She involuntarily trembled, and her cheek burned where his finger had brushed it.

      “Are you cold?” he breathed.

      “No.” It wasn’t cold—it was much worse. That horrible hot-and-cold tingling ran through her again, but it couldn’t be. She needed to marry Robert. She couldn’t be attracted to Gabriel. That would lead nowhere and ruin everything. She stood abruptly. “I need to go.”

      “Go?” He didn’t try to hold her. He let her back away, but his expression said it all. He liked her. A lot.

      His intensity terrified her. She looked around wildly. The picket fence enclosed the yard, trapping her, stifling her. “I—I need to go,” she repeated, even less sure of herself. Stay another moment, and she’d never leave. “I’m sorry.”

      “Felicity.”

      She couldn’t look at him. The expression on his face would make her stay, and then what? She could have no future with him. She stumbled away, feet as unsure as her heart.

       The Matrimony Plan

      Christine Johnson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dear Reader,

      I hope you enjoyed Gabriel and Felicity’s journey. They’re bound to have a full house in coming years, the perfect way for them to share the love they’ve found in each other.

      What we now call orphan trains began in the mid-nineteenth century with the Children’s Aid Society train from New York to Dowagiac, Michigan. Other organizations joined the movement, sending children by train from what people believed to be the “squalor” of the cities to “healthy” small towns. The orphan trains ran into the late 1920s and early 1930s. Several books have been written on the topic, and many articles can be found on the internet. I’ve noted a few on my website.

      I dearly love hearing from readers. If Gabriel and Felicity’s story touched your heart, please send me a note in care of Love Inspired Historical or through my website at http://www.christineelizabethjohnson.com.

      Thank you for joining me, and may God bless you richly.

       Christine Johnson

      For my parents, who raised me

      in the fertile soil of love

      For every one that exalteth himself shall be abased;

      and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.

      —Luke 18:14b

       Chapter One

       Pearlman, Michigan June 15, 1920

      Today, Felicity Kensington was going to meet her future husband. He didn’t know this yet, of course, but he had a full two months to come to that conclusion.

      She pinched her cheeks for color and took a deep breath for courage. The vanity mirror revealed every imperfection. Her eyes were an odd hue of green, and she was a bit too tall for most men, but Daddy’s money could overcome those deficiencies. She pinned her chignon and checked that every pleat of her skirt fell in place. Crisp, conservative, and irresistibly efficient. Mr. Robert Blevins, civil engineer, had to fall in love with her.

      A hand bell tinkled downstairs. “Felicity, you’re late.”

      Mother. She was the only hitch in an otherwise flawless plan. She insisted Felicity attend this afternoon’s Ladies’ Aid Society meeting to greet the new pastor, but that meant she’d miss Mr. Blevins’s train. All the other eligible girls would see him before she did. Felicity had to reach the train first.

      Hopefully Mother would accept a mere engineer as a son-in-law. He did hail from New York, and Mother always espoused the social superiority of Easterners. If society mattered to Mother, distance was the key for Felicity. Robert Blevins would take her far from Mother’s manipulations.

      “Felicity.” The bell ran with greater urgency. “We’re waiting.”

      Felicity shooed Ms. Priss, the neighbor’s sociable cat, out the window with parting advice. “Don’t let her see you.” The cat wisely scampered across the porch roof and onto the limb of an overhanging elm.

      After brushing the bed free of cat hair, which then necessitated cleaning Grandmama’s sterling hairbrush, she took a deep breath, cast a quick prayer for courage and descended the sweeping staircase with its polished mahogany rail. Little rainbows danced off the crystals of the hall chandelier and flitted across her arm, but the beauty couldn’t calm Felicity’s nerves.

      “Why did you take so long?” Mother primped in front of the mirror, poking her tight dark curls into place. She looked perfect in her fawn-colored suit. She always looked perfect. “You know we need to leave early so your father can pick up Reverend Meeks.”

      Reverend Meeks…what a ghastly name. He’d surely be thin and pale with pox scars, a hawkish nose and a receding hairline. He’d never smile or grant the slightest leniency. He would conduct fire and brimstone sermons. Children would cower. Congregants would scurry away, chastened.

      Thankfully, she’d be gone soon, married in the wedding of the century—at least for Pearlman. Pearlman, whose cultural center was the drugstore. Pearlman, with its gravel Main Street and single cinema. Pearlman, where everyone knew everything about everyone. She could not wait to arrive in New York City as Mrs. Robert Blevins.

      Mother rang the servant’s bell, and Smithson, the butler, glided from the kitchen to the front door and opened it without a word. Now was the time to act, before Mother trapped her in the motorcar.

      “I’d like to—”

      “Don’t forget the letter.” Mother pressed the ivory vellum envelope from the National Academy of Design into Felicity’s hand. “You’ll want to show it to everyone.”

      Felicity wanted to crumple that letter and throw it in the fireplace. The whole idea was Mother’s. She was the one who wanted to go to art school. She was the one with talent. Felicity couldn’t draw a straight line. Aside from the humiliation of being the only nonartist at the prestigious art school, Mother would never leave her alone. She’d visit for weeks at a time and fix every one of Felicity’s projects. Art school could not happen, and if all went as planned, she’d never set foot in the National Academy.

      Mother, of course, never noticed her discomfort. She swooped down the granite steps to the Packard, and Felicity had no choice but to follow—as usual.

      Daddy stood by a marble pillar, idly stroking his walrus mustache. He’d gained a little weight around the midsection and had to wear his spectacles all the time now, but he still saw her as his little girl.

      “Good luck.” He winked at Felicity.

      Mother clucked her tongue while she waited for Smithson to open the motorcar’s passenger door. “Branford, I thought you were in a hurry. Quit lollygagging.”

      Daddy rolled his eyes behind his presidential spectacles and sauntered toward the Packard while Smithson opened the rear door for Felicity.

      This was her last chance. Though her fingertips tingled and her pulse raced, she mustered the calm smile preached by the Highbury School for Girls, the New York boarding school she’d attended. “I believe I’ll walk.”

      “Walk?” Mother glared through her open window. “In this heat? Your dress will wilt, and you’ll perspire.” She said the last word as if it was the most sinful thing in the world. “That’s not the image to project when you want to curry favor.”

      “But I don’t want to curry favor.”

      “Of course you do. It’s