Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson
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“Not likely.”
Mrs. Wardman approached.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Roland said. “How are you doing this fine day? Anything I can get for you?”
“I’m curious about this advertisement. My girls are far too young, naturally, but I have a cousin over in Allegan who might be interested. I’d write and suggest she send a letter, but I’d have to know who the prospective groom is.”
“Now, that’s strictly confidential, ma’am. You must understand.”
Mrs. Wardman leaned over the counter to whisper, “Is it Mr. Stockton?”
Roland gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You know I can’t say.”
“It is him, isn’t it? Well, I thought that he’d never remarry after losing his wife.” Mrs. Wardman chattered on, never once looking at Sawyer.
Maybe Roland was right. No one would think that the prospective groom was him. Like Mrs. Wardman, they’d think it was Stockton. Wouldn’t the dour entrepreneur think that was funny? Well, maybe not.
Before Sawyer could get another word with Roland, woman after woman came into the store with the same question. Who was looking for a wife? Each bought something, making Roland beam. Apparently this little scheme had at least improved business. It sure didn’t make Sawyer feel good, though.
When the last lady departed, Sawyer asked, “Any of them say they were going to apply?”
Roland’s grin broadened. “Not yet, but it’s early.”
Sawyer groaned. He was ready to make his escape when the doorbell tinkled again. This time Mrs. VanderLeuven walked in. Sawyer stood up straight. The hotel proprietress must be coming back to reopen. Either that or she’d gotten word about last night’s shipwreck.
“Mrs. VanderLeuven!” Roland exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d come back to town.”
She waved a hand. “Soon as we heard about the wrecked ship, we packed up the wagon and drove the old road down from Holland.”
“News got to Holland that quickly?” Sawyer was astonished. Though people often traveled the ten miles between the two towns, the VanderLeuvens would have had to race to get here this quickly.
“They saw it up at the lighthouse.”
That made sense. From the Holland light tower, the keeper could easily see off the shore from Singapore. The wreck hadn’t gone under but sat like a great hulk on the sandbar.
“Though I’ll miss my family in Holland,” Mrs. VanderLeuven was saying, “I had to come help. People might be needing a place to sleep and something to eat.”
While she and Roland discussed what would be needed to reopen the hotel, Sawyer pretended to browse the display of oilskins. The VanderLeuvens’ return could mean resuming the concerts. That meant time with Fiona. Though marriage was out of the question right now, he loved making music with her. He’d never heard a clearer soprano.
When Roland and Mrs. VanderLeuven finished their business transaction, Sawyer caught the woman’s attention. “Perhaps I could talk Fiona into a concert in the dining room to encourage business.”
“I’m afraid I can’t pay,” Mrs. VanderLeuven responded, “not until we’ve started turning a profit.”
That was disappointing. Sawyer wouldn’t mind adding to his savings, but a bit of goodwill might improve business enough for the VanderLeuvens to once again pay them for playing. “Consider it a gift.”
The portly woman’s cheeks flushed. “Why, Mr. Evans, what a kind gesture. Of course we would welcome a concert. The usual time?”
After Sawyer assured her that Saturday evening would be perfect, she left.
Roland’s grin spread across his face. “Not interested in Miss O’Keefe?”
“This is strictly business.” Even Sawyer had a hard time believing that.
* * *
When Fiona overheard the blonde young woman talking about the advertisement later that afternoon, she put a stop to it.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about your fiancé?”
The blonde sighed. “I can’t think on someone I ain’t met.”
The girl’s atrocious grammar and cheap muslin dress marked her as poor. Fiona had once been exactly the same. Changing her speech took practice, but improving her dress took money. She’d worked long and hard before she could afford her first pretty gown. Until then, a kindhearted singer had given Fiona one of her cast-offs for the stage. Away from the theater, Fiona had hidden in the shadows so no one would connect the poor girl with the singer on the stage.
Fiona stared at the young woman. “Are you saying you’ve never met your fiancé?”
The girl shrugged. “Ain’t been no chance to.”
“None of us has met our beau yet,” the bubbly redhead said, “but we’ll meet them soon. We’re going to Harmony to get married.”
Fiona drew in a deep breath. The similarities to her arrival in Singapore didn’t drift past without notice. “You’re all answering advertisements for a wife?” She hoped they weren’t all going for the same man.
The leader shook her brunette locks. “No, ma’am. We each got a husband waitin’ for us.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. “Then you’ve written to them already.”
Again the leader shook her head. “Mr. Adamson chose us.”
“Chose?”
“Yes, ma’am. He held an interview, and we got picked. Dozens applied.”
The whole process appalled Fiona. “Do you know anything about the man you’re going to marry, Miss...?”
“Clara.” The leader straightened her spine. “Call me Clara.” She then proceeded to introduce the rest.
Fiona forgot their names in an instant except for Dinah, the blonde, who wasn’t yet eighteen years of age.
“We all got a description,” Clara finished up. “My fiancé’s name is Benjamin. He’s twenty-eight and tall with dark hair like mine.”
The other ladies then described their future mates, all of whom were older and whose hair color came remarkably close to their own. When their matching dresses were taken into account, there was something odd about this whole situation.
“What do they do? Their occupation?” she asked.
Clara gave her a blank look. “They’re all farmers, of course. We’re creating a community free of strife and vice.” She reeled that off as if quoting something she’d been told to memorize.
Fiona was appalled. “Surely you had another choice.”
Each girl shook her head.
“Marry a drunken bum,” Clara stated frankly. “We’ve been workin’ in the shirtwaist factory after getting thrown out of the orphanage.”
“Thrown out?” Fiona could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Because we’re too old,” the redhead, Linore, explained. “That’s why we’re getting married.”
“Next ta Bleek Street, Harmony sounds like paradise.” Dinah sighed. “No drinkin’ or brawlin’.”
That did sound too good to be true.
“Then they are all upright men of God?” Fiona prodded.
“That’s what Mr. Adamson says,” Clara answered.
Each woman nodded in affirmation.
If