Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson
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from her. Sand stung her face. She squinted against it and could make out a small group huddled atop the dune. They were all standing. If survivors, they must be freezing in this wind.
Mrs. Calloway plowed toward them. Fiona followed.
Each step felt like slogging through knee-deep snow, thanks to the force of the wind coming at them. They hadn’t far to go. Shuttered lanterns and the light cast from the lighthouse guided the way. Mrs. Calloway arrived first, but she didn’t hand a blanket to anyone. Fiona hastened her step. Moments later, she too reached the small group of men and women. She recognized each one as a citizen of Singapore.
“Where are they? The survivors?”
“Not here yet.” Mrs. Calloway point to the blackness in front of them where the dune dropped off toward the angry lake.
Sawyer had disappeared down that dune. For the last time. Fiona caught herself. Assuming the worst wouldn’t help the situation. She would be needed soon, and one of those survivors might well be Mary Clare.
She strained to see into the darkness, but shouts met her ears before anyone crested the dune. Though the words weren’t distinct, the intent was clear. Someone needed help.
“We’re right here,” Mrs. Calloway shouted. Her strong alto was well-practiced in giving orders that could be heard throughout the boardinghouse. In this case, that voice cut through the howling gale and gave comfort to the survivors.
Fiona tensed. Soon she would know.
Long minutes passed before the first figures appeared. The light was too poor to make out faces, but it was obviously a group of women with two men. No children.
“Mary Clare.” Her niece’s name slipped from her mouth. Had she drowned, or was she not on the ship?
Fiona raced to meet the group, Mrs. Calloway on her heels.
The men took the blankets, one at a time, from her arms and gave them to the women. Even in this poor light, Fiona could tell they were all young, perhaps eighteen to twenty years of age, and dressed in simple dark gowns. Each one gratefully wrapped a blanket around her shoulders as Mrs. Calloway directed them out of the wind and toward the keeper’s quarters.
“Is that everyone?” Fiona asked the men, who were heading back down the dune.
“No, ma’am,” one oilskin-clad man responded. “Just the first of ’em.”
Fiona tried to ask more, but the men sprinted down the dune. Before she could follow, Mrs. Calloway called for her in that strident tone of hers that allowed no argument. Fiona worked her way back to the women, who were huddled sipping steaming mugs of coffee in the shelter of the lighthouse.
“Take them to the boardinghouse,” Mrs. Calloway instructed. “Pearl and Amanda will be there to help you get them situated.”
“But—” Leaving the rescue scene was the last thing Fiona wanted to do, but Mrs. Calloway shot her a look that reminded Fiona of her mother. That look meant there would be no negotiation. Fiona was expected to obey. But so many questions were unanswered. “Sawyer,” she began.
Mrs. Calloway cut her off. “If he lived, you’ll see him soon enough. If he died, he’s in God’s hands.”
End of discussion.
Fiona turned to the ladies, who had followed the conversation with wide eyes. By Fiona’s count, there were six of them, all dressed identically.
“Are you able to walk?” Fiona asked.
Each woman nodded.
“We’re going down the dune into town. See the two-story building with all the lights in the windows?”
One of the women followed Fiona’s outstretched arm and nodded.
“It’s the boardinghouse,” Fiona explained. “You can warm up there and have a place to sleep.”
“And soup and bread,” Mrs. Calloway interjected. “Jane sent a kettle there with her oldest. We’ll take care of the rest here before sending them on.” She squeezed Fiona’s arm and shouted in her ear. “Don’t fret. God has Mr. Sawyer and your niece in his care.”
As Fiona headed down the slope with the ladies, she hoped that care left them both on this earth. While watching the young women converse with each other, she realized the opportunity to find out if Mary Clare was on the ship stood right in front of her. She hurried to join them.
“Excuse me, but were there any children on board?” Fiona asked rather breathlessly.
The women looked at each other and shook their heads.
“A little girl?” Fiona prompted. “About seven years old. Dark brown hair.” She began to indicate her niece’s height, but it had been a long time since she’d last seen Mary Clare—longer than mere months, more like a year. The girl could be much taller by now.
“No, ma’am,” the oldest looking one said. “No children at all.”
Fiona breathed out a sigh of relief. God did answer prayer.
* * *
Sawyer was shaking by the time he got into the lighthouse keeper’s quarters. Even sitting next to the kitchen stove didn’t warm his fingers and toes. The pea soup and buttered bread did more to shake off the chill. The men buzzed in and out, boasting about the perilous rescue and the fact that they’d saved everyone before the ship broke up.
He didn’t have the strength to boast. Instead he ate more of the soup and tried to soak in the heat from the stove.
“Out, out.” Mrs. Blackthorn and Mrs. Calloway waved their arms as if shooing crows from a cornfield.
“You men must have someplace better to tell your tales than in the middle of the kitchen,” Mrs. Blackthorn added.
Mrs. Calloway nodded in agreement. “Mr. Roland brought dry clothes for those of you who are wet through to the bone.”
“You can change in the parlor.” Mrs. Blackthorn led them away. “The drapes are drawn, and the stove’s got it toasty as can be. You’ll feel a whole lot better once you’re dry.”
Gradually the kitchen cleared out except for Mrs. Calloway, who gave Sawyer a sharp look.
“That applies to you too, Mr. Sawyer. Go and get into some dry clothes.”
The woman reminded him of his nanny when he was a boy. Mrs. Dougherty didn’t take one bit of nonsense from Sawyer or his brother, Jamie. The memory brought a chuckle to his lips.
Mrs. Calloway braced her hands on her hips. “There’s nothing funny about freezin’ half to death. Get into some dry clothes. That’s an order.”
The smile died on Sawyer’s lips. He’d heard his share of orders during the war. Whether they were foolish or wise, he was expected to obey without question. Mrs. Calloway clearly envisioned herself as the field general. But Sawyer was so exhausted that his legs could collapse if he tried to stand. Until the soup revived him, he preferred sitting right where he was.
He tugged at his thick wool shirt. “Everything is pretty dry already from the stove’s heat.”
“Nonsense. You men don’t know what’s good for you. Now, hurry along.” As if to emphasize her command, she walked toward the kitchen door, where she waited expectantly.
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll finish the soup first. It’s taking off the chill.”
Mrs. Calloway sighed. “Can’t talk sense into a hardheaded man.”
“I promise to change into dry clothes once I finish eating.” Sawyer placed a hand over his heart as a pledge.
“I suppose that’ll have to do.” An odd smile twisted her lips. “I expect one other thing’ll help warm you right through.” She lowered her voice from a shout to normal volume. “I oughtn’t be