Mercer's Belles

by Heather B. Moore

  “Oh . . . my . . . word.”

  “What?” Sorcha glanced at Blinne’s plate, then at her awestruck face.

  Blinne slowly rose and stepped to a window. Leaning close, she pressed her nose to the glass.

  Through the window, Sorcha spotted a dozen men walking across the clearing. The men were of various heights and sizes, bearded and clean-shaven, but all were muscular and light-haired.

  “You’ll accept the job, won’t you?” Blinne looked over her shoulder with a wide grin, then glanced back. “I want to stay.”

  Sorcha had the feeling that if her cousin sailed alone, she’d have been one of the giggling females flirting with the officers on the ship and in the ports. “Blinne, we haven’t even talked about how the distance from town could hinder your business.”

  With a sigh, she left the window and returned to the table. “I don’t care.” She pushed around the meat on her plate before nibbling on an edge. “I’m not as interested in having a career like you are. I want a husband who’ll take care of me and provide me with a home.” Smiling, she scanned the room. “A cabin like this one would be perfect.” She grasped Sorcha’s hand. “I’ve been beholden to your parents for so many years.”

  “Ma and Da were happy to take in you, Rory, Conor, and Orla when—”

  “And we so appreciate the fact.” Blinne blinked away her gathering tears. “But as the oldest, I need to find a husband with a big enough heart to welcome my siblings into his family.” She sniffled, then waved a hand in the direction of the bunkhouse. “Just imagine, that group that sauntered by was only half of the total crew.”

  Just imagine. Sorcha sucked in a breath. She’s right. Lang said he managed two crews.

  The rest of the meal passed in silence, then they washed the dishes and stowed the food in the icebox.

  “Ready to look upstairs?”

  “You go first.” Blinne waved toward the stairs in the dining room corner. “I don’t want to love this place any more than I already do until I know we’re staying.”

  Although Blinne’s heartfelt words about her wishes might have tipped the scales, Sorcha needed all the facts before she sought out Lang. Upstairs, she found a sleeping loft that measured half the floor space of the lower level. The furniture included a full-sized bed, a chest of drawers, an armoire, a vanity stand, and a framed mirror. The bed sat on a wood block containing storage drawers. Unfamiliar flowers with droopy bells painted in shades of white, pink, and violet blue decorated the outside armoire doors. Tucked inside the armoire were pull-out bins and several hooks for clothing. A single flower adorned each bin. Sorcha leaned a shoulder on the door and traced the outline of the flowers. Hot tears flooded her eyes. Someone added this feminine touch to help the newly hired teacher feel more at home.

  Could this one tiny detail be the deciding factor? Walking to the loft’s half wall, she glanced around, mentally arranging their belongings in the space. Ma’s Irish Chain quilt on the bed. Da’s lucky horseshoe over the front door. One of their trunks at the foot of the bed and the other downstairs. Her lap harp in the corner. Blinne’s sewing machine under the window in the sitting room.

  “Can I come up now?”

  Closing her eyes, Sorcha searched her heart. Accepting felt right. Helping men learn English seemed honorable. The cabin provided security. With each other as chaperones, the living arrangement was respectable. “Yes, do.”

  Footsteps pounded up the steps, followed by a loud gasp. Blinne stood in the corner, eyes wide with clasped hands beneath her chin. “It’s so cute.” She bounced around the space, opening doors and pulling out drawers. “Of course, it needs a woman’s touch.”

  “If you’re sure, I’ll search out Lang.”

  “I am.” She touched the flowers on the armoire. “Did you see these? They’re adorable.”

  “I did.” Sorcha descended two steps before turning to look back at her cousin. “Promise me you’ll stay inside until I return.”

  Blinne plopped stomach down on the bed, fist supporting her chin. “I promise, but hurry. I can’t wait to put away our things in here.”

  Sorcha walked to the door and paused with a hand on the knob. A nagging thought emerged on top of the other ones racing through her mind. How would she explain to her mother about living in the wilderness with two dozen men?

  Thirty minutes had passed since the end of the meal. Lang paced the short length of the office between the stove and the desk. Did contemplating the offer and the cabin this long mean Sorcha was serious? Movement through the window caught his eye, and he watched Sorcha exit the cabin and start walking. He narrowed his eyes. Was her gait confident or hesitant? Even if he decided which, would he know how her stride indicated her acceptance?

  About halfway across, she stopped and turned a full circle, her chin angled upward.

  Impatience thrummed through his blood, but he restrained himself from galloping across the clearing to learn her answer. This teaching job was a solution where before she had none. But he couldn’t pressure her. After a morning spent in her company, he knew he wanted her to accept it solely to give him the chance to become better acquainted. He timed opening the door to her approach. “Good afternoon, Sorcha. I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

  She lowered the hand she’d raised to knock. “We both did. I believe you and I have business to discuss. May I come inside?” She cast a glance over her shoulder.

  Lang fought to keep a jubilant yell inside, and instead he stepped back to provide room. “Of course. Let’s sit at the table.” He kicked a block of wood toward the bottom of the door to keep it ajar.

  She walked inside and then circled the room, gazing at the sketches pinned along the wall.

  All aspects of the logging operation were on display—from tree topping, to felling, to branch chopping, to river transit, to sawing, to loading logs and lumber for transport. He used the drawings during safety meetings or when the cause of an accident was reviewed.

  When she sat in a chair near the desk, she looked at him with a wide-eyed gaze. “I hadn’t realized logging involved so many steps.”

  If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d paled since entering the room. He scanned the sketches, but none displayed injuries or hazardous situations. Maybe she was nervous about the pending discussion. “Did you find the cabin to your liking?” He stood with an elbow resting on the top of his desk, waiting for her to broach the real subject.

  “The cabin is a wonderful testament to the builders. We noticed all the places for storage, and the downstairs is so well lit.” She clasped her hands on the tabletop and smiled. “Blinne and I will enjoy decorating it.”

  “Then you’re accepting the job? I’m glad.” Lang blew out a breath before grabbing the two sheets of parchment he’d prepared from his top desk drawer. He set the inkwell between them, then dropped into a chair. “I wrote out a contract that you should read through before we fill in the blanks.” He slid one page within her reach and watched her scan the print after donning her spectacles. The day had warmed considerably from the morning, yet she still wore gloves. Odd.

  Sorcha set down the paper. “I have two stipulations.”

  He expected she would. “Go ahead.”

  “Will you guarantee a weekly ride into town for Blinne?”

  “Just for Blinne?”

  “So she can get her seamstress business started.”

  “Ah.” He pulled both sheets in front of him and added a sentence above the signature lines. “And the second?”

  She cleared her throat, then straightened and met his gaze. “That if the situation isn’t working, I want to be allowed time off to pursue other positions.”

  Frowning, he sat back and stroked a hand over his close-cropped beard. “I expected a minimum one-year commitment. The men must be taught enough English to handle purchases in town and to engage in simple conversations. I don’t think those skills can be learned in a shorter time.”

  “I agree with your assessment. But I must think of my futur
e. No less than two days off during both April and May, if a job search is needed.” Green eyes flashing, she tapped a stiff finger on the table. “Each day at fifty percent wages.”

  Paying her wages to look for a different job? Not likely. He leaned forward, ready to make a counter offer, but he spotted a tremble in her fingers. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she stepped off a ship following a four-month sea journey. She was in a new town, knowing only her cousin. Of course she’d fight to protect her options, since this job was so different than what she’d anticipated. “Sounds fair.” He wrote down the new contingency, filled in the starting date as June 1, and added the salary amount. Then he signed and added the date on both copies. “Please fill out your full name at the top and sign and date.”

  Her shoulders sagged, then she leaned forward and did as he’d directed. “Thank you for granting me tomorrow to settle in.” She stood and extended her right hand.

  Lang jumped to his feet and grasped her hand. “I look forward to our association, Sorcha. I regret not taking this step for the men sooner.” Only their hands touched, but he felt a connection circle in his chest. Gazing into her green eyes, he noticed flecks of gold. He admired how she stood up for herself, even though granting her demand bit into his bottom line. He covered the hand clasp with his second hand, wanting to make the connection stronger.

  A pink blush flooded her cheeks.

  “Chef.” Staffen barged through the doorway. “Kom nu. Sågen är—” The foreman gaped and glanced between them. After a few seconds, he dragged the broad-brimmed hat off his head and gave Sorcha a big smile.

  Seeing the interested gleam in his friend’s eyes, Lang stiffened. “Excuse the interruption, Sorcha.” He released their handshake, then clamped a hand on his foreman’s shoulder and steered him through the door. “Tala.” Within a few sentences, he learned what was needed and sent Staffen back to the mill.

  When he turned, he spotted Sorcha lingering in the doorway. “I need to oversee an issue that shouldn’t take too long. Then I’ll have your luggage brought into the cabin.”

  She stepped close and tilted her head. “Thank you for entrusting me with this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

  Her expression was so earnest, with pinched brows and narrowed eyes, he had to smile. “I’ll do anything needed to help you succeed.”

  A swishing sound of her skirts over the grass followed her departure. Lang couldn’t stop himself from enjoying the sight of a woman—actually, this particular woman—in his world. Echoes of the lecture he gave to the men about not making fools of themselves over the expected teacher rumbled through his thoughts.

  Sorcha opened the cabin door, looked over her shoulder, and waved.

  Caught. He lifted a hand in farewell, then stomped toward the mill. He might have to ask Roald or Staffen to repeat the lecture on keeping a proper distance. On second thought, he acknowledged he wouldn’t listen to a single word they’d say. His feelings for Sorcha were like when he swung at the top of a tree—a combination of giddiness and fear of falling.

  Her first session would start in just five minutes, and butterflies danced in her stomach. Sorcha stood at the dining table and surveyed her supplies: twenty-four papers she’d neatly lined then written each letter of the alphabet down the left margin, her willow pointer—a handmade gift from Da when she entered the teaching academy—lead pencils, and four wood-framed slates. Two sticks of chalk rested in her skirt pocket.

  For tonight, she’d enlisted Blinne’s help—a request that was promptly agreed to. Blinne was responsible for writing a single letter on the slate for Sorcha to hold up and introduce to the men. With Blinne keeping the letters fresh, Sorcha could concentrate on circulating in front of the students, enunciating the sound and listening for any who needed correction. She’d seen the company sign on the camp’s entry, and all the letters appeared the same as the alphabet she knew. The difference would be the pronunciation.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Sorcha stepped into the sitting room so she could look up into the loft. “Blinne, are you ready?”

  “Coming.” Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

  Pressing a hand to her stomach, Sorcha walked across the room and forced a smile into place before she opened the door. “Good evening.”

  “Evening, Sorcha.” Lang grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re all corralled and waiting.” He glanced into the room and nodded.

  Seeing him always made her heart flutter, and she fought against allowing her reaction to show. “I need to gather my supplies. You’re handling the introduction, right?”

  He reached to cup her elbow. “Don’t worry. I’ll be close by.”

  Those words circled in her thoughts and settled close to her heart. She could handle this task. Three minutes later, as she listened to Lang’s rapid-fire speech to the group, she wasn’t so sure. She had never faced a group of this many men, with all their gazes on her every move. Some sat with rounded shoulders and gaped mouths, like they’d never seen a woman before.

  Yesterday, in a panic, she’d rushed into Lang’s office and asked for instruction in a few basic Swedish words. Then she stayed up late and reread the sheets from her teaching curriculum by the author of the popular The Peep of Day. The refresher helped Sorcha organize her thoughts on using phonetic sounds when presenting the vocabulary.

  Lang stopped speaking and swung an arm in her direction as he stepped back.

  Clearing her throat, she straightened and greeted the group, who sat in four rows of six chairs each. “God kväll.”

  A booming “God kväll” echoed off the walls.

  Well, they’d understood the way she pronounced good evening. Hopefully giving her name would be as easy. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Jag heter fröken Sorcha.” She glanced at Lang to see if her pronunciation was right.

  He nodded and leaned a shoulder against the wall.

  “Hej, fröken Sorcha.”

  Communication occurred. She understood their greeting. Confidence flooded her chest, then she pointed toward her cousin. “Hennes heter fröken Blinne.”

  Laughter broke out, and the men nudged one another.

  Heat flushed her cheeks, and she turned to Lang, eyebrows raised.

  “Not every sentence structure is the same.” Lang shrugged and stepped forward, then turned to the group. “Hennes namn är fröken Blinne.”

  All gazes swung to where Blinne sat at the side of the room. “Hej, fröken Blinne.”

  Blinne giggled and gave a wiggly-finger wave. “Hello, all.”

  As Sorcha gazed at the group, she saw they all wore a wooden badge strung from their necks with a leather thong. Burned into the ovals were what she assumed were their names. Tilting her head, she glanced at Lang and tapped her chest.

  He gave a single nod.

  His thoughtful gesture tightened her throat and made her blink fast. Best get on with the lesson. Her plan was to have them say each letter in succession and then write it five times. Arranged as they were, the writing portion would have to come later. Instead, she reached for the top slate Blinne extended, held it over her head, and walked slowly along the front line of chairs. “This is the letter a. Snälla säg bokstaven a.”

  They responded.

  By the time she’d reached e, she shortened the “please say letter” phrase to “say” and the letter. More repetitions were needed on only two letters: q, which they kept saying as “coo,” and w, which sounded like “double vee.” Writing the letters took no time because they were just like the ones they already knew from Swedish. Lang explained the Swedish language had three additional vowels. Only an hour had elapsed, and the men looked to her for more instruction.

  The next exercise she planned was to have them all stand and recite the alphabet, but they obviously knew it well enough. Thinking fast, she dashed over to Blinne. “Draw a cat, a rat, a house, and a tree, and write the names underneath.”

  “I’m no artist.”

&n
bsp; “I’m not either, but please do it.” Sorcha grabbed a stick of chalk. “I’ll draw the cat.” Then she held up the slate and pronounced the name. When the men responded to each new word faster than Blinne could draw, Sorcha moved around the bunkhouse, touching and naming objects. The phonetic method would be used when she got them writing the words, and then she’d return to a more orderly way to introduce words. Now she didn’t want to put a dent into their eager responses. By the time she’d made a circuit of the room, she had to fan her face. Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck. Undoubtedly, curls crimped along her hairline.

  “Excuse me, Sorcha.” Lang stepped forward, an open pocket watch in his hand. “Just a few minutes remain.”

  Wonderful. She blew out a breath. “I guess ask them if they have any questions.”

  Nodding, he turned to the group. “Frågor?”

  Several voices talked over one another.

  “Nej.” Lang stiffened. “Nej.” His hands curled into fists. “Nej!”

  Men jumped to their feet and each yelled at the one next to him. Some shook fists in the air.

  How could her methods have caused such upheaval? “What’s happening?” Sorcha stepped close, aware she sought comfort from the confusion.

  “Their questions have nothing to do with the class.” His jaw clenched, then he stuck his curled fingers into his mouth and blew.

  At the shrill whistle, she clapped both hands over her ears, unsure of what to expect next.

  Lang shouted in Swedish.

  The men straightened, shuffled their feet, and looked straight ahead.

  At their change in posture, she dropped her hands.

  “Tack, fröken Sorcha.” The men spoke as one.

  His posture relaxed, and Lang leaned close. “They thanked you. You could say välkommen och god natt. Welcome and good night.”

  His warm breath puffing on her cheek distracted her, as did the pine scent wafting from his clothing. But she caught his meaning. Nodding, she turned and smiled toward the group. “Välkommen och god natt.” The words were not so different from English.