Mail Order Sweetheart

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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 what Mr. Adamson claimed was indeed the truth, Fiona could understand why these women had agreed to go to this island community. But what if it wasn’t?

“Can you leave if your fiancé doesn’t turn out the way he’s been advertised?” Fiona would definitely have made certain that option was available. She’d held on to it when answering the advertisement that brought her to Singapore. Even now, that possibility remained, though it would get much more difficult once Mary Clare arrived. She had not set aside the fare for two to travel to Chicago.

The women all stared at her as if she were mad.

Clara vocalized their response. “Why would we leave? It’s better than what we got now.”

Fiona recalled the newspaper that had so gripped their attention. “Then why the interest in the advertisement for a wife?”

The women looked at each other and giggled.

This time the one with the chestnut-colored hair answered, her jaw thrust out. “A girl’s gotta dream, don’t she?”

“Well, I can tell you for certain that this advertisement is only a dream. There’s not a man in this town who fits that description.”

Instead of solemnly nodding, like she’d expected, the ladies grew quiet, their eyes wide, and stood as one, smoothing their plain skirts as if they wore silk. A hush came over the room.

A man cleared his throat behind Fiona.

She whirled to see Sawyer standing in the doorway, hat in hand. “Sawyer! Mr. Evans, that is. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

His complexion reddened as if—no, it wasn’t possible—he were blushing. He stepped from foot to foot, clearly uneasy. “I’m fine.”

“So I see.”

The ladies giggled behind her.

Fiona left the room and led Sawyer to the front porch where they might have a bit of privacy. The chill air bit into her, and she hugged her arms close for warmth.

“You had something to tell me?” she prompted.

Sawyer cleared his throat again, though his eyes darted toward the parlor windows. “I just wanted you to know that the VanderLeuvens are back in town and are opening up the hotel. We can begin the concerts again.”

Fiona breathed out. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss the income she’d received from her concerts. Almost three months without pay had stretched her funds very thin. “That’s wonderful. An answer to prayer.”

“You’ve been praying to have a concert?”

“I’ve been praying for an income.”

The color left his face. “An income?”

“I do need to pay for room and board,” she pointed out.

“Of course.” His color returned, this time to a bright red. He avoided looking directly at her.

“All right. What’s wrong? Spit it out.” Fiona hated when a man wouldn’t express himself outright.

“Um.” Again he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to say that at least for now we’ll have to do them without pay. Mrs. VanderLeuven said she needs to start turning a profit first.”

Fiona’s temper rose. Under that rationale, the VanderLeuvens would never pay them. She’d heard the rumors of unpaid debts and heavy loans on the property. But it did no good to rail at the messenger. It also wouldn’t help pay the bills when Mary Clare did arrive. She needed steady employment. The thought of cleaning rooms or scrubbing dishes at the hotel left a foul taste in her mouth. She’d clawed her way out of poverty. She would not descend back into it.

“I see.” The terse reply was the best she could manage.

“Then you’ll do it?” The hint of hope in his voice gave her pause.

He wanted her to sing at the hotel again. Maybe he looked forward to it. She did too, and not just the singing. Sawyer was surprisingly handsome and charming. And his piano and violin playing made her want to close her eyes and drink it in. Too bad he was only a sawmill foreman. Still, a concert couldn’t hurt. Maybe she could persuade Mrs. VanderLeuven to give them a percentage of profit from the meals ordered that night.

“I will,” she confirmed. “For now.”

The faint sound of women’s giggling reached her ears. She turned to see the ladies glued to the parlor windows. They weren’t watching her. No, every eye was fixed on Sawyer. No wonder he’d looked so uncomfortable. It wasn’t her at all. Drawing the attention of six women left him unnerved.

She glanced back at Sawyer. Granted, he was a fine specimen of masculinity with his broad shoulders, height, muscular build and shock of dark brown hair. Brunette for brunette. That’s how Mr. Adamson had matched the girls. Under that criteria, Clara would go with Sawyer. The woman did have a proprietary gleam in her eye.

Sawyer looked away. “Are those the women we rescued? I didn’t realize they were so young.”

He didn’t say they were pretty, but he thought it. She could tell.

Something fiercely protective rose in Fiona’s breast. “Yes, and they are all engaged to marry. Every last one.”

There. That ought to douse the spark of interest in his eyes.

Chapter Six (#u9e080044-721e-5be4-b3e2-1cb872c51049)

Sawyer had never been nervous before a concert in the past, but Saturday he tugged at the collar of his good shirt. The tie was choking him. Or was it the fact that the whole town knew about the advertisement? Fiona was bound to say something, and he had no idea what he’d tell her. He couldn’t come right out and reveal that he was the bachelor supposedly seeking a wife. He certainly couldn’t tell people that he hadn’t placed the advertisement and had no intention of marrying right now. That hadn’t worked for Garrett Decker, and it wouldn’t work for him.

Still, as the days passed without a single response, he began to wonder what was wrong. Was it the advertisement or him? Had Fiona figured out that he was the prospective bridegroom?

As always, he stopped at the boardinghouse an hour before they performed. The brief walk to the hotel left them plenty of time to warm up before many guests and diners arrived.

She wore the emerald green gown—her favorite and the one she seemed to think most like those worn by the upper class. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that those born to wealth most often chose conservative colors and styles. The worst of them would look down their noses at Fiona’s exuberant attire. He found it refreshing, for her gowns matched her temperament perfectly.

“I expect a large crowd,” she said as they walked the boardwalk between the two businesses. “It’s been a long winter, after all.”

“We did perform a few times at the boardinghouse.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it. The hotel is roomier and more...professional.”

Sawyer was again reminded of the talent and perseverance that brought her to the New York City stage. Many dreamed but few reached that lofty goal. Fiona had. Again he wondered why she would leave her blossoming career to answer an advertisement for a mail-order bride in a lumber town. According to Pearl, Fiona still searched the personal advertisements. Yet she had not responded to his.

He held the door of the hotel for her and escorted her into the dining room. A smattering of applause greeted them, and she flitted from one table to the next, thanking them for their gracious response to her return.

That left Sawyer to warm up on the piano. After a couple months of inactivity and icy temperatures, it was slightly out of tune. He could fix that but had forgotten to bring the tools with him. He’d been preoccupied with the looming catastrophe caused by that advertisement. Even if Fiona wrote to him, he couldn’t mislead her into thinking he wanted a wife. Not now. And she seemed determined to marry as soon as possible.