born politician’s wife.”

  Isaak’s jaw sagged. “Are—are you suggesting . . . ?”

  “Married men are apt to win more votes.”

  Isaak searched his godfather’s face for some indication he was joking. No twinkle lit his gray eyes. No grin twitched the corners of his lips. “But she’s like a sister.”

  “Only she isn’t your sister.” Uncle Jonas placed his elbows on the desk and intertwined his fingers. “Marriage is about more than romantic feelings. It’s about building a life with someone who shares your goals and priorities.”

  The same thing Isaak had said to Yancey, or close enough to it. But marry Yancey?

  “Fact of the matter is,” Uncle Jonas continued while Isaak was still recovering, “Yancey and Hale are well-suited, although I doubt he’d consider it even if God appeared in a burning bush and ordered him to marry the girl.” He shook his head. “Your father was almost as stubborn when it came to marrying your mother.”

  Isaak set his pencil inside his journal and closed it. “May I ask you a rather personal question?”

  “Certainly.”

  Ever since hearing the story of how Uncle Jonas had proposed to his mother before she eventually chose his stepfather as her husband, Isaak had wondered something. “Did you ever regret my mother’s rejection?”

  “Of course I did.” Uncle Jonas scowled, as if the question was an insult. “Your mother’s a fine woman, and life in Montana was lonely at times. The Palmers and your parents did their best to include me, but evenings always ended with me going home alone.” He smiled slowly. “When I met Lily, everything changed. She could give me a look and I’d swear I knew what she was thinking.”