The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  Isaak jerked his attention to the road.

  She inched a little closer to his side of the bench. “You cannot allow yourself to have fun. I wonder why zat is.” Isaak opened his mouth to answer, but she waved him away. “No, no. Keep your secret, Mr. Gunderson. Ze bicycle is for ze Wiley children, yes?”

  “It was in a wagonload of secondhand goods I bought.”

  “Ze people of Helena are blessed to have you. I would vote for you for mayor if I could.” She patted his arm. “You will win ze election. I know it.”

  “Thank you.” He scooted farther away, her presence and touch too tempting for his peace of mind.

  They sat in silence as Isaak turned the wagon onto the road to his parents’ first home, Honeymoon Cottage, as Ma called it. His parents would adore Miss de Fleur.

  “What do you do when you are unsure if you have made ze correct decision?”

  “Pray. Talk to my parents.” In the last year, he’d mostly sought counsel from—“Uncle Jonas is a wise man. You could talk to him or Aunt Lily. They love you like you’re their daughter.”

  “If I talk to zem, zey may blame . . .” She sighed. “Ze fault is not one person’s. I could not bear to have zem zink ill of him. But I feel sadness here”—she laid a hand over her heart—“and I know ze cause, but I fear I have not ze courage to do what I know I should.”

  Isaak tensed. This was about the courtship contract. It had to be. His heart pounded against his chest. “Is this about Jakob?”

  She nodded. “I bore him. Next to Yancey and Carline, I am as bland as a flapjack. They know how to carry a conversation. They know how to make him laugh. I have not heard his laughter in days, not since I gave him ze jar of pralines.” She sat still, not fidgeting, the blink of her eyes the only movement. “Zere are nineteen days left on ze contract.”

  And eight days from now was the welcome-home dinner for Ma and Pa that Jakob had talked her into catering—now a mere day after they arrived home because, according to the telegram Geddes delivered a few hours ago—Pa had sprained his ankle and needed time to recoup before traveling.

  Isaak waited for Miss de Fleur to say she planned to end the contract before she was obligated to cook for the welcome-home dinner.

  She said nothing.

  “And?” he prodded.

  “My spirit is torn asunder. You are right to point out I am cooking your parents’ welcome-home dinner.”

  “I didn’t mention the welcome-home dinner.”

  She frowned at him. “You did not?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, I know it is what you were zinking. To end ze courtship contract before ze sixty days are over would be unkind to Jakob. He would feel crushed. I must carry zis burden, for I cannot lay it on him.” She patted Isaak’s arm again. “Zank you for being a good friend and giving me advice about what I should do about your brother. I feel better now.”

  At least one of them did.

  * * *

  Zoe could not be sure how long they sat in companionable silence. It lasted until Mr. Gunderson stopped in front of a one-story house. Unlike the other ramshackle houses they’d visited, this one looked freshly whitewashed and had not a missing shingle or broken board. And the flowers—from what she could see—sprung along three sides of the house.

  Mr. Gunderson jumped out of the wagon and made his way to the back to unload the bicycle. “Well?” he said, looking her way.

  Zoe swiveled on the seat. She stepped to the edge of the wagon bed. In one gentle swoop, he placed her on the ground. She gripped the handlebars. He carried the food crate as she rolled the bicycle toward the house.

  The door opened the moment they reached the porch.

  “Mr. Gunderson!” exclaimed an auburn-haired girl, possibly six or seven years old. Her gaze shifted to Zoe. “Who are you?”

  “Olivia Jane,” scolded her mother. Mrs. Wiley leaned back inside the house. “Boys, Mr. Gunderson is here.”

  Within seconds, three redheaded boys surrounded Zoe and the bicycle.

  “Is this for us?” asked the oldest.

  “Sure is,” answered Mr. Gunderson. He then looked at her. “Miss de Fleur, let me introduce you to Alexander, Dante, Olivia—whom you’ve already met—and Thaddeus Wiley. Children, this is Miss de Fleur, a friend of mine and Jakob’s. Miss de Fleur is from France.”

  Each child shook her hand and muttered polite nice-to-meet-yous before their attention returned to the bicycle. Soon an argument commenced over who would get to learn to ride first.

  Zoe touched Mr. Gunderson’s arm, drawing his attention. “Would you like to show zem while I help Mrs. Wiley with ze food?”

  A chorus of please rang out.

  He shook his head. “Not today. I need to return Miss de Fleur to the boardinghouse.”

  All four children turned their pleading eyes on her and called out another chorus of please.

  Zoe glanced back and forth from the children to Mr. Gunderson. She was in no hurry. Her evening consisted of reading La Fontaine, but neither did she wish to impose on Mr. Gunderson’s time. To him, she said, “Ze decision is yours.”

  Mrs. Wiley took the food crate from Mr. Gunderson. “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes of Zoe’s company. I’ve been meaning to ask her for the praline recipe.”

  Mr. Gunderson leaned close to Zoe. The movement was not enough to cross the lines of propriety, but it caused flutters in her stomach. “How can you, in good conscience, conscript me into this great torment?” he asked.

  Zoe pinched her lips tight so she could keep from smiling. “Were you not a child once?”

  “Once,” he conceded.

  “Zen zis will atone for all ze people zat you, during your childhood, inflicted great torment upon.”

  A faint smile played across Mr. Gunderson’s face. “Touché, Miss de Fleur.”

  She patted his arm again. “You will survive.” She cast a slant-eyed glance at the snickering children. “Do not hurt him too much. He must drive me home.” Leaving Mr. Gunderson with the children and the bicycle, Zoe followed Mrs. Wiley into the house. “Zis is a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. It belongs to Mr. Gunderson’s parents.” She set the crate of food on the small dining table. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

  “Whichever is easier.”

  “Then tea it is.”

  As Mrs. Wiley went to boil water on the cookstove, Zoe sat at the table, noticing the lavender tinge under the woman’s eyes and the lack of neatness to her close-cropped auburn hair.

  “Is zere anything I can do to help?”

  Mrs. Wiley chuckled. “Entertain my children for a day.”

  Zoe sighed, wishing she could, but she had little experience with children. What the Wiley children needed was something to do, something adventurous while their mother worked. Papa used to say idle hands were the devil’s playground.

  Zoe glanced through the small house to the opened front door. Mr. Gunderson walked beside the oldest boy as he did a decent job of keeping the wobbly bicycle upright. The Wiley children clearly adored him. She smiled as he applauded Alexander. The lady who married Mr. Gunderson would be fortunate to have a husband so devoted to being a good father.

  How was it he, like his brother, had yet to marry?

  Any woman would be blessed to have Mr. Gunderson as a husband. He was kindhearted, generous, dependable, and knew how to manage children.

  Zoe looked back at Mrs. Wiley, who had confessed to having two jobs besides housecleaning for the Gundersons. If Zoe remembered correctly from their conversation while making the pralines, with the twins’ mother and stepfather returning next Thursday, Mrs. Wiley had a long list of Saturday chores.

  Zoe gasped.

  Mrs. Wiley sat the tea service tray on the table. “What is it?”

  “Ze garden. I zink Jakob has forgotten his duty to cultivate it before his mother returns.”

  “You’re right.” Mrs. Wiley grimaced. “And Mrs. Pawlikowski loves that garden.”

  Z
oe nodded. Her heart ached at the thought of his mother disappointed in Jakob because he had waited too long to complete his work. She was disappointed in Jakob enough for both of them. He should never have committed to courting her when he knew of his obligations to The Import Company. He should have put work and family above his quest to find a bride.

  In addition to his obligations at the store, he had one to his mother.

  Her mind was awhirl about the garden, idle hands, and how to give Mrs. Wiley a day away from her children.

  Taking a moment to let an idea form, Zoe added milk to her tea.

  “Sugar?” Mrs. Wiley offered the sugar spoon.

  “No, zank you.” Zoe stared at her teacup for a long moment. “Mrs. Wiley, I would like to hire your children zis Saturday.”

  Mrs. Wiley tipped her head in question. “You would?”

  Without pause, Zoe detailed her plan to cook breakfast and lunch for the children in exchange for their help cultivating Mrs. Pawlikowski’s garden. But Mrs. Wiley must keep it a secret from the Gundersons.

  “You want this to be a surprise?”

  Zoe nodded.

  Mrs. Wiley sipped her tea. “You may have to bribe me to keep your secret.”

  Zoe smiled, knowing exactly where this was headed. “I will feed you, too.”

  “You strike a hard bargain. But I accept.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Pawlikowski House

  Saturday morning

  De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 43

  “‘There’s nothing better than surface soil from an old pasture,’” Alexander Wiley read loudly, “‘taken off about two-inches deep and thrown into a heap with one-sixth part well-decayed dung.’” He looked up. “I think this means we either need poop from an old cow or old poop from a cow that isn’t necessarily old but could be.”

  Angling the brim of her straw hat to shield her eye from the midmorning sun, Zoe looked from Alexander to his snickering younger siblings—Dante, Olivia and her favorite doll, and Thaddeus—all four of them sitting on a wooden bench on the other side of the garden bed. Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s New York City mansion had comprised the entire lot, leaving no space for a garden, so Zoe had had to rely on making purchases from grocers and local farmers. While it had been over four years since Zoe had helped Papa cultivate a vegetable garden, she found suspect the amount of manure Alexander said they needed.

  She reached into the apron over the faded calico dress Mrs. Wiley had loaned her and withdrew Mrs. Pawlikowski’s gardening gloves. “Are you sure we need zat much cow dung?” she asked Alexander before selecting a hoe from the pile of gardening tools.

  “One-sixth.” He turned the worn copy of The Gardeners’ Monthly in Zoe’s direction. He tapped the page with his index finger. “Says it right here, if you want to read it.”

  “I believe you.” Or at least she chose to believe him.

  Zoe eyed the six-hundred-square-foot garden Jakob should have cultivated in February. With Mr. and Mrs. Pawlikowski arriving in five days, the garden needed to be prepared quickly and efficiently to be ready for planting season. Putting Jakob out of her mind, she focused on the Wiley children, still sitting on the bench.

  “Gather your tool of choice,” she ordered the quartet. “Who wants to have fun today?”

  “I do!” Olivia laid her doll on the bench, dashed forward, and grabbed a shovel with a handle taller than she was, even though she also had the choice of three smaller shovels.

  The two older boys, Alexander and Dante, exchanged glances, then chose rakes.

  The youngest, Thaddeus, stayed on the bench. “I’m starving.”

  Of course he was. At six, Thaddeus had eschewed most of the breakfast Zoe had prepared for the Wileys in lieu of the day-old biscuits Mr. Gunderson had baked. Mrs. Wiley had insisted her children would trade labor for food. Once they finished consuming their omelettes aux pommes and potato cakes stuffed with trout, the Wiley quartet’s enthusiasm for helping cultivate the garden lacked much luster. The only thing so far that had elicited any response besides apathy was when Alexander said the word poop.

  Zoe refocused on young Thaddeus Wiley. He sat on the end of the bench, swinging his legs and looking as if he wished to be anywhere but there. “Zere is a remaining trout inside for you to eat,” she offered to appease him. “Would you like me to warm ze lemon-butter sauce?”

  He shrugged.

  She looked to his brothers.

  They shrugged, too.

  His sister dragged the shovel to where Zoe stood. In a soft voice, Olivia said, “Thaddy only listens to Mr. Gunderson.”

  Zoe looked at Alexander and Dante, who both nodded, and then at Thaddeus. “You may go find your mother.”

  Thaddeus dashed to the back door leading to the kitchen.

  Zoe glanced up to the second-floor window of what she believed was the master bedroom. As she hoped, Mrs. Wiley was still cleaning the window.

  Mrs. Wiley waved.

  Zoe waved back, then focused on the three remaining children. “First, we must cull all ze weeds and ze grass. I will begin in ze center. You will start on ze outsides. After we have broken up ze soil, we will work in ze compost and manure. When we are finished, we will wash our hands and eat lamb’s stew, and zen you can help me crush ze fruit for ze marmalades I must make.”

  “Uh, Miss de Fleur?”

  She looked at Alexander. “Yes?”

  “The Gardeners’ Monthly said a garden needs old poop.” As Dante and Olivia snickered again, Alexander tossed his rake back onto the pile of gardening tools. “I’ll run over to Vaughn’s Seed Store. Do you think one bag of their finest manure will be enough?”

  “For a garden zis grand—” Zoe thought for a moment. “I wager Mr. Vaughn knows how much Mrs. Pawlikowski usually purchases.” She looked to Alexander. “Better to take ze wheelbarrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He slapped his brother’s shoulder.

  “I’ll go, too,” Dante blurted out. “Have fun, Ollie!”

  Olivia waved vigorously. “Bye!”

  Before Zoe could explain to Dante why the task only required Alexander’s attention, the boys dashed around the greenhouse.

  “Why did zey both leave?” she asked Olivia.

  “They only listen to Mr. Gunderson.”

  Zoe studied the seven-year-old, who now chewed on the middle of one of her waist-length auburn braids. Surely all children were not as peculiar as these four.

  The Resale Co.

  “Thanks for the warning, Vaughn. I owe you.” Isaak hung up the phone.

  Zoe was supposed to be canning citrus marmalades this morning for the welcome-home dinner. Canning! Not cultivating Ma’s garden. Why buy manure? There were bags on the east side of the greenhouse—bags he’d purchased in February, when, according to Ma’s stated preference, Jakob should have cultivated the garden.

  Instead, Miss de Fleur had sent Alex and Dante to Vaughn’s. Unless the boys had lied and gone on their own.

  An all-too-likely scenario.

  Isaak pushed away from his desk, grabbed his hat, and strode out of his office. “Emilia, I need to go rescue—” What was Madame Lestraude doing in here? He stopped next to Emilia who held a paper-wrapped package to her chest. Did she know Mac had revealed the truth about Finn in Isaak’s office three days ago?

  Until he knew for certain, Isaak wasn’t taking any chances. He offered the madam the same genial smile he gave to all his customers. “Good morning, Madame Lestraude. You’re looking ever the proud mother-in-law.”

  The corner of her painted mouth indented. “That I am, which is why I brought Emilia my gift instead of sending it with my new delivery boy. Good lad. Some things, though, can’t be entrusted to others.” Her gaze fell to Isaak’s loosened tie and unbuttoned shirt collar. “You’re looking ever the politician.”

  Isaak tipped his chin. Uncle Jonas had warned him that Lestraude offered exclusives to all the politicians and judges in Montana and the surrounding states and te
rritories. If Isaak had the authority, he would shut down her Maison de Joie, and all the brothels in Helena, which was why she vehemently politicked on Mayor Kendrick’s behalf.

  “It would be worthwhile for you to pay me a visit sometime.” She looked at him as if she were sincere. “I hear the Forsythes are besotted with that household cook your brother is courting.”

  “Chef,” Isaak corrected.

  “Ah yes,” she said with a brisk wave of her bejeweled hand. “We can all agree, a beautiful French chef is always worth more than her weight in gold. I doubt the Forsythes, Doc Abernathy’s Book of Wagers, or even Miss de Fleur herself realize how valued she is. I, on the other hand, have no need for a French chef.”

  Isaak tensed. Lestraude had never crossed The Resale Co.’s threshold before, and nothing would convince him it had anything to do with a package delivery or with complimenting Miss de Fleur. Lestraude was trying to convey something indirectly. But what?

  He took a moment to consider his answer. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”

  To his surprise, Lestraude volleyed no mocking retort.

  He stepped around Emilia. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I need to run an errand.” With that, he slapped his hat on his head and strolled to the propped-open front door.

  Isaak had one foot outside when he heard Emilia say, “What was that all about?”

  “It’s best, dear, if you don’t know. I’m looking for anything a fourteen-year-old boy would enjoy reading.”

  “Try Jules Verne. Second bookshelf from the left, middle shelf.”

  Isaak glanced over his shoulder at Lestraude. Without looking his way, she strolled over to the stairs leading to the loft bookshelves. Whatever the madam was up to was no concern of his . . . until he was duly elected mayor and he could shut down her repugnant business.

  Only, what if running her brothel provided the perfect ruse for rescuing girls?