A Bride for Sterling
Page 3
“This is why we must be the ones to approach her first. We shall get to the pulpit through Elder Collingsworth’s daughter.”
“Is that all she is to you, Father? A means to an end?” He couldn’t keep the hollowness from his voice. Then heat crept up the back of his neck. Wasn’t he doing the exact same thing to this woman, this Moira Wellington, he married? Wasn’t he simply using her as a means to an end? She was little more than an escape from the dictatorship of his father.
The collar around his neck suddenly seemed too tight. Maybe he was more like his father than he wished.
“Don’t pretend to overlook the importance of a good marriage in life, my son,” Clyford said. “‘Let the wife make the husband glad to come home—’”
“‘And let him make her sorry to see him leave.’ Yes, Father. I know.” Clyford always resorted to the famous church reformer, Martin Luther, whenever he wanted to make a point. “Are you so certain a wife like Lavinia would make me glad to come home?”
“Of course!”
“Why don’t you marry her, then?” Sterling retorted.
Clyford turned a deep shade of red. A muscle ticked along his jawline.
Perhaps, he’d gone too far in his rebellion?
“Lavinia is the daughter of Elder Collingsworth whom I have cared for as my own child. Do not be so disrespectful, my son.”
“Forgive my impudence. It shan’t happen again.” Tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d be presenting his bride to his father. An event sure to rock the foundations of the city.
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Gijs Van Dijk, their man of work, poked his blond head through the narrow cavity of the door and announced with his accented English, “Mijnheer Fox is here to see you, Mister Sterling.”
A wave of relief along with dread spread through Sterling’s body. “Tell him I’ll be right with him momentarily, Gijs,” he said.
When the door shut behind him, he turned to Clyford. “Was there anything else you wish to speak to me about, Father?”
Clyford shook his head. “No, my son.”
“I’ll take my leave then.”
When his hand grasped the knob, his father called his name. Without turning around, Sterling said, “Yes, Father?”
“I want the best for you. One day, you will take over my place as head of the church so that future generations of Montgomery’s may continue to serve our Lord.”
His fingers twitched on the knob. The best for him was his angel of music but Clyford, wrapped in his own ambitions, would never understand that. “Of course, Father.”
Moira opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling decorated with rosy-cheeked cherubs and flowering vines. Traces of dawn’s light spilled through the windows and landed on one of the cherubs whose bright, but blank gaze seemed to be directed at her.
Today was the day she’d meet her husband.
Sitting up, she pushed the covers away from her and wrapped her arms around her knees. What sort of man was Sterling Montgomery? From the little she could glean from Jasper Fox, which wasn’t much, she got an idea he was a timid man, prone to periods of wistfulness and fancy.
“But,” Jasper had said once as they journeyed from New York to Holland on the train. “Perhaps you will change all that, Mevrouw Montgomery.”
It was still hard to believe she had a new name. The first few times someone had called her that, she had looked behind her, searching in vain for this new woman before realizing it was her. Yet, none of it seemed real to her.
“But it is real,” she said into the silence of her opulent surroundings. Real as the air she breathed. She had left all she had known and had entered an unknown territory.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. “Come in,” she called out.
“Mevrouw Ter Bane wishes for you to breakfast with her,” the diminutive maid told her in a tiny voice. “Shall I help you get dressed, mevrouw?”
Moira accepted the maid’s assistance and went about her ministrations. She had no desire to spend any time with her hostess other than that which was necessary. While the maid laid out the dress she’d selected to wear to meet her husband, her mind traveled back to her wedding day.
The proxy ceremony, which had taken place in her father’s house, had held a surreal aspect to it. Jasper Fox, the man who stood in place of Sterling Montgomery, had kept glancing at her with the queerest expression, full of a cynical amusement.
When she first met him two days prior to the ceremony, he’d taken one look at her, and then another. Complete shock had slackened the features of his face.
“Your hair,” he’d whispered in a strange tone, “It’s like gold burnished by flame.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Fox,” Moira had replied, wondering at his reaction and his poetic words. He didn’t seem like a man who used words in a fashion like that.
His dark eyes had roved her person, studying her for what seemed like an endless moment. She almost suspected that if all sound had been swept from her father’s parlor, she’d hear his mind clang like inner workings of a clock.
She, in turn, took time to study him. He wasn’t an unattractive man. Tall, but not too tall, with dark, curly hair, a sallow complexion, and gleaming dark eyes. Lanky and thin, his mouth seemed to be permanently plastered in a sneer. Was that sardonic smirk geared toward the outside world or at himself?
Why did she feel it was the latter?
Then, after his eyes came back to her face, he grinned. “You are quite possibly one of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen. An angel, even.”
At the sound of angel, her cheeks burned. Her silver prince had called her that more times than she could remember. Mr. Fox’s eyes had narrowed at the telltale blush on her cheeks but he said nothing more of consequence.
Lotte had cried when the preacher pronounced Moira and Sterling Montgomery man and wife. Her father had been reluctant to let his daughter marry in such an unorthodox manner but he had acquiesced. He had no idea about the debt Moira had taken on, only that Moira had agreed to become a mail-order bride and that the groom was unable to meet her and had sent a proxy instead.
It was as near to the truth as anything else they could conjure up. Plus, the news of his soon to be born son or daughter had eased the pain of Moira’s going away.
“I will miss you, Moira, my darling,” Griffin Wellington had told her, his light green eyes filled with a hint of sadness as he cupped her cheeks before she left on the train. “But we’ll see each other again. Mayhap, when the wee one is here, we’ll come so you can meet him or her.”
“I’d like that, Vader,” she agreed.
Lotte had taken her aside at the depot and hugged her fiercely. “Lieveling, are you sure about this?”
“Ja, moeder,” Moira told her even though her heart thundered in her chest at the enormous undertaking she had taken on. “I’m sure.”
“If you’ll come with me, Mevrouw Montgomery.”
With a nod to the tiny woman, Moira followed her down the stairs.
Mevrouw Ter Bane’s home spoke of luxury and elegance. Painted in a shade of gray reminiscent of a cloudy day, the interior boasted thick Oriental rugs which warmed the cold floor. Old rose colored chairs dotted the rooms she passed, along with impressions of shiny wood from faithful beeswax and polish.
Did the wealth on display come from the ransom payments that Mevrouw Ter Bane collected from the brides? Moira was certain it was.
“Goede morgen, Mevrouw Montgomery,” the matchmaker greeted her. “I trust you slept well.”
“Mevrouw,” Moira answered in that flippant manner that was just a hair’s breadth away from being disrespectful. Perhaps it was a childish thing to do, but it made the matchmaker’s eye twitch ever so slightly.
“You are a young girl, mevrouw, so I will let your disrespect go for now. Soon, you will learn it’s best to remember to whom you owe everything. Once you realize that, you’ll learn to behave in an appropriate manner.”
The butler, a man with an acidulated face, served breakfast – slices of bread topped with Gouda cheese, thinly cut slivers of ham to be placed on top, oatmeal porridge, and hoofdkaas – sliced portions of a gelatinous mass of boiled and ground up meat of a pig’s head.
“Due to the lack of privacy we had on the train, I was unable to give you all the information you require. Jasper Fox is a dear friend of Mijnheer Montgomery. So listen to me well.”
Moira lifted a portion of hoofdkaas to her mouth. “I’m listening.”
“The balance of your mother’s debt is—” At the number she mentioned, Moira’s eyebrows arched. It was a large sum, too large for one woman, even married to a wealthy man such as her father, to be able to pay on a regular basis without arousing suspicion. “You’re a thief, Mevrouw Ter Bane,” she muttered, the food on her plate suddenly tasting like ash.
The woman ignored her. “When you are introduced to Sterling, you will let him know that you are my dear friend’s daughter. Which isn’t too far from the truth. You accepted this marriage of your own free will.”
“And why does my husband wish to marry a woman he has never seen? And on such short notice?”
A sardonic look came into the matchmaker’s eyes and she set down her fork next to the plate. “When you meet your father-in-law, you will see why this was his only option.”
Such a mysterious answer didn’t sit too well with Moira. “When is this meeting to happen?”
“Soon.” She nodded toward her barely touched meal. “I would suggest you eat your food. You will need to sustain your strength.”
Moira decided to take her advice and focus on her meal. Being the wife of a son of a minister obviously meant that she would be expected to partake in some way of ministerial duties. She had the whole of the trip from Albany to Holland to come to grips with being the wife of preacher, but she had kept it in the back of her mind. Now, she had to sit here, in the house of a woman she despised, and consider what it all meant.
Would she be expected to take an anterior position to her husband? Moira loved the scriptures and loved learning about them. Her father often joked she was a biblical scholar although she had not been formally trained. Would her husband take issue with that? A woman who knew just as much or possibly more about the scriptures than her husband?
She turned her mind to other things, pushing the food back and forth on the plate, losing all sense of appetite despite the fact that her stomach rumbled in protest.
Would she be expected to sing? She hadn’t sung since that day when her silver prince deserted her. Staring down at the minute cup of tea the butler poured, she saw her young, forlorn body sitting down on the log. She waited all day and far into the twilight for her silver prince to arrive. Even when the night wind came and blew against her tear stained face, she waited, hoping against hope that he would come.
And he never had.
“I can’t wait to hear your voice tomorrow, my angel,” her silver prince had whispered near her ear. He’d bent his head. “I will dream of your voice in my sleep. Forever.”
Her silver prince’s sense of ‘forever’ was of a short duration.
The bitterness she thought she’d doused over the years welled inside. Now she would never know him. Never have the answer to the question of why he had lied to her. Never understand why he would break her heart.
“Would you like a tour of your new home, Mevrouw Montgomery?”
Moira remembered the snatches of scenery from the train but hadn’t had the opportunity to take it all in. Although she supposed her husband would see to her education, nonetheless, she would accept Mevrouw Ter Bane’s offer.
“That would be wonderful. Dank u.”
It didn’t take long to gather her wrap. There was a decided chill in the air. Once they settled in the covered carriage, Mevrouw Ter Bane gave the direction and they went on their way.
“Did your mother ever tell you about how the Dutch came to the Great Lakes?”
Moira bit back a sigh. “Nee, mevrouw.”
“It’s an interesting tale of your mother’s people,” the woman went on, peering out the window. They passed a large wooded area that rang with the sound of men chopping wood. “Lumber is a mainstay here. People from all over the country come here to gather precious wood for their houses, their businesses, their boats. In fact,” Mevrouw Ter Bane turned and sent her a look, “your father-in-law married your husband’s mother, the heiress of a so-called ‘lumber baron’. So, you have the fortune of being matched to a family with substantial wealth.”
“You wouldn’t have had it any other way, would you?” Moira scooted as far away as she could from this woman.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I’m a matchmaker, not a charity worker.”
That was all she said about the matter as they went along.
Though she didn’t want to be fascinated by the history, Moira listened with an interested ear to how the town began.
Leaving the Netherlands, the country of their birth, had been a heart-wrenching decision. Escaping the religious persecution and economic hardship there, they traveled across the ocean and forty-seven days later landed in New York. Led by the eloquent minister, Dr. Albertus Van Raalte, they took a steamer from Albany to Buffalo and then on to Cleveland, lastly landing in Detroit.
When they heard about available lands near the Upper Peninsula of the state, they traveled there and landed on the banks of Black Lake in February of ‘47.
Moira listened as the matchmaker told how the Dutch, with only their tenacity and faith, turned what was once swampland and uninhabited country of the Ottawa Indians into a thriving community.
“All of that in less than twenty-five years, mevrouw?” Moira asked as she craned her neck out the window. It gave her a new appreciation of the area to see the various buildings on Eighth Street, which appeared to be the main conduit of the business district. Men dressed in bowler hats and suits traveled up and down the raised wooden walkways bordering the main street which was made of clay and gravel. A saloon, a post office, a mercantile, and other storefronts lined the way.
“Prachtig, he?” She gave a little nod. “My countrymen are nothing if not persistent. When they first came here, they came by wagon. Now, this year, we can arrive to Holland by train.”
Moira sat up a bit straighter in her seat. Hearing such history made her proud to be half Dutch.
Eventually they left the center of town and traveled down a less traveled road, judging from the increased tilting back and forth of the carriage. “Where are we going?” Moira asked as she looked to see a wide expanse of land with a forest toward the southern edge of the property. A large house sat in the center of it with other outbuildings she couldn’t identify.
“To meet your husband, Mevrouw Montgomery.”
A sudden lump formed in her throat. “Right now?”
“Don’t you think now is the best time?” The woman arched her brow. “I think it’s the perfect time.”
A cold sweat dotted her hands and face. She wasn’t ready to meet this man. A vision of her silver prince rose in her mind to taunt her. Fear like nothing she’d ever known swamped her body.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she gushed out, her nails biting into the palms of her clenched fist. “I can’t do this.”
Mevrouw Ter Bane gave a nonchalant shrug. “Welaan! We’ll go back to my home. You’ll pack up and return to your mother. She will then continue to her debt. If she misses another payment, then certain truths will have to be revealed.”
The silence hung heavy between them. For the first time, Moira felt the weight of the obligation she’d taken upon herself. She hadn’t fully appreciated the shackles her mother had tried to prevent her from wearing. Now, their clasp against her freedom was realize
d.
She slumped against the seat.
“Shall we return or would you like to meet your husband?”
CHAPTER THREE
Sterling paced the floor of the library, trying to still the quivering in his stomach. Glancing at the wall clock, he saw it was ten minutes before ten o’clock.
Ten minutes before he’d meet his bride.
“Do try to calm yourself, old chap,” Jasper bit down on his pipe. “Your days of torment will begin soon.”
“Oh, Jasper!” Sterling moaned. “Don’t jest! Not now.”
He went back over to the bookshelf and stared at the books. Only familiarity with their contents made him aware of what they were. He didn’t see the various commentaries of learned men and their thoughts on the deeper revelations of the holy scriptures.
He saw only the eyes of his angel of music. Reproving him for what he had done.
I’m sorry, my love.
“I’ve never seen you quite this excitable, Sterling. Not even when you stand before the Revered One for one of his soliloquies.” Then his friend shrugged. “But maybe that’s to be expected now that you are married.”
Sterling turned his head behind him to glare at his friend. “What do you mean?”
“Well, as Socrates implied, you’ll either have a good marriage or become a philosopher.”
Groaning, Sterling dragged his fingers through his hair. “Jasper!”
“There is some truth to that,” his friend went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You notice how some of the great thinkers of our time are married men?”
Sterling blew out a breath. “You’re insistent on making light of my fears, aren’t you?”
A strange light came into Jasper’s dark eyes. So bright the smoke wafting around him couldn’t dispel it. “Yes.” Then he continued, as if talking to himself more than Sterling, “Or rather I’m making light of certain fears and contemplating new ones.”