Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
a man you’ve never met. You could give vocal lessons.”
Fiona laughed. “Have you noticed the type of families in the area? Farmers. Mill workers. Lumberjacks. None of these place a high value on musical prowess, not enough to pay for lessons. No, my course is set. I must marry.”
“Why not go back to New York?”
No doubt that was the question all the women had wanted to ask her since they first arrived in August, but only quiet little Louise Smythe had actually done it. Maybe that woman had more gumption than Fiona had credited to her.
“There is only heartache in New York.” Fiona wasn’t ready to reveal more. The men there had courted her either for show or for their own purposes, never with marriage in mind. Fortunately, she always discovered the truth before it was too late, but rumors still threatened. By active involvement with her church and charity, she’d managed to stop most of them. Until last spring. Mr. Winslow Evanston wooed her with gifts and charm that blinded her for a time. When she discovered his lies and refused to become his mistress, he vilified her in the newspapers. Never again would she trust a man without a ring on her finger. “I doubt I’ll ever go back.”
“Me either.”
Fiona really looked at Louise. Her features were nondescript, but she had a strong chin and surprising inner fortitude. “Your husband died in the war, right?”
Louise looked away. “Yes.”
Heartache. Fiona could recognize that from miles away. And it wasn’t just because he’d died. No, that marriage hadn’t been a happy one. It couldn’t have been, or the family would have taken her in.
“Well, then. We both need a good husband.” Fiona ran her finger down the second column. “Here’s one—‘Handsome man seeks pretty, vivacious wife. Must cook.’”
“That fits you but not me.”
“You can cook.”
“Not as well as you. The bread and rolls you make melt in my mouth.” Louise shook her head. “I don’t fit one single criteria. Besides, I’d rather not marry a handsome man.”
“Why on earth not?”
“They tend to think too highly of themselves.”
Fiona snorted out a laugh. “Honey, they all do, and I can guarantee you’ll never find an advertiser that admits he’s homely.”
“Maybe I won’t turn to an advertisement.” Once again Louise had squared her shoulders and set her jaw. “Maybe God will send the right man here.”
“To Singapore? You’ve seen the kind of men who come here. Rough lumberjacks and mill workers. There’s not a one who cares about book learning. I doubt many of them can read. You’ll never find a gentleman here.”
Louise looked crestfallen.
Fiona regretted her rash words. “Then again, you never know. Anything could happen.”
“It is possible. Roland and Garrett Decker are gentlemen.”
“Married gentlemen.”
“Yes, but not when we first arrived. Another might step off the next ship. I must hope for it.” Louise trembled as she picked up her book. “I believe I’ll go to the parlor and read. Best wishes on your search.” She rose.
The windows rattled, drawing both ladies’ attention. They’d heard it often enough since arriving. First the wind. Then the rain or snow. But this was particularly vicious, considering the calm earlier that day.
Louise left for the parlor, and Fiona tackled the advertisements again. She circled the one she’d read to Louise, even though the part she hadn’t read aloud wasn’t nearly as promising. ‘Willing to work hard to build a new life.’ That sounded like a homesteader. Fiona wasn’t opposed to hard work, but she couldn’t bring Mary Clare into that sort of life, not when the girl displayed such vocal talent.
She crossed that one off and resumed the hunt.
* * *
Sawyer noted the increased wind when he left the boardinghouse kitchen after getting an early supper. He trudged to the mercantile, still irritated over Fiona’s jab. She clearly didn’t think him worthy of her, but she knew nothing about him. He would have defended himself if she’d stayed in the room. Then again, what could he say? He couldn’t admit his past. He’d broken all contact with his manipulative, philandering father. Even though he ached for his mother, Sawyer would never return home. He wrote his mother and prayed for her, but he wouldn’t risk encountering Father. Without that parentage, he could never impress Fiona. She wanted a man with money. He didn’t want a woman to love him for his father’s money. He wanted a woman to love him. But not yet. That’s why he had to talk to Roland.
The wind tore at his open coat and bit into his neck. He hopped up the steps to the mercantile and pushed open the door. The bell rang. He looked around. The place was empty except for Pearl Decker, who stood behind the sales counter.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. May I help you?”
Pearl had come to Singapore as the new schoolteacher, but it didn’t take long for Roland Decker, the mercantile manager, to fall for her. The big fire last November that leveled the schoolhouse had sealed things between them. He proposed. She accepted. And in January, when the itinerant preacher came around, they married.
Sawyer stepped a little farther inside and looked toward the back. No one was gathered around the stove. No one was shopping. “Where’s Roland?”
“He headed up to the lighthouse. Word arrived that there’s a ship headed for trouble. Mr. Blackthorn lit the light early, trying to warn them off. Naturally, every able-bodied man went to have a look.”
“You don’t say. Maybe I ought to go too. But first I need to ask you something.”
“Oh?”
His palms sweated. Why did he get nervous around women? It had been that way ever since his fiancée, Julia, rejected him.
He cleared his throat. “That, uh, advertisement we were joking about earlier this afternoon... I, uh, wondered if I could have it?” The few scraps of paper in his pocket didn’t contain any of the words.
Pearl blinked. “Oh! Of course.”
She moved the ledger, then looked under the counter. Then she disappeared from view.
Sawyer moved to the counter and peered over. She was on her hands and knees.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Decker?”
She looked up, her faced flushed. “I don’t know where it went.”
“It? There were just scraps.” He pulled the few he had from his pocket.
“Well, uh, not exactly.” She stood, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I owe you an apology, it seems. I rewrote the advertisement, hoping to persuade you, but now it’s gone.”
Sawyer got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Gone where?”
She swallowed. “There’s only one place it could have gone. It must have gotten mixed up with the advertisements for the store that I gave to Mr. Hennigan earlier.”
“What?” Sawyer gulped as his mind spun with possibilities. “Are you saying that it will be printed?” But he knew the answer. The presses would already be whirring at this hour. By morning, all of Singapore would think he was in the market for a wife.
“I’m so sorry,” Pearl said again. “Perhaps nothing will come of it.”
“I hope so.” Scowling, he tipped a finger to his hat and hustled back out into the wind, where he could concentrate on something much easier to handle. The biting cold was real. That advertisement wasn’t. He’d just ignore it. It didn’t give his name, after all. Maybe the whole thing would blow over in a few days.