Mail-Order Bride Switch. Dorothy Clark

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      She glanced at the list of services, her mind playing with an idea. Perhaps she could act as a hostess. She was skilled at that. She had performed that service for her father often.

      Hotel

      Meals served in your room: 5 cents

      Checking daily for telegrams or posts: 1 cent

      Maid service—bed made, rooms swept or dusted: 2 cents per service

      Fresh towel: 3 cents

      Dining Room

      Breakfast served at six-thirty

      Dinner served from twelve o’clock until three o’clock

      Supper served from six o’clock until eight o’clock

      Meals: 50 cents

      Extra dessert: 5 cents

      “I’ll show you the upstairs rooms later. That way...” He motioned her toward the stairs, which turned and ran a short distance to an arch in the opposite wall.

      Her breath caught. Her fingers twitched. She stopped and stared. Close to the front corner of the room stood an upright Steinway piano. A padded settee and several chairs were clustered around the instrument.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “What? Oh, no. It’s only...do you play the piano?”

      “Not so anyone would want to hear.” His eyebrow lifted, his gaze fastened on hers. “Do you play?”

      She tipped her head and answered him in kind. “Well enough that people like to listen.”

      He chuckled, a low masculine rumble that made her smile. “Good. You’ll be able to entertain our guests.”

      At last, something she could do to repay him for her escape from Emory Gladen. The cost of the ticket and the money she had used weighed heavily on her. The tension across her shoulders lessened.

      “This hallway leads to the guests’ dressing room—” he gestured toward the door at the end of the hall on their right “—and two guest bedrooms. These are the rooms I want ready in case any passengers decide it’s too dangerous to travel farther and choose to stay overnight.” He opened the doors. “I tended the fires earlier. You’ve only to make up the beds and set out the towels in the dressing room. You’ll find the linens in the cupboard in the hall. I’ve got to finish shoveling. Oh, and when you finish the rooms, you’ll find beef stew in the refrigerator to be heated for dinner.”

      She stared after him, wanting to tell him she didn’t know how to make a bed or cook. But the thought of the anger that shadowed his face and eyes whenever he mentioned Millie held her silent. What if he annulled their strange marriage? She had nowhere to go. And she was indebted to him for the ticket and money she had used.

      Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t helpless. Surely she could make a bed. She would worry about the cooking later.

      She opened the cupboard in the hall, stared at the shelves piled with sheets and blankets and pillowcases. She closed her eyes and thought about her bed at home, then filled her arms with the items she needed and carried them to bedroom number one. She dropped them onto the seat of a chair and faced the bed. What did Millie do?

      Tears welled again. So did her anger. One thing was for certain—Millie didn’t cry. Was her maid more capable than she? Of course not! It was only a matter of applying oneself. She blinked the tears away, pulled the coverlet off the bed and tossed it over the chair back. First she needed a sheet for the guest to lie on. She pulled one from the pile, laid it on the bed and unfolded it. It was too big. She folded the extra length out of her way at the bottom, but that did not work on the sides; they simply fell down. She let them hang, and unfolded the second sheet on top of the first and repeated the process.

      It looked quite good.

      She smoothed out every crease and wrinkle, unfolded and placed two blankets on top of the sheet. A smile curved her lips. This wasn’t so difficult. She stuffed the pillow into the case, remembered Millie pummeling hers, and punched and fluffed it. The blue-and-white coverlet finished her job.

      She stood back and examined her work. There was not a wrinkle showing anywhere. She let out a long, relieved sigh and hurried to the cupboard in the hall to get the linens for bedroom number two.

      * * *

      Garret stomped the snow from his boots, wiped them on the rag rug and hurried across the lobby. Finally, he was through shoveling for possible guests. With all the narrow connecting paths, the town looked like a rabbit warren. But at least people could get around. He opened the door to his private quarters and froze. Smoke! He bolted for the kitchen.

      “Oh...oh...” Virginia stood in front of the stove waving a towel through the air. Smoke billowed and curled from a large pot sitting on the front burner plate. The smell of burned stew mingled with the stringent odor.

      He leaped forward, snatched the towel from her hands and lifted the pan off the hot surface.

      “Oh!” She whirled around, bumped into him and rebounded toward the stove.

      “Careful!” He grabbed her with his free hand, pulled her against him and backed toward the sink, bringing her with him. He set the pan in the sink and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed out and covered the burned stew. The pot hissed. The smoke stopped. He looked down into her watering eyes. Tears? Or stinging smoke? “What happened?”

      “I—I don’t know.” She placed her hands against his chest and pushed away. “I—I put wood in the stove, then found the refrigerator and the stew in it.”

      She found the refrigerator?

      “I put the stew in a pan and was heating it as you asked. I stirred it with a big spoon the way I’ve seen Martha do, but it started bubbling and splashing out of the pan.” Her eyes watered more.

      Tears. He held back a frown and waited for her to finish her explanation. “Some landed on my hand and I went to wash it off and put lotion on it. When I came back the stew was burning and smoking, and I couldn’t make it stop.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

      He didn’t know which was more pathetic, the way she looked or her story. “Who is Martha?” He had a sinking feeling he knew the answer before she spoke.

      “Our cook.”

      “And Millie helped her in the kitchen.”

      “Yes. Garret—”

      He shook his head, set his jaw and looked at the scorched mess in the pot. There went the possibility of stew for today’s dinner or supper for any guests...or them. “We’ll talk later. First I’ll...” He lifted his head, looked toward the sitting room. “There’s the bell. I have a guest.” He looked down at his rough clothes and scowled. “The way I’m dressed, it would be best if you register him and show him to his room to make certain everything is satisfactory. Can you do that?” She seemed capable of that much.

      She straightened, brushed back a СКАЧАТЬ