Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ Louise hadn’t touched the note that Fiona placed in the bureau while Louise was watching.

      “I didn’t want to disturb you,” the widow said, still from behind the door.

      “It’s your room too.” Fiona pinned a bright red curl in place. Men loved hair piled high atop a woman’s head with curls cascading to the shoulders, and Carson was no exception. She had been blessed with thick, naturally curling locks in a hue that drew attention. “You can come in whenever you wish.”

      Louise must have had to tiptoe around the Elders’ house. Either that or she was simply too meek to barge into her own room. When Captain Elder shuttered his house and took his wife to Chicago for better medical treatment, Louise had lost her position. Though the kindly couple offered to let her stay in the house, Louise had refused, saying she didn’t want to live alone. Fiona had offered to share her room. Louise thought her generous, but the lack of paying concerts over the winter had depleted Fiona’s funds.

      Louise opened the door a little wider. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but you have a caller.”

      “Carson!” The time had arrived. Fiona straightened the skirts of her green silk gown and then plucked a lavish necklace from her small jewelry box. She placed the sparkling diamond and emerald jewels—all glass—around her neck and then admired the effect in the mirror.

      “What do you think?”

      Louise stepped into the room for a closer look but then hesitated. “It’s...ostentatious.”

      “Osten-what?”

      Louise’s gaze darted to the door. “Uh, like something the very wealthy might wear.”

      “Precisely.” Fiona returned her attention to the mirror. “Hopefully, it’s enough.”

      “Enough?”

      “To secure an offer.” Fiona adjusted the lace edging on her gown.

      “Um, Mr. Blakeney isn’t the one calling for you.”

      “What? Who then? I’m expecting Carson. He’s escorting me to Saugatuck for the choir’s performance of Handel’s Messiah.”

      “That might be the case,” Louise said slowly, “but Mr. Evans is the one paying a call at the moment.”

      Fiona bit back irritation. She did not have time to waste on Sawyer Evans. He was a fine accompanist and an uncommonly attractive man, but his prospects were dim to say the least. She hadn’t worked so hard to sing on the New York stage only to throw her future away on a sawmill worker. She must marry for Mary Clare’s sake, but not to just anyone. Her future husband must hold a position of authority. A tidy nest egg would help too. Carson fit her criteria perfectly.

      “Tell Sawyer I’ll talk to him later. He probably wants to discuss future concerts.” If tonight went as planned, she need not sing ever again. A wave of disappointment swept over her. Singing had been her life for as long as she could remember. As a child, she’d sung to escape the gnawing hunger. As a young woman, she’d seen a beautiful singer arrive at a theater and decided that nothing would stop her from doing exactly the same. She could never have imagined the cost of that decision.

      “I don’t think that’s it.” Louise twisted and knotted a length of ribbon that she probably used as a bookmark, considering her insatiable appetite for books. “He said he has something to tell you. Something important. He doesn’t look happy.”

      Fiona stared at her roommate. Had Mary Clare arrived already? “He didn’t give you any idea what that was?”

      “No.” Louise edged toward the door. “Just that he wouldn’t leave until he spoke to you.”

      What a bother! If she didn’t get rid of Sawyer soon, Carson could arrive and think the worst. “Very well. Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.”

      Louise cleared her throat. “He likes you, you know.”

      The statement raised an unexpected flutter in her stomach. Fiona pushed it aside. After all, any woman liked to hear a man found her attractive or interesting. That’s all it was. She couldn’t possibly feel anything for Sawyer Evans. For Louise’s sake, she shrugged and continued her toilette.

      “Mr. Evans is not the sort of man who likes fancy clothes,” Louise continued. “He’s an honest, straightforward sort.”

      Fiona secretly admitted she found that aspect of Sawyer pleasing. Too many men in New York had lied and manipulated her in an attempt to get what they wanted. Carson wasn’t anything like that. He was always very straightforward about his aims and his background. The combination of wealth and openness was perfect. To gain his favor, she had to put her very best forward.

      Fiona set down her brush. “Men adore a beautiful woman. Why, in New York, I was the talk of the theater circuit.” Though that talk had turned vicious toward the end.

      “I’m sure you were,” Louise mumbled, “but this isn’t New York. People...well, they value different things.”

      “What are you trying to say?”

      “Well...that different bait catches different kinds of fish.”

      “I’m not going fishing with anyone,” Fiona pointed out, though she knew perfectly well what Louise was getting at. What the woman didn’t understand was that Carson did love the fancy gowns. That was the man Fiona needed to catch. “Carson and I are going to a concert.”

      “Um, yes. At a church.”

      “Are you saying I shouldn’t wear my best gown in church?”

      Louise flushed. “I just thought...well, never mind. Do as you please. I’ll tell Mr. Evans that you’ll be downstairs shortly.” She hurried from the room.

      Fiona listened to Louise’s footsteps clatter down the staircase as she surveyed her appearance again. Perhaps a feather would look good in her hair. She eyed the white plume from both the left side and the right. Too much. Osten—whatever that word was. She tucked a comb into her bag and shut the clasp. Before leaving, she took one last glance in the mirror. Too pale. She pinched her cheeks for more color. Yes, that would do nicely. She looked fine, hopefully fine enough to push Carson Blakeney toward a proposal.

      Her finger needed a ring—now.

      * * *

      Sawyer paced the boardinghouse drawing room. Though Mrs. Smythe was perched on the edge of the sofa, he couldn’t think of anything but how to tell Fiona the bad news. Not that he considered the news bad, mind you. Fiona deserved better than Blakeney.

      “Do have a seat,” Mrs. Smythe insisted. “Fiona will be down shortly. You know how much appearance matters to her.”

      Did he. He also knew her fiery temper, and the news he had to deliver was sure to set off that storm. He completed another circuit around the room.

      “I have a question,” Mrs. Smythe interjected into his thoughts, “purely a matter of scientific inquiry.”

      That caught his attention. “Scientific?” He’d never expected to hear that word come out of any woman’s mouth, least of all from Louise Smythe.

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