Would-Be Mistletoe Wife

by Christine Johnson

  Or would he? Would adherence to some rule or convention unwittingly bring pain to those he loved? Back in Vicksburg, he’d followed protocol and his own selfish desire to get home instead of listening to intuition.

  Then again, he couldn’t see the future. If he’d known the overcrowded steamboat would explode, he might have risked reprimand or court-martial and warned the soldiers not to board the Sultana. But he hadn’t. He’d stood idly by and even boarded himself, just as eager as the rest to get home.

  Jesse buried his face in his hands. Why, Lord?

  * * *

  Saturday morning proved so busy with the students, that Louise didn’t have a chance to talk to Pearl Decker until that afternoon.

  She entered the store to the ringing of the door’s bell. To her dismay, Roland was at the counter, not Pearl.

  “May I help you, Mrs. Smythe?” he asked with his usual beaming smile.

  “Is Pearl available?”

  “I’m sorry.” Roland truly looked dismayed. “She was feeling poorly, so I insisted she rest.”

  That threw her plans out the window. No one else could give her advice on how to handle Priscilla and her cohorts.

  Louise sighed. “Then I will have to speak to her tomorrow, provided she is feeling better.”

  “I’m sure she will be. She doesn’t miss a sermon.”

  “Unless confined to bed,” Louise pointed out. Last November wounds from the fire had kept Pearl bedridden.

  “We certainly don’t want that again,” Roland agreed. “She is not a good patient.”

  Louise then recalled how Pearl had blamed Roland for the fire and refused to speak to him until she learned he wasn’t at fault. Once again Louise had said the wrong thing at the wrong time. “No, of course not.”

  The relationship between Roland and Pearl had worked out in the end. Louise wasn’t as certain about Jesse. Every time they grew closer, he slammed the door in her face. Ten children. She still couldn’t believe he’d said that.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Roland was peering at her in such a way that Louise must have missed something else he’d said.

  “No, no. I don’t need anything.” Neither should she spend frivolously, not with Priscilla ready to threaten her job at a moment’s notice.

  “Would you mind taking the school’s mail?”

  “The school’s?”

  Roland turned to the cubbyholes where he sorted out the incoming mail. “Mrs. Evans didn’t pick it up.”

  “Oh.” How daft could she be? She’d been thinking of the primary school, not the place she was currently employed. That was ridiculous, for Pearl was that school’s sole teacher. She would already have any mail directed there. “Of course, I’ll take it.”

  He fetched a stack of mail from one of the cubbyholes. Nothing for Louise, of course. Fiona had received several pieces of mail. Priscilla, Adeline and Esther all had letters. As usual, neither Linore nor Dinah received anything. Being orphans, they had no blood relations, but Dinah’s foster parents could have written at least once. Every child deserved love and parents who longed to hear about everything. To have no one?

  She sighed. After her father died, Mama had let her preference for Rachel run unchecked. Louise had been Papa’s favorite, something that Mama had seen fit to counter by lavishing her love on her other daughter.

  “Mrs. Smythe? Louise?”

  The sound of her name pulled her from the sad past. “I’m sorry. I was caught up in my thoughts.”

  Roland didn’t comment on her inattention. “Since you’re heading in that direction, would you mind bringing the mail up to the lighthouse? Usually Pearl brings it to school and sends it off with one of the Blackthorn children, but she forgot yesterday. I’m sure they’ll want to get it.”

  “Of course. It’s not much farther, and I enjoy hiking the dunes anyway.”

  She would just avoid Jesse. If she went straight to the keeper’s quarters and gave the mail to Jane Blackthorn, she could miss Jesse entirely. It would also give her the perfect opportunity to return his handkerchief.

  “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks.” Roland reached into another cubbyhole and pulled out a huge stack of envelopes.

  “All that?” Louise struggled to grab hold of the stack and ended up tucking the smaller amount for the school into her bag before picking up the lighthouse’s mail. “There must be a lot of correspondence from the lighthouse service.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Excuse me, I need to wait on Mrs. Calloway.” Roland hurried across the store, leaving Louise alone at the counter.

  She looked down at the first letter. It was addressed in a flowing script that couldn’t be from the lighthouse service. A quick glance at the return address confirmed it. A Miss Miller had written. Then she noticed to whom the letter was addressed. Jesse!

  He had never mentioned that he was courting. In fact, his behavior was quite inappropriate for a man who had a sweetheart elsewhere. She glanced again. Miss Miller was from Indiana.

  Louise pressed a hand to her midsection. Why hadn’t he mentioned this? She had just begun to think him moral and upright. Now this. Unless... He had mentioned a sister. Maybe this was his sister, though she’d gotten the impression his sister was married. Maybe she’d misread, and Miss was actually Mrs. The letters were squeezed together and rather difficult to decipher.

  She looked back. Roland was still with Mrs. Calloway in the white goods section.

  Looking at just one more envelope wouldn’t hurt, and it might exonerate Jesse.

  She tucked the first letter on the bottom of the pile only to discover the next and the next and the next were all from women who addressed themselves as Miss. Most were from Chicago, but some hailed from surrounding areas.

  She felt sick.

  Why, there must be two dozen letters addressed to Jesse, all from different women. What was going on?

  * * *

  Jane Blackthorn answered Louise’s knock on the lighthouse door.

  Louise let out her breath. At least it wasn’t Jesse. Even so, her hands trembled, and she had to clutch the letters tighter so she didn’t drop them.

  “Louise! What a pleasure to see you.” The keeper’s wife cheerfully waved her in.

  Louise hesitated. She did want to know why all these women had written Jesse, but she didn’t dare reveal that she’d examined the address of each one. That was, well, wrong.

  “Roland asked me to bring you the mail for the lighthouse.” She held out the thick bundle of letters.

  Thankfully, Jane Blackthorn took them without noticing Louise’s shaking hand.

  “My, there’s a lot,” the woman exclaimed. She looked through the envelopes. “Lighthouse Service. Letter from home. Another one from the Service. Oh, my.”

  She had clearly reached the letters to Jesse, for she riffled through them just long enough to note the name on the return address.

  “I should be going,” Louise said. “I need to get back to the students.”

  Jane Blackthorn shook her head. “That man has no idea what he’s got himself into.”

  Louise backed from the open doorway. “I must leave.”

  Jane looked up, a look of determination setting in. “Now, don’t you fret. He’ll come to his senses.”

  Louise managed a wan smile. “I’m sorry but I don’t know what or whom you mean.”

  “Why, Jesse Hammond, of course.” Jane waved the stack of letters in her direction. “Men can get some fool ideas, but they usually find their way out of them.”

  Louise’s face ached from holding the smile in place. “I hope there’s no trouble.”

  “Oh, there will be trouble all right. A man’s bound to get a boatload full when he advertises for a wife.”

  Chapter
Twelve

  The following night, Jesse laid out the envelopes on the small table that served as a desk in his bedroom. By overlapping the edges, he could create a grid four by six with two left over. Twenty-six responses! Hadn’t he bemoaned the lack of a response a week or so ago? Now this. Moreover, none other than Louise had delivered them—along with his cleaned and pressed handkerchief. It was more than a man could take in.

  The names on the envelopes betrayed heritages ranging from English to Irish to Italian to German. There was even a Polish or Russian-looking name in the lot. He’d never imagined so many women would be interested in an assistant lighthouse keeper bound for life at a remote post.

  Where should he begin?

  Opening the envelopes, he supposed. The stack had intimidated him yesterday, and he took advantage of the opportunity to hear Mr. and Mrs. Evans give a concert at the hotel rather than deal with them.

  Tonight he must figure out what to do with them. He took out his penknife and slit open the first. The scent of lavender erupted from the envelope and made him sneeze. He set it down. The next wasn’t perfumed, but the lady’s script was so flowery that he couldn’t make out many of the words. At this rate he would eliminate a good many of the applicants.

  The third letter in the top row, second from the right, was more promising. The penmanship was legible and the grammar acceptable, even if Miss Barnes displayed a rather limited vocabulary. Nothing like Louise with her grandiose words.

  He chuckled at the memory of her last one—presumptuous—and then cringed. He had been just that, telling her he planned to have ten children. A person didn’t dictate how many children he would have. God made that decision. Illness, injury and death all played a role. But the number wasn’t the problem. The motive behind that declaration was. He’d exaggerated in order to dissuade her from caring for him. It was cowardly, but there was no taking it back.

  So he reached for the next letter, the last one on the top row. It was written by a woman of Italian heritage, a Miss Marinaro. The paper was unscented, and the letter short and to the point. She was twenty-five, could cook, and was willing to work hard. Promising, yet he felt no delight.

  Before coming to Singapore, Louise had responded to just such an advertisement. What had she written? Had she touted her intelligence and curiosity? Would she have mentioned her quiet beauty? He doubted she’d said any of that. Louise was one to quietly downplay her virtues. She would have mentioned she was widowed and educated, but he doubted she would have expounded on either of those.

  Louise Smythe carried herself with godly virtue, something that Jesse found incredibly appealing.

  Unfortunately age and stature worked against her, at least in his case. An older gentleman might make the perfect match. He would pray she found that match.

  Pausing for a moment in his survey of responses, he said a silent prayer for Louise, that she would receive everything she desired.

  That didn’t make him feel much better, but he told himself this was the only way. As much as he wished she could be his wife, she had too many strikes against her.

  He resumed the survey.

  By the time he’d finished the second row of letters, the responses muddled together in his mind. He would have to make notes, or he’d never keep them straight. Perhaps he could read each one and put them in a different sort of grid, one based on the positives and negatives each letter generated.

  Yes, that was it.

  He would establish four criteria: apparent physical hardiness, age, homemaking capabilities, and education. Each letter could then be judged against those criteria. The responses matching none would be discarded. Those matching one, two, three or four criteria would be separated into different piles. Naturally the ones that met all four would be his target. He would write them back asking for more information. Their responses would further differentiate them. If none of the letters met all four, he would then start with those that met the greatest number of criteria.

  It was orderly. It was efficient. It made sense.

  A rap on the door was followed by Jane Blackthorn calling out his name. “I saw your light so I figured you were awake. Samuel’s asking you to join him up in the tower.”

  At this hour? Jesse was supposed to be napping before the midnight watch, but he couldn’t sleep with all those letters sitting around. If Blackthorn had called for him, he must need help hauling up more oil, or the equipment had failed and repair required an extra set of hands.

  He pushed the letters into a pile. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Good.”

  Another thought popped into Jesse’s head, one having to do with Louise. He pushed his door open just before Jane Blackthorn disappeared downstairs.

  “Ma’am?”

  She stopped and turned back to him.

  “I was wondering,” he said. “Were you here when Mrs. Smythe dropped off the mail?”

  “Yes, indeed. Quite a lot of letters you got.”

  “Responses to my advertisement.”

  “That’s what I told Louise.” Jane Blackthorn stepped closer. “If you don’t mind my saying so, she seemed a bit unnerved by them. I thought it only kind to tell her why so many young women would be writing you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  It was as he’d suspected. “Thank you, that was fine.”

  Yet he could not account for the sinking feeling in his stomach.

  * * *

  Louise set down her pen and rubbed her forehead. She ought not work on Sunday night, but Jesse’s refusal to do any more lectures left her scrambling for lessons. She could fill tomorrow’s spot with another foray into the field, this time to examine the rosa blanca, or meadow roses, near the river mouth. There the dunes harbored a little pocket of vegetation protected from the harsh winds. A single willow tree, untouched by the saw, offered shade.

  Before her evening prayers, she could jot down a few ideas. Completing that much would relax her enough so she could sleep. Otherwise, she was liable to toss and turn while fretting about the matter. After making a few notes, she could turn it over to the Lord and rest easy.

  She hoped. Thoughts of Jesse kept creeping in. Why had he advertised for a wife before attempting to see if they were suitable? Didn’t he feel the same attraction she felt? At the very least, he should acknowledge their growing friendship, which was often a prelude to marriage. Instead, he’d advertised for a wife.

  A peculiar sound from the direction of the window drew her from her thoughts. What was that? It sounded as if something had hit the pane.

  She rose to check. Children often threw acorns and other small objects to attract the attention of a friend stuck indoors. Even though she worked in the classroom, that was not the case this evening. No one would attempt to lure one of the girls outdoors. Or would they? Both Linore and Dinah had found beaus amongst the lumbermen in the past.

  It was dark outside, and she couldn’t see what might have made the noise. Maybe it was rain. Rain! It had been so long since the last rain that she’d forgotten to take that into consideration when making her plans for tomorrow’s class. The girls had complained bitterly about going outdoors on a warm and sunny day. She wouldn’t convince a one of them to leave the school on a rainy day.

  That meant coming up with a classroom lesson for tomorrow.

  She headed back for her desk when another sound drew her attention back to the window.

  What on earth? If there had been someone outdoors, he or she would have seen her in the lit window. That should have stopped all further attempts. Unless that person wanted to alert her. But who would do that? Only one person came to mind. Jesse.

  Surely he wouldn’t toss objects at a window like a lovelorn youth. Still, the idea made her pulse race and her heart flutter. Had Jesse realized his mistake and come for her?

  She returned
to the window and lifted the sash, ushering in a stiff breeze. No rain, though. That meant the objects had been thrown.

  She stuck her head out the window. “Hello?”

  No answer.

  No sound except the rush of the wind. This was no breeze. She could hear the roar of the waves and their crashing on the shore. It was a full gale.

  A gale. That was it! She would teach the girls about the wind. They had seemed interested when Jesse mentioned it.

  She began to close the window, and a bit of dried-up plant struck her on the wrist. The brown object fell to the floor. She picked it up. A withered, curled leaf. That must have been what was hitting the window. The wind was strong enough to lift light debris and fling it against the side of the building.

  No one had thrown it. No one sought her. No love waited for her in the dark.

  She paused, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. Just once. One time in her life she would like to know what love felt like. Not the heady rush of capturing the attention of a man that the other girls coveted, which was what she’d felt when Warren directed his attention to her. That was infatuation, not true love. What did the latter feel like, to know a man thought of her, longed to be with her, and was willing to sacrifice for her sake? And in her turn to give all she had to a man worthy of receiving it.

  Slowly she closed the window. Such men dwelt on the pages of novels, but there was no Mr. Darcy in Singapore. None at all.

  Only then did she realize that the wind had carried in something else—smoke.

  She lifted the sash and sniffed. Yes, that was definitely the smell of smoke, but she couldn’t see any sign of fire. Last November the fire could easily be seen from town. Her mind flashed to Jesse and his fear of fire. What if he was right? On a night such as this, a spark could carry far. But there was no telltale glow in the darkness. No one appeared alarmed. She closed the window again. The smoke must have been driven her way from the kitchen chimney. The hotel did use wood in its cookstove.