Mail Order Sweetheart

The moment Fiona stepped outside, the wind slapped the breath from her. Sand stung her face. She squinted against it and could make out a small group huddled atop the dune. They were all standing. If survivors, they must be freezing in this wind.

Mrs. Calloway plowed toward them. Fiona followed.

Each step felt like slogging through knee-deep snow, thanks to the force of the wind coming at them. They hadn’t far to go. Shuttered lanterns and the light cast from the lighthouse guided the way. Mrs. Calloway arrived first, but she didn’t hand a blanket to anyone. Fiona hastened her step. Moments later, she too reached the small group of men and women. She recognized each one as a citizen of Singapore.

“Where are they? The survivors?”

“Not here yet.” Mrs. Calloway point to the blackness in front of them where the dune dropped off toward the angry lake.

Sawyer had disappeared down that dune. For the last time. Fiona caught herself. Assuming the worst wouldn’t help the situation. She would be needed soon, and one of those survivors might well be Mary Clare.

She strained to see into the darkness, but shouts met her ears before anyone crested the dune. Though the words weren’t distinct, the intent was clear. Someone needed help.

“We’re right here,” Mrs. Calloway shouted. Her strong alto was well-practiced in giving orders that could be heard throughout the boardinghouse. In this case, that voice cut through the howling gale and gave comfort to the survivors.

Fiona tensed. Soon she would know.

Long minutes passed before the first figures appeared. The light was too poor to make out faces, but it was obviously a group of women with two men. No children.

“Mary Clare.” Her niece’s name slipped from her mouth. Had she drowned, or was she not on the ship?

Fiona raced to meet the group, Mrs. Calloway on her heels.

The men took the blankets, one at a time, from her arms and gave them to the women. Even in this poor light, Fiona could tell they were all young, perhaps eighteen to twenty years of age, and dressed in simple dark gowns. Each one gratefully wrapped a blanket around her shoulders as Mrs. Calloway directed them out of the wind and toward the keeper’s quarters.

“Is that everyone?” Fiona asked the men, who were heading back down the dune.

“No, ma’am,” one oilskin-clad man responded. “Just the first of ’em.”

Fiona tried to ask more, but the men sprinted down the dune. Before she could follow, Mrs. Calloway called for her in that strident tone of hers that allowed no argument. Fiona worked her way back to the women, who were huddled sipping steaming mugs of coffee in the shelter of the lighthouse.

“Take them to the boardinghouse,” Mrs. Calloway instructed. “Pearl and Amanda will be there to help you get them situated.”

“But—” Leaving the rescue scene was the last thing Fiona wanted to do, but Mrs. Calloway shot her a look that reminded Fiona of her mother. That look meant there would be no negotiation. Fiona was expected to obey. But so many questions were unanswered. “Sawyer,” she began.

Mrs. Calloway cut her off. “If he lived, you’ll see him soon enough. If he died, he’s in God’s hands.”

End of discussion.

Fiona turned to the ladies, who had followed the conversation with wide eyes. By Fiona’s count, there were six of them, all dressed identically.

“Are you able to walk?” Fiona asked.

Each woman nodded.

“We’re going down the dune into town. See the two-story building with all the lights in the windows?”

One of the women followed Fiona’s outstretched arm and nodded.

“It’s the boardinghouse,” Fiona explained. “You can warm up there and have a place to sleep.”

“And soup and bread,” Mrs. Calloway interjected. “Jane sent a kettle there with her oldest. We’ll take care of the rest here before sending them on.” She squeezed Fiona’s arm and shouted in her ear. “Don’t fret. God has Mr. Sawyer and your niece in his care.”

As Fiona headed down the slope with the ladies, she hoped that care left them both on this earth. While watching the young women converse with each other, she realized the opportunity to find out if Mary Clare was on the ship stood right in front of her. She hurried to join them.

“Excuse me, but were there any children on board?” Fiona asked rather breathlessly.

The women looked at each other and shook their heads.

“A little girl?” Fiona prompted. “About seven years old. Dark brown hair.” She began to indicate her niece’s height, but it had been a long time since she’d last seen Mary Clare—longer than mere months, more like a year. The girl could be much taller by now.

“No, ma’am,” the oldest looking one said. “No children at all.”

Fiona breathed out a sigh of relief. God did answer prayer.

* * *

Sawyer was shaking by the time he got into the lighthouse keeper’s quarters. Even sitting next to the kitchen stove didn’t warm his fingers and toes. The pea soup and buttered bread did more to shake off the chill. The men buzzed in and out, boasting about the perilous rescue and the fact that they’d saved everyone before the ship broke up.

He didn’t have the strength to boast. Instead he ate more of the soup and tried to soak in the heat from the stove.

“Out, out.” Mrs. Blackthorn and Mrs. Calloway waved their arms as if shooing crows from a cornfield.

“You men must have someplace better to tell your tales than in the middle of the kitchen,” Mrs. Blackthorn added.

Mrs. Calloway nodded in agreement. “Mr. Roland brought dry clothes for those of you who are wet through to the bone.”

“You can change in the parlor.” Mrs. Blackthorn led them away. “The drapes are drawn, and the stove’s got it toasty as can be. You’ll feel a whole lot better once you’re dry.”

Gradually the kitchen cleared out except for Mrs. Calloway, who gave Sawyer a sharp look.

“That applies to you too, Mr. Sawyer. Go and get into some dry clothes.”

The woman reminded him of his nanny when he was a boy. Mrs. Dougherty didn’t take one bit of nonsense from Sawyer or his brother, Jamie. The memory brought a chuckle to his lips.

Mrs. Calloway braced her hands on her hips. “There’s nothing funny about freezin’ half to death. Get into some dry clothes. That’s an order.”

The smile died on Sawyer’s lips. He’d heard his share of orders during the war. Whether they were foolish or wise, he was expected to obey without question. Mrs. Calloway clearly envisioned herself as the field general. But Sawyer was so exhausted that his legs could collapse if he tried to stand. Until the soup revived him, he preferred sitting right where he was.

He tugged at his thick wool shirt. “Everything is pretty dry already from the stove’s heat.”

“Nonsense. You men don’t know what’s good for you. Now, hurry along.” As if to emphasize her command, she walked toward the kitchen door, where she waited expectantly.

“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll finish the soup first. It’s taking off the chill.”

Mrs. Calloway sighed. “Can’t talk sense into a hardheaded man.”

“I promise to change into dry clothes once I finish eating.” Sawyer placed a hand over his heart as a pledge.

“I suppose that’ll have to do.” An odd smile twisted her lips. “I expect one other thing’ll help warm you right through.” She lowered her voice from a shout to normal volume. “I oughtn’t be tellin’ you, but Miss Fiona pretty near fainted when she heard your boat had gone down.”

“She did?” Sawyer found that difficult to believe. Fiona was not prone to fainting spells. In fact, she was the strongest woman under trying conditions that he’d ever met.

“Of course.” Mrs. Calloway waved a hand. “A woman who thinks she’s lost someone she loves can lose her head.”

“You mean her niece.” Sawyer couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to relay the information to Fiona. “Tell her that there weren’t any children aboard.”

“I’m not talkin’ about her niece. By now, she’ll have heard that the little one wasn’t on the ship.” Mrs. Calloway moved close. “You know exactly who I mean. When the word came in that the rescue boat capsized, she was beside herself.”

Sawyer grimaced at the matchmaking attempt. “Must have been concerned for everyone. After all, everyone can see she set her cap on Carson Blakeney.”

“The Carson Blakeney who dashed out of town without bothering to say goodbye? Balderdash. He’s not worth the clothes on his back.”

Sawyer knew that, but Fiona didn’t. Her shock when he told her of Blakeney’s departure made that clear. The biting retort that followed still stung. “She made it perfectly clear that I don’t measure up to her standards.”

Mrs. Calloway clucked her tongue. “Do you always believe everything a woman tells you?”

Sawyer swallowed the memory of Julia’s hidden attraction to another man. That was another woman and another time. Fiona was different. “Shouldn’t I?”

Mrs. Calloway laughed and threw up her hands as she left the kitchen. “Young people these days.”

Sawyer savored another spoonful of pea soup while her words sank in. Mrs. Calloway believed Fiona liked him. The idea warmed his heart. Then again, her obvious desire to marry coupled with the arrival of her niece could bring a whole lot more attention than he was prepared to accept. He couldn’t take on a wife and family. Not now. Not even for Fiona.

Chapter Five

Louise had dressed and gone downstairs by the time Fiona awoke. She’d stayed up late making sure each survivor had enough to eat and a place to sleep. None of them could tell her if Sawyer lived. Guilt gnawed at the back of her mind even while she helped with blankets, nightgowns and hot tea.

Only when Mrs. Calloway returned in the wee hours of the morning did she get her answer.

“Chilled to the bone,” the boardinghouse proprietress had said. “Won’t surprise me if he catches a cold.”

“But he’s alive.” Fiona had leaned against the wall, exhausted.

“That he is.” Mrs. Calloway had said that with a twinkle in her eye. “No doubt he’ll come a callin’ soon as he can.”

Fiona had made a flippant comment, trying to allay the woman’s matchmaking efforts, but deep inside she was truly grateful. At least she hadn’t caused his death by insisting he rescue her niece, who wasn’t even on the ship.

“But they did manage to rescue everyone,” she’d commented.

“That they did. My Ernie was right there at the forefront, bringin’ them up the dune to safety.”

That must be why she was so relieved. Everyone was safe. Not just Sawyer. Then why did his face keep popping into her mind? Why recall the grace of his fingers moving across the piano keyboard? He never hit a sour note and never touched a piece of music. The first time she’d hummed a tune, and he then played it with harmony and bass notes included, she’d called him a modern-day Mozart. His face had actually gotten red.

She smiled at the memory, but that’s all it was—a pleasant memory between two friends. Nothing more than that.

Reassured, she had retired to the comfort of her stiff and somewhat lumpy mattress. It didn’t even bother her that Louise was already asleep and snoring softly.

This morning, Fiona stretched her arms with a big yawn. Once she’d dressed and completed her toilette—all without seeing a soul—she headed downstairs. Just how long had she slept? The six ladies, who had received the upstairs rooms, were either still sleeping, or they’d been awake for some time.

She got her answer the moment she set foot on the main floor. Giggling and excited exclamations came from the direction of the parlor. They were definitely awake.

“Good morning, Miss Fiona.” Mrs. Calloway breezed from the kitchen with a platter of cinnamon rolls drizzled with sugar icing.

Fiona’s stomach rumbled. “You’re serving breakfast?”

“More like morning tea at this hour, but everyone woke at different hours. You’re the last.”

The last. With a sigh, Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway into the dining room. An older gentleman—perhaps forty or so—and his wife sat across from each other at the table. Otherwise the room was empty.

The man rose. “Good morning, Miss O’Keefe. You look lovely this morning.”

Fiona accepted the compliment with a smile, though she scrambled to recall their names. They had arrived at the boardinghouse not long after she’d settled the young women in rooms.

“I’m sorry I didn’t save a room for you,” she said as she took a seat. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Understandable.” The gentleman settled back in his chair. “The situation was soon rectified. Miss Eaton and Miss Geneva agreed to share.”

So he had taken care of matters himself. Fiona had never excelled as a hostess. Her talents lay elsewhere. Her mother would have realized the need from the start and doubled up everyone. Pearl and Amanda would likewise have assessed the situation correctly, but Pearl was helping the passengers clean up while Amanda manned the kitchen. Fiona assigned sleeping accommodations and distributed nightshirts and nightgowns, but her mind had gotten stuck wondering if Sawyer was alive.

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 why on earth would someone of that stature need to advertise for a wife? Even if circumstances did prompt such desperation, why seek such a woman in the least likely place? For a second she thought of Carson, but he had sandy blond hair, not brunette. No, this made no sense.

“This must be a joke,” she announced. “There aren’t more than a handful of unmarried women within miles. No one would advertise in Singapore for a bride.”

“Maybe this isn’t the only place he advertised,” the brunette suggested.

Fiona couldn’t deny that possibility, but the result was the same. She refolded the newspaper. “If you are already promised, I suggest you focus on your beau, not some foolishness published in the newspaper.”

She then carried the newspaper—and source of the ladies’ excitement—from the room.

* * *

“What am I going to do now?” Sawyer shook the newspaper in front of Roland Decker. As he’d feared, the advertisement had made its way into print.

Roland shrugged. “It’s a good way to catch Fiona’s attention.”

“I’m not the one bent on catching her attention. You and Pearl are.”

“Now, Sawyer. Anyone and everyone can see that you’ve had your eye on her for a long time.”

Sawyer had no idea he was giving that impression. “She’s pretty but only interested in someone whose wallet is fat.”

“That’s why the advertisement highlighted your potential.”

“Potential?” Sawyer raked a hand through his hair. “Every word is completely false.” Well, not completely. He could be an industrial magnate if he chose to ride on Father’s coattails and obey the man’s every demand, but Roland didn’t know that.

“Then make it true.”

“How? I can’t become a wealthy businessman overnight.”

Roland leaned on the mercantile counter, that grin of his not budging. “I didn’t see anything in the advertisement about being wealthy.”

Sawyer read the offensive points. “Up and coming industrial magnate.”

“Doesn’t say what you are now.”

Sawyer moved on. “‘Must be willing to entertain and manage a home.’ If that doesn’t point to wealth, I don’t know what does. The poor don’t entertain. Moreover, I don’t have a home.”

“You will. Now that you’re manager at the mill you can afford one.”

“But I don’t have one now, and even if I did lease one, none of the houses here are big enough to require managing. That implies a servant at least, possibly a whole staff.”

Roland chuckled. “That’s a stretch, I’ll admit, but can’t you just see Fiona bossing the servants around?”

The problem was, he could. Sawyer let out a sigh.

“Besides,” Roland continued, “there’s no harm done. No one knows who is looking for a wife, only that applications are accepted here.”

The doorbell tinkled, drawing Sawyer’s attention. He lowered his voice. “And you think no one will ask who it is?”

“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.