Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson

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      Fiona lifted a roll from the platter with the serving knife and set it on the plate in front of her before passing the platter to the husband and wife. If only she could recall their names!

      She forced a smile. “Are you familiar with the young women, then?”

      The wife chuckled, but her husband answered. “We are their escorts.”

      “Is one of them your daughter?”

      “No.” The woman laughed, but again she let her husband explain.

      He set down his cup of coffee. “We are escorting them to our community on Low Island.”

      Fiona had to admit ignorance. “Where is Low Island?”

      The man smiled graciously. “In northern Lake Michigan.”

      “I see. Forgive me, but I’m not from this area. I was born and raised in New York City.”

      “Is that so?” the man said while his wife made a surprised sound. “I have never been to that great city. How does it compare to Chicago?”

      Fiona had no answer for him. “I spent little time in Chicago before taking passage on a steamboat similar to the one you took here.”

      The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You were stranded here also?”

      “No. Not at all.” She didn’t feel like explaining the mail-order advertisement that had brought her here. “This is...a promising town.” The words stuck in her throat. It might have been if Roland Decker’s glassworks or Carson Blakeney’s new mill had gotten off the ground, but both ventures failed—though for entirely different reasons. Roland could not be blamed. A fire had destroyed his building before it was finished. Carson, on the other hand, was a coward and a liar. She suspected he had little intention of starting a new mill in a town that already boasted two sawmills.

      “I was hoping another ship would call here soon,” the gentleman was saying.

      She’d gone and let her mind drift again.

      “I’m sure one will.” She took a sip of her tea, which was piping hot. Mrs. Calloway always brought scalding hot tea to table this time of year since it cooled rapidly in the colder-than-normal dining room. “What is the name of the community, Mr...?”

      The man wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me. I should have realized you couldn’t possibly remember everyone’s name given the frantic nature of matters last night. I am Mr. George Adamson, and this is my wife, Bettina.”

      Even while completing introductions, a shriek of joy came from the parlor, followed by exclamations of “mine” and “no, mine.”

      Mr. Adamson frowned and set aside his napkin. “My apologies for their unseemly behavior. It will be put to a stop at once.”

      Mrs. Calloway, who could hear across town even when standing next to a running saw, breezed into the room with some of her apple chutney. “Never you mind, Mr. Adamson. It’s a pure delight to hear young ladies’ high spirits.”

      His frown didn’t ease. “I can’t imagine what they’re carrying on about.”

      “Something in the local newspaper, I presume. The weekly arrived bright and early this morning, and they’ve been reading it front to back ever since. Now have a bit of my chutney. I’m rather proud of it, if I don’t say so myself.”

      Fiona stared at the departing Mrs. Calloway while Mr. Adamson resumed his seat at the table and dished some of the chutney onto his and his wife’s plates. She had read the Singapore Sentinel many times. There wasn’t one thing over the course of months that would elicit that sort of reaction from young women with no connection to the town. The newspaper typically droned on about the number of board feet cut, who visited whom for Sunday dinner and which ships had called or were expected. It was a perfectly fine medium for inducing sleep.

      After the initial outburst, the women quieted. That appeased the Adamsons, but it didn’t quell Fiona’s curiosity. Like a small child, silence brought suspicion, not comfort. Until now, they had made no attempt to hush their voices. Those ladies were up to something.

      Fiona finished her tea and rose. “Forgive me, but the day is long and much remains to be done.”

      The Adamsons graciously released her, but they could not have known her purpose. Once out of the dining room, Fiona walked to the parlor. There she found all six ladies huddled around the sofa, four of them on their knees, though definitely not in prayer. The newspaper was spread out on the seat of the sofa, and six faces peered intently at the newsprint.

      “He sounds wonderful,” the blonde said, sighing.

      Her high voice and petite figure only made her youth more evident. If Fiona was to guess, she would place her as the youngest. Other than hair color, height and weight, little distinguished the women, who were again dressed in the matching navy blue dresses.

      “More than wonderful,” countered the brunette who’d acted as the leader of the group from the moment they arrived. “He is everything a woman could want in a husband.”

      A husband! This sounded very much like they were reading an advertisement for a wife, but there had never been such a thing in the Singapore Sentinel. What on earth were those girls up to?

      The other five ladies nodded, hanging on every word their leader said.

      “Perfect.” The blonde sighed.

      The redhead echoed the sentiment.

      “However, he is just one man, and we are already pledged,” the brunette pointed out.

      Already pledged? Fiona stared. This was unseemly behavior for women engaged to marry. Moreover, not a one had mentioned traveling with her betrothed. Fiona mentally counted the rescued passengers. There were not enough men of the appropriate age to match to the six ladies. Moreover, the Adamsons said they were escorting the ladies to some island far to the north. This got more and more peculiar, and Fiona intended to get to the bottom of it.

      “Excuse me.” Fiona glided across the room, ignoring the guilty looks on the ladies’ faces and their quick attempt to refold the newspaper. “I could not help but overhear. Am I correct that you found an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper?”

      The girls relaxed, and the leader reopened the paper. “There it is, as plain as day.”

      Fiona couldn’t see it, unless she got on her knees and crouched with the rest of the ladies. That might be all right for some, but not for a star of the New York stage. She held out a hand, and the leader passed the newspaper to her.

      It didn’t take long for Fiona to locate the unlikely advertisement. The wording stunned—no, shocked—her.

      Up and coming industrial magnate seeks cultured wife gifted in the social and musical arts. Must be willing to entertain and manage a home. Skill in baking highly valued. Prospective groom has brunette hair and a comely visage. Apply at the Singapore Mercantile.

      Fiona let out the breath she’d been holding. Industrial magnate? Lover of music? Reasonably attractive? He did sound perfect, but СКАЧАТЬ