Mail Order Sweetheart

by Christine Johnson

  As always, he stopped at the boardinghouse an hour before they performed. The brief walk to the hotel left them plenty of time to warm up before many guests and diners arrived.

  She wore the emerald green gown—her favorite and the one she seemed to think most like those worn by the upper class. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that those born to wealth most often chose conservative colors and styles. The worst of them would look down their noses at Fiona’s exuberant attire. He found it refreshing, for her gowns matched her temperament perfectly.

  “I expect a large crowd,” she said as they walked the boardwalk between the two businesses. “It’s been a long winter, after all.”

  “We did perform a few times at the boardinghouse.”

  “It’s not the same, and you know it. The hotel is roomier and more...professional.”

  Sawyer was again reminded of the talent and perseverance that brought her to the New York City stage. Many dreamed but few reached that lofty goal. Fiona had. Again he wondered why she would leave her blossoming career to answer an advertisement for a mail-order bride in a lumber town. According to Pearl, Fiona still searched the personal advertisements. Yet she had not responded to his.

  He held the door of the hotel for her and escorted her into the dining room. A smattering of applause greeted them, and she flitted from one table to the next, thanking them for their gracious response to her return.

  That left Sawyer to warm up on the piano. After a couple months of inactivity and icy temperatures, it was slightly out of tune. He could fix that but had forgotten to bring the tools with him. He’d been preoccupied with the looming catastrophe caused by that advertisement. Even if Fiona wrote to him, he couldn’t mislead her into thinking he wanted a wife. Not now. And she seemed determined to marry as soon as possible.

  The lovely lady returned, her cheeks aglow with pleasure that people had gathered to hear her sing.

  “The piano’s a little flat,” he announced. “Would you prefer I play violin?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Play a little. I’ll let you know if I can compensate.”

  He launched into a tune while she hovered over his shoulder. How he’d missed having her at his side this winter. A few concerts at the boardinghouse hadn’t compensated for the fact that she barely noticed his existence if Blakeney was in the room.

  Tonight he felt her closeness. Her rich soprano sent delightful shivers up his spine. To hear that every day... He shook away the thought. Marriage had to wait until after he started his own venture. He’d set aside every dollar he could, but he’d need a lot more to open a business.

  Fiona listened to him complete the major and minor scales and declared the piano’s flatness manageable. Having made the decree, she left his side to go through her music.

  This was part of her usual preparation, but he hated her absence. “Do you want to warm up your voice?”

  “I warmed up for over an hour at the boardinghouse.”

  “Then went out in the cold. It won’t hurt to run through one of the tunes.”

  She glanced at the gathering crowd. “One set of scales will do. We don’t want to set a precedent of giving them something at no charge.”

  Once again she’d focused on money. She must be in difficult circumstances for her to keep hinting about getting paid. Sawyer wished he could slip her a little, but she was too proud to receive it. He’d tried to buy her supper once and got an icy glare for his trouble. So he played the scales. She warmed up her voice and declared herself ready.

  Only after the concert ended and the applause had died down could he talk with her. They sat together for late supper.

  “I’m paying for this.” He quickly added a reason that didn’t hint of charity. “I want to celebrate getting promoted to sawmill manager and can’t think of anyone I’d rather celebrate with.”

  She blinked in surprise. In the past their meals had been given to them, but Mrs. VanderLeuven had made it clear that she couldn’t afford even that this early in the season.

  “I shouldn’t accept,” she began.

  He covered her hand with his. “I’m also grateful to be alive. That’s worth celebrating.”

  She withdrew her hand and looked away. “I’m sorry. I thought my niece was on the ship. My sister wrote that she was sending Mary Clare. That’s my niece. But she didn’t say when. For all I knew, she’d sent the letter one day and my niece the next. I was terrified.”

  “I know.” And he did. He’d seen the terror in her eyes and responded the only way he knew how, by risking his life to rescue the little girl.

  Fiona set her jaw. “I should never have asked so much of you.”

  “I would have gone anyway. The passengers needed help.” He swallowed back the hard memories of the war. “In the past I wasn’t always able to help those in need.”

  Her delicate fingers touched his. “You don’t need to hold on to your glass so tightly.”

  Sawyer released his grip and flexed his hand. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

  “Bad memories?” she asked softly.

  He gazed into her green eyes, highlighted by the color of her gown. The edge of the iris was darker, as if more of the pigment had pooled there. “I’d rather dwell on good memories.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment and then nodded. “There’s no use holding on to things we can’t change.”

  He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “True. Look forward, not back.”

  “Exactly.” But she looked uncomfortable.

  “Manager at the mill is good, but I have much bigger plans than that. My own business. Once that’s established, I’d a like a big house with a family.” He halted at the odd look she gave him. Why’d he gone on blathering like that about his plans and dreams? “Someday,” he added. “I’m working on it.”

  Her expression was taut, cautious. “I haven’t been fair to you.” The words came out one at a time, as if too painful to say at once.

  Sawyer held his breath. He’d heard that sort of prelude before. It was usually followed by something unpleasant.

  She kept running a finger up and down one of the red stripes on the tablecloth. “You’re a good, decent man and deserve a woman who loves you with all her heart.”

  “Good thing I’m not looking to marry, then.” Though he kept the words light, an unexpected heaviness settled over him.

  She looked startled. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She stared at the windows, which were black due to darkness. “I wanted you to know that I need to take much into consideration. My niece for instance. I hope to give her a solid home.”

  “Home?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, I will be raising my niece.”

  That explained her desperation to marry. Perhaps she thought a husband would be easier to find in a lumber town. It was true that men outnumbered women ten or more to one. But it didn’t say much about her opinion of those men or why she was being so selective.

  One thing was certain. Sawyer wasn’t good enough for her even in a crisis.

  * * *

  A week of the same nonsense and no ship in sight had Fiona at her wit’s end. Apparently orphaned young ladies rescued from the shirtwaist factory could think of nothing else to discuss than every man who walked past. Each one they compared to that ludicrous advertisement. Worst of all, Sawyer topped the list for Clara and Dinah. She’d told them that he had no intention of marrying, but that didn’t put an end their speculating about him.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Fiona complained to Mrs. Calloway in the sanctity of the kitchen. “Won’t they ever stop?”

  Fiona had resumed baking breads and pastries to the delight of guests and for her own sanity. The kitchen was the only place where none of the survivors ventured.

  “Now, now, they’re young w
omen. That’s what they talk about.” Mrs. Calloway grabbed a tray of sliced bread.

  “They’re engaged to marry.”

  “Come now. What harm is a little sighing over a man here and there? They’ll be gone soon anyway. This wind is bound to die down before long, and the ships will be sailing again.”

  “Not soon enough,” Fiona grumbled as she threw her weight into kneading the sweet dough.

  Saturday’s concert had been her only respite. Though the hotel’s dining room had been full of guests, few ordered supper. Mrs. VanderLeuven had grumbled about the pitiful receipts, so Fiona hadn’t dared to ask for a percentage of the profit. Most likely there’d been no profit. Singing again to Sawyer’s accompaniment was the only benefit she could take away from the night. If anything, his talents had improved over the winter, and she’d enjoyed the meal he insisted on buying for her. Until he got personal. What did he mean by talking about getting a house and family one moment and the next saying he didn’t want to marry?

  The man confounded her.

  She sighed. At least Mary Clare hadn’t arrived yet. Fiona had scoured her sister’s letter again, but found no date for her niece’s travel. It was impossible to tell if Fiona’s niece had already been sent or would be sent her way in the future.

  “They’re bored,” Mrs. Calloway was saying. “If you want to divert the ladies’ attention, give them something to do.”

  Fiona stopped kneading the dough as her thoughts returned to the problem at hand. “Something to do...what a good idea. They need to be occupied. Housecleaning and laundry would be a good start.”

  Mrs. Calloway clucked her tongue. “Have you ever met a cleaning girl who didn’t gossip and speculate whenever she could? Give them something more exciting to do than gape after the menfolk. Something that keeps their minds busy. Something they would enjoy.”

  Having finished her suggestion, Mrs. Calloway exited with the tray of bread.

  Fiona absently kneaded the dough as she tossed around the idea of teaching the ladies. She had taught a few days of school, but that was for children, not grown women. What would she teach them? She couldn’t sew like Amanda or direct a play like Pearl. She couldn’t even lead them on a nature walk like Louise, who was always traipsing over the dunes, botany book in hand. Her sole talent was singing. Even her piano playing left much to be desired.

  Perhaps she could teach them to sing.

  Mrs. Calloway bustled back into the kitchen with an empty platter. “Ate every last bit of ham. At this rate, there won’t be any left for Easter Sunday.”

  “Easter! That’s it.”

  “That’s what?”

  “I’ve found a purpose for our female guests. We will form a ladies’ choir and sing for Easter Sunday service.”

  Mrs. Calloway’s brow creased. “Do you think they’ll be here that long?”

  “It’s only a little over a week away. If they take instruction well, we can sing this Sunday also.”

  Her mind swirled with ideas. They couldn’t possibly learn something as complicated as Handel’s Messiah, but they could learn some traditional hymns. In fact, they probably already knew the melodies and words. She would only have to teach harmony.

  “That’s what we’ll do. It’s the perfect solution.”

  * * *

  Sawyer hurried to the mercantile, eager to get Roland’s opinion. His friend would know whether this venture was trouble or a great opportunity. The price was impossible, but Roland might have some ideas on that front. He’d gotten investors for the glassworks he’d begun building last fall.

  Sawyer burst through the door, sending the bell jingling.

  Roland looked up from his position at the counter. “Hi, Sawyer. Do you want to read the applications that have come in?”

  “Applications? What applications? Garrett’s still doing the hiring at the mill.”

  “Not the mill.” Roland’s grin should have cued him in. “For the, ahem, position in the advertisement.”

  Position? Oh. For a wife.

  “I don’t want anything to do with that, and you know it.” Sawyer glanced around the store and saw no one. Nevertheless, he moved to the counter to make his next statement. “I don’t care about any applications.”

  A week had gone by without any responses. Not that he cared, other than curiosity if Fiona would write. She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t consider him marriage stock, so if she guessed he was the supposed groom, she would not write. Given the way the advertisement was worded, he doubted anyone would make the connection.

  Except now someone had written.

  “Is it from Fiona?” Sawyer asked tentatively. Part of him wanted it to be from her, while another part dreaded reading what she might say.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t here when they arrived, and Jimmy couldn’t tell me a thing.” Roland slid two envelopes across the counter. “See for yourself.”

  “Two?” Sawyer stared at the envelopes.

  “That’s right.”

  There weren’t many women in the Singapore area of marriageable age. Most who came of age married right away to someone they’d known their whole lives. One or two had gotten sweet on a lumberjack, but parents tended to discourage those liaisons. Two letters increased the possibility that one was from Fiona. Who else would write? The widow, Louise Smythe?

  He scanned the first. The handwriting was nearly illegible, the spelling atrocious, but he could make out the signature. “Dinah? Who is that?”

  “I believe it’s one of the ladies we rescued off the wrecked ship.”

  Sawyer shot Roland a nasty look.

  His friend stuck up his hands in surrender. “I had no idea there would be women of marriageable age stranded here.”

  “Likely story.” Sawyer ripped open the second envelope and looked at the signature. “Clara?”

  “Another one of the rescued women, I believe.”

  “See? This is exactly what I said would happen. I get responses from every unmarried woman in the county. For that matter, letters could come pouring in from far and wide. It only takes one person bringing the newspaper on a ship or train to cause chaos. Now someone has to tell the ladies that there is no groom.”

  “Oh, no. Not me.”

  “You and Pearl concocted the whole thing. It disappeared from your store. I think the duty falls to you.”

  “I’m already married,” Roland pointed out.

  “Then it will be easy to point out that it was just a mistake.”

  Roland shook his head. “It’s not that simple. These women have put their hearts on the line. They deserve a letter in return. It can be simple. Maybe Pearl would help with the wording.”

  Sawyer recalled the letter his former fiancée had sent him. Brief and to the point. “No matter how it’s worded, it’s going to sting.”

  “Not when you’ve never met. They can’t have expectations.”

  “They’re expecting a rich man.”

  “Up and coming,” Roland said with a shrug. “Answer right away, and it’ll only be a mild annoyance, like a mosquito bite.”

  Sawyer had experienced his share of those, not to mention hornet and wasp stings. He didn’t care to inflict the pain on anyone, even women he didn’t know. “You and Pearl work out the wording...a generic note of regret, and I’ll copy it.”

  “I’ll ask her.” Roland hesitated. “Can you write?”

  Sawyer chafed at the inference. Lumberjacks and sawmill workers were often illiterate. He was not. Far from it. But admitting he’d read Shakespeare and Dante would shatter the workingman image he’d striven to create.

  One of his crew entered the store.

  “I can write well enough,” Sawyer said in a low voice.

  He pocketed the letters. They could wait. He had more importa
nt business to discuss, and Roland was the only man in Singapore qualified to answer his questions.

  Even though the store was nearly empty, Sawyer kept his voice low. “VanderLeuven said he wants to sell the hotel.”

  Roland’s eyebrows lifted. “That so? Well, I suppose it makes sense. It takes a lot to run a hotel, and they’re getting up in age. With their children living in Holland, I can see why they might want to move there.”

  Sawyer nodded. All that was well and good, but he needed advice. “I’ve been saving up for years so I can open a business of my own. I’m thinking this might be the opportunity I’ve been looking for.”

  Roland whistled low.

  When the customer looked up in curiosity, Sawyer leaned casually against the counter and chuckled, as if Roland had just said something witty. The man resumed his business.

  Sawyer turned back to Roland. “You know about investing. The first thing I need to know is if it’s worthwhile or not?”

  “Well, you need to consider the outlay—what you’ll need to spend—not only to purchase but to refurbish and repair. Look over the property carefully and make a list of needed repairs. Then estimate costs. Get an idea of past revenue—money they took in—and take your best guess at whether that will increase or decrease in the future. Measure costs against income, and you’ll have your answer.”

  Sawyer knew all that. He’d spent too much time as a youth under his father’s tutelage at the company offices not to understand accounts, profit and cash flow. Of course Roland didn’t know that. No one in Singapore did, and that’s exactly the way he wanted things to stay. If anyone knew the truth, it wouldn’t take much effort to take a ship to Chicago and tell dear old Father that his renegade son was posing as a sawmill worker across the lake in Singapore.

  So he feigned lack of knowledge all while trying to get an answer to his questions. “Do you expect the town to grow in the next few years?”

  That brought a spark in Roland’s eye. “Absolutely. Once I get investors lined up again, I’m getting the glassworks built. We will make Singapore the new Chicago.”