by Sierra Rose
“Well, all of us Burton girls, for example. And most definitely Abigail Fitzsimmons.”
He shot her a bleary look from bleary eyes. “Outa the good of her heart, maybe; no other reason than that. She’s got herself all tied up with Linus Drinkwater.”
“Linus Drinkwater! Can you possibly be serious? No!”
“The same. So your mail order hero never showed, huh?”
Hannah drew back. Unexpectedly confronted with a stab to the heart, her every muscle clenched, and her mouth went dry. “W-W-What? What do you mean?”
“Figured—Figured you were still waitin’ for Prince Charming, since—you’re here. Hannah, I appreciate your company, but I gotta—uh—reckon you could fetch Ben here, for some personal business?”
A physician who could not discuss, or mention, all the private functions of the human body, especially when those concerned his own. Well, perhaps it would be easier if she could leave right now. Gabe had touched a very sore nerve when he’d asked about Mr. Ualraig, and right now she needed to escape his probing gaze.
Chapter Seventeen
ANOTHER TELEGRAM, DELIVERED first thing Monday morning to the newspaper office:
Unavoidable delay. Sincere apologies. Arriving shortly. Will explain. Very impatient.
HANNAH, CLENCHING HER teeth, crumpled the yellow paper in her fist.
She was growing quite weary of this elusive Mr. Ualraig and his myriad excuses. He must be traveling from the depths of the Yangtze River aboard the slowest canoe in human history, to take so long to get here. At this point, all she wanted was a face-to-face meeting, and every question answered.
Yet, what choice did she have but to wait?
“Bad news?” Oliver Crane, from his desk on the far wall, looked over his spectacles at her.
“I suppose that would depend upon how one considers it,” she said ungraciously.
Hannah refused to fret; she refused to dwell on the utter, incredible audacity of her mysterious suitor. Instead, since clearly she would be cat-sitting for the foreseeable future, she returned to her room at the end of the work day and hunkered down.
February 20th. Shouldn’t Turnabout be enjoying nicer weather by now? Per the calendar, spring was not due to arrive for another month, and Lord knew today’s temperatures certainly felt wintery. No snow, but frost lay on the ground in huge white patches, early every morning and late every night. She was tired of having to bundle up in her heaviest clothing every time she set foot outside her door. She craved warmth, and scented breezes, and the blooming flowers engendered by her own horticultural business.
Still, there was something to be said for the comfort of cats when a cold midnight moon was rising overhead, and the coziness of one’s own airtight stove was glowing with heat.
She endured the normal routine of the next two days. The first meeting of Letty’s Book Club (so named in honor of its founder) had taken place with great success. It was helped along by the positive articles Hannah had written for the Gazette, both before and after this momentous event. She had also provided articles about the Ladies’ Aid Society supper being planned for Easter Sunday at the Church of Placid Waters, a Mother and Daughter Banquet being organized at Everwell Baptist, and Bible Readings being scheduled for eight consecutive week nights at Hallelujah Immanuel.
Chasing down fast-moving news stories just didn’t seem to be in her venue—because none were happening in sleepy little Turnabout. Oh, she had done a bang-up job letting the public know about the Stagecoach Bandit, prior to and subsequent, adding the personal touches about his background that increased the sympathy factor for the dead man. But little else.
What she needed was a good old-fashioned political scandal, with mud thrown from all directions. Or a he-said/she-said sort of ménage, involving banking officials at the highest level, and some sort of financial corruption. Of course, with steady, staid Ben at the helm, neither of those were about to happen.
Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be a newspaperwoman, after all.
Or, if she truly decided to pursue this career, it might be necessary to move to Chicago or New York, where life could take such exciting turns.
On Wednesday, February 22nd, at mid-morning, she was sitting in her usual place at the front desk, desultorily moving papers around to fit the required advertisement space, when the bell over the office door tinkled.
Seeing the visitor who was slowly and painfully entering, she sprang erect. “Gabe! What on earth are you doing here?”
Against the sheer blackness of his neat frock coat, plain vest, and trousers, the white sling supporting his right arm stood out like a banner of surrender (or truce). His unruly hair had been raked into reluctant order, his face had been freshly shaven, even his boots were newly shined. From where she stood, Hannah caught the scent of soap, bay rum cologne, and something piney.
He looked very dashing, with a great coat slung loosely over his shoulders, and a carved walking stick to aid in support.
He also looked pale, strained, and exhausted.
“You were shot just five days ago, you shouldn’t even be out of bed yet,” she said, rushing forward to lend her supple young strength as he limped forward.
“Howdy, Gabe!” called an unperturbed Oliver Crane, from his own desk. “How you doin’?”
“H’lo, Ollie. Oh, fair to middlin’, I’d say. I stopped by to whisk away your employee, here.”
Oliver sent a dispassionate glance toward the wall clock. “Ain’t hardly time for her to leave.”
“Sure nuff. Just pretend she’s goin’ out on a story. You can lock the door when you head off for dinner.” As always, the doctor took matters into his own hands and simply rode roughshod over the wishes of anyone else. He turned to Hannah. “C’mon, girl, get your coat. I can’t help you with it—can’t do much of anything yet—but I reckon you’ve had enough experience in dressin’ yourself.”
The amazement she felt at his presence, that his strong will had gotten him out of a sickbed, dressed fit to kill, and into the streets for some unknown reason, carried her forward, and she made, not a single sound of disagreement. That in itself was uncommon. Hannah always disagreed with any decision; to her it was automatic, a matter of principle.
But not this time.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. Just once, Miss Burton, kindly do not ask so many questions. I have my own agenda, and it don’t include playin’ Mr. Interlocutor.”
A pale sun had chosen to take possession of the overcast sky, sending down just enough rays of hope for warmer weather to stir residents into action. A few were sweeping off the sidewalks in front of their stores; others were washing windows dirtied by winter rains and ice storms. Hannah, walking along beside the tall, halting figure beside her, matched her pace to his.
“Gabe, really,” she fretted at one point, “did Letty say you could be out and about like this?”
“Gadzooks, girl, who’s the doctor here, anyway?” he demanded testily. “I think I should be able to recognize, with my years of experience, when I can start livin’ my life again. Takin’ it easy, ain’t I? Not makin’ much exertion?”
Hannah sighed. Same old Gabriel.
They made it several streets along through the downtown area, with Hannah insisting that they stop for rest at the end of every one of those blocks.
“We ought to have benches everywhere,” she fussed like a setting hen with chicks. “I’ll speak to Ben; as mayor, he can bring up the suggestion at a town meeting.”
“Best of luck—with that idea,” Gabe managed with a sickly grin.
“Well, listen to you, huffing and puffing. I might as well be tagging along with a rusty old locomotive. This can’t be a good idea, Dr. Havers. Much more, and I shall deprive myself of your company so that you can return home.”
“Never mind. We’re here.”
“Here” turned out to be Turnabout’s finest eating establishment, The Rouge in the Drinkwater Hotel. Someone kindly opened the do
or, since Gabriel, in his weakened state, was unable to manage that feat; and inside they went. Although the hour was too early for the noon meal, a few waiters were wandering around, setting up tables and spreading fresh linens.
To Hannah’s continued amazement (this seemed to be a day for amazing things), Linus Drinkwater himself greeted them. “Welcome, Doctor. It’s good to see you up on your own feet.”
“Howdy, Linus. Yeah, I figured it was time I saw the town from a standin’ position. You got things ready?”
Beaming, Linus smoothed his handlebar mustache. “I certainly do. Right this way, please. I’ve provided a nice quiet corner for you, with a privacy screen.”
Since Gabriel had the use of only one wing, as he described it, the hotelier and an assistant were quick to accept their wraps and hats, pull Hannah’s chair out, and offer her a napkin, a menu, and a question about tea.
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll both have tea.” Himself seated, Gabriel impatiently waved the man away. “A full teapot, lots of cream and sugar, okay? Then leave us alone for a while.”
“By all means.” The beam did not diminish, but only grew more expansive.
He merely smiled, as innocent as a newborn babe.
“What’s going on?” she asked with a grin.
“Why, Hannah, how distrustful you are! Can’t a gentleman take a lady out to eat at a nice place?”
“I do thank you. But what is it that you want to discuss alone?”
“You look beautiful.”
“Distraction from my question.”
He softly touched her hand. “Do you know how truly beautiful you really are?”
She grinned. “I love complements. Thank you. I’m not used to this kind of attention.”
“I could go on all day. Oh, here’s our tea,” he diverged, looking up at the server’s appearance, and a soft clink of china. “Will you pour?”
It was while they were sipping from the lovely fragile cups (reminiscent of those beautiful sets at Abigail’s Table) that he laid the first bombshell upon her.
“You got another telegram on Monday?”
The spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the saucer. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, I might’ve been abed, Miss Burton, but I’m aware of what goes on in this town. People tell me things.”
“Gossip, huh?”
“Another delay takin’ place?”
Flushing slightly, she shifted in her chair. The seat was nicely padded, upholstered in red velvet, but its texture had suddenly become less than comfortable, and she wanted nothing more than to leave it. “Yes. Unavoidable, if you must know.”
“Oh, well, then, that makes it all right. S’pose he apologized, too, this man of your dreams.”
“As a matter of fact,” she replied coldly, lifting her chin, “he did.”
“Ahuh. Does he like cats?”
“What? I have no idea. The subject hasn’t come up. Besides—” she smirked across at him, “those cats belong to you.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s right.” Musing, he drank half his cupful at one gulp—awkwardly enough, with his left hand. She offered to help but he refused.
During a lengthening pause in conversation, Hannah glanced around the large, sophisticated room. Her only memory of ever having appeared here had to do with her sisters’ weddings, and the celebrations after. And those were busy, raucous affairs, with too much going on to take in all the details. Otherwise, she had not been invited to this lovely dining room, by anyone, whether for tea, or dinner, or a fashionably late supper. Just another spinster, spending her time with a roomful of felines. Poor pitiable Hannah, sob, sob, boo-hoo. She wanted to enjoy a good meal with the doctor and not have to talk about her mail order romance.
“Well, then,” he repeated, and cleared his throat.
The tri-folded screen, with its inserts of shimmering golden gauze folds, shielded the pair from any curious patrons who might wander in. Privacy, indeed. Why? Had he some terrible secret to divulge? Some horrifying revelation to tell her about Camellia’s condition?
If a sigh could ever be considered wistful, certainly this one of Hannah’s was. “Gabriel, thank you for the tea, and the outing—for whatever purpose you had in mind. But I really must—”
“Miss Hannah Burton, will you do me the supreme honor of accepting my proposal of marriage?” he blurted out in a rush.
She stared. Swallowed. Shook her head just a little, in dismay, or disbelief, or both. To give her credit, she dropped nothing, nor did she cause a scene. Completely kerflummoxed, she merely stammered, “You—what?—I haven’t ever—I beg your pardon—?”
Gabriel flashed his trademark grin. “Ah, there. I actually managed to utter the words. Been so nervous I figured all I’d be able to do was babble like a squirrel.”
“Gabe, dear, I—well, thank you. But I can’t marry you. Why, we can barely stand to be in the same room alone with each other!”
“Speak for yourself, lady. I been wantin’ to get you alone in a room since I first laid eyes on you.” Shockingly, he leaned his bandaged torso toward her and leered.
“You think of me in a romantic way?”
“Yes. And why wouldn’t I wanna get you alone in a room?” He was practically smacking his lips with anticipation. “You’re as spritely as a hot pepper, smart enough to make your way into the future, and so beautiful I—” Here he actually paused to suck in a draught of air, “—my mouth goes dry when I look at you,” he finished up in a low, humble voice. “And I can’t stop thinking about you. I think about you when I wake up, during the day, and when I go to sleep. I even see your pretty face in my dreams. Don’t you get it, Hannah? You’re the woman I was talking about. I told you that only one woman in this town captured my heart. And it’s you. It’s always been you.”
She touched his cheek. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes. Insofar as the fact that you’ll regret it, every minute of your life, if you don’t accept my proposal, yeah, I am. Otherwise, nope. Because you and I can have us a darn good life together. I promise to be the best husband and the best father when we have children. I promise I will move mountains to make you happy. You mean the world to me and nothing would make me happier than you being my bride.”
“Have you forgotten that I’m promised to another?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, yeah. That Ualraig fellow. The no-show.” The negligent waggle of his left hand indicated what he thought of Hannah’s mail order groom. “It was Ualraig, wasn’t it? Pronounced Walrick, or some such?”
“You know it was.”
“Huh. Well, hold onto your petticoats just a minute.” Clumsily he reached into the breast pocket of his coat to withdraw a compact, leather-bound book, its pages edged in gilt, the lettering of its title and author embossed in black. “Here.”
She smoothed her slender fingers across the slightly roughened outside cover. “From the Earth to the Moon. Jules Verne. Yes?”
Pouring more tea into each cup, he assumed nonchalance. “A book given me by my sainted gray-haired mama. Read the flyleaf.”
“Gabriel Ualraig Havers. Gabriel Ual—”
“Ahuh. You see?” He looked as smug as a cat full of purloined cream.
“Of course,” she said impatiently, returning the missive. “Now I understand why you were familiar with the name.”
“Please let me explain. I put an ad in for a mail order bride. Only a few people knew. It was a secret. I was afraid people would laugh. And I couldn’t believe it when you answered it. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“What are the chances?”
“It was fate. I never put where I was from because I wanted to make sure it was a good connection before I told some stranger I was a doctor and from what town I was from.”
“You didn’t want a golddigger?”
“I didn’t know what to expect. I wanted to slowly get to know each other. And when I learned it was you. I didn’t know how to tell you. So I was vague. And I�
�m so sorry. It wasn’t intentional. I never expected you to answer my ad, not ever.”
Hannah couldn’t have been more thunderstruck if the hotel’s roof had suddenly fallen in on her head. “You? You were my—my correspondent—? I picked you from all the other men.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “You should’ve just told me.”
“I tried. But then I thought you’d be mad, and we had just started talking and making a friendship. I didn’t want to destroy what we had.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Hannah, we both want happiness. And that’s why you answered my ad. Because you want it as much as I do.”
“I do.”
“Then give us a chance. We can take this slow as you want. But don’t give up on us.”
“It was really you?”
Back went the hand to the pocket, emerging this time with several envelopes. These he also moved across the small table to her.
Her brows went up. “But these must be a private—”
“Yeah, they are. You should know, toots. You wrote ’em.”
Between these two, a number of emotions had been fluctuating back and forth during the past half hour or so: astonishment, obstinance, speculation, reproach. All color washed out of her face, and her jaw dropped with consternation as the truth was beginning to dawn.
“Your groom is me, Hannah. You have been writin’ to me.”
Watching her with a mixture of caution and delight, he had started throwing around so many flowery terms of endearment he might have swallowed a dictionary. Or possibly his use of such sweet nothings were a long time coming.
“I knew you’d fight me on every turn, bless your little heart, b’cause too often we act t’ord each other like match set to tinder.” He offered her a broad, placating grin.
“But—the telegram...I received another telegram, on Monday, apologizing...How did you—?”
“Remember, Sunday, when you were ready to leave after your visit, and I asked to have Ben come over? Well, I—I reckon I did a sneaky thing...I let him in on what I’d done, and I asked him to hike on over to the telegraph office next day.”