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A Mistaken Match
Whitney Bailey
MATRIMONY MIX-UPHoping for a fresh start, Ann Cromwell travels to New Haven, Ohio, from London, England, as a mail-order bride—and learns she’s not the wife her groom-to-be was looking for. Though handsome farmer James McCann is kindly, he’s made it clear he wants the matchmaking agency to fix their mistake. But if she can’t convince him to give her a chance, she’s not sure where she’ll go.James can’t imagine why the matchmakers ignored his request for a plain bride. He was burned by a beautiful woman before, and he’s sure someone as stunning as Ann is unsuited for rural living. While the agency sorts out the error, though, Ann quietly works her way into James’s life…but can he ever allow her into his heart?


Matrimony Mix-up
Hoping for a fresh start, Ann Cromwell travels to New Haven, Ohio, from London, England, as a mail-order bride—and learns she’s not the wife her groom-to-be was looking for. Though handsome farmer James McCann is kindly, he’s made it clear he wants the matchmaking agency to fix their mistake. But if she can’t convince him to give her a chance, she’s not sure where she’ll go.
James can’t imagine why the matchmakers ignored his request for a plain bride. He was burned by a beautiful woman before, and he’s sure someone as stunning as Ann is unsuited for rural living. While the agency sorts out the error, though, Ann quietly works her way into James’s life...but can he ever allow her into his heart?
“This is why I didn’t want a pretty bride,” James muttered.
Ann’s cheeks flushed crimson and she clenched her hands into fists. “You think an ugly girl will make you a better breakfast?”
“I need to eat, Ann. The animals need to eat. The crops need to be planted and harvested. And you can’t even cook an egg.”
“I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you, Mr. McCann, but why are you berating me? If I’m another man’s intended, you won’t be bothered with me much longer.”
James’s cheeks burned. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Forgive me.”
He escaped out the back door before he could say something else he regretted. Despite the disastrous breakfast, in a single morning she’d impressed him with much more than her beauty. She’d risen early to clean the entire kitchen by dawn, made an attempt at breakfast and stood stoically through the dressing of a burn that would have likely made a grown man cry. None of that mattered. The agency intended her for another, and he had to keep reminding himself of that.
Forget for an instant and he risked falling in love.
Dear Reader (#u72be62c0-eb70-597d-af5b-faca7d46c59d),
The setting for this story is very close to my heart. As I write this, sunlight streams into the room through the wavy glass of the 150-year-old window in my office. When writer’s block strikes, I stare out that window toward a barn raised with hand-hewn timbers or out over rows of corn or soybeans growing just beyond.
My husband’s great-great-grandfather built this house, and we are raising the fifth generation to make it their home. Though James and Ann are fictional, I picture Ann scrubbing these same wooden floors as I buzz my vacuum cleaner across them and James toiling in the field as our tractor plows the same expanse with ease. Though life has changed dramatically since these walls were first erected, my one hope is for faith and family to be the focal point of our generation and each generation to come.
Whitney Bailey
WHITNEY BAILEY is a city girl turned farm wife. She makes her home in the Midwest with her husband, four children and an assortment of sociable barn cats who meow at the window when she’s trying to write. A Mistaken Match is her debut novel.
A Mistaken Match
Whitney Bailey


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.
—Philippians 4:6
For Patrick
Contents
Cover (#ufc915dcc-d49d-59cd-9e87-848f1e29d368)
Back Cover Text (#u4e932c1f-8eb6-5b04-b40d-eee11a547e22)
Introduction (#u254c868e-4e14-5aa5-9381-eccea37c81b8)
Dear Reader (#u46ddf2f7-9ce6-5268-9c13-c9e8da990633)
About the Author (#udc9d9d4a-57c8-5124-a1b7-25977af7fbf6)
Title Page (#uc9b169d8-ca00-5d1e-bd9c-1294d0fca3b0)
Bible Verse (#ub998cc41-1733-5cdf-a2bf-85e9babe9207)
Dedication (#u6fd96359-3de7-53f1-99e4-15f31842362c)
Chapter One (#ue608b56f-e198-593c-a9b0-900e2e6446ef)
Chapter Two (#ud6b1d6a0-f003-539a-8f3a-a2c213451cac)
Chapter Three (#u8ea674de-4abd-5841-861c-bf719a24a734)
Chapter Four (#u33a482b7-254f-5e5a-96b6-99620e0bce1d)
Chapter Five (#ucec0b703-be72-554c-b80b-efa4d3162bbf)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u72be62c0-eb70-597d-af5b-faca7d46c59d)
June 1895
En route to New Haven, Ohio, on the Toledo and Ohio Central Railway
The train’s wheels clattered in perfect harmony with Ann Cromwell’s racing heart. Each beat brought her closer to her new life, and her hands trembled as she thought of what awaited her at journey’s end.
“Would you like an apple, miss?”
Ann had nearly forgotten she had a seatmate. She could pretend she hadn’t heard her, but something told her this woman wouldn’t give up easily. Her voice held the kind of friendliness that was the hallmark of a talkative traveler.
Ann waited a beat before blinking the sun from her eyes and turning from the window. Silver hair streaked the woman’s temples and deep lines bordered her mouth. Slightly overweight, she carried it well on the tops of her cheeks and across her bosom. Once Ann faced her, the smile lines deepened.
“Would you like one? They’re perfectly ripe.”
Her outstretched hand held a large, red apple blushed with gold.
“No, thank you,” Ann whispered, even as her stomach groaned.
“Are you sure? I have a whole bag.”
Though the apple looked delicious, would it stay down? The queasiness in her stomach grew with each station stop. Ever since childhood, nerves always made her belly rebel. She’d last eaten yesterday from a food cart on the Pittsburgh station platform and only managed to force down a few bites before throwing the remainder of her ham sandwich in a rubbish bin.
“I’m quite sure.” Ann kept her voice as soft as possible while still remaining audible.
The woman’s eyes widened as she returned the apple to her bag. “My, what a sweet accent you have! Are you English?”
No one in New York had noticed Ann’s accent. Only when the train boarded passengers in central Pennsylvania did her voice attract attention. Now in Ohio, it seemed impossible to keep from drawing notice—like a scullery maid embarrassingly visible in the parlor. She wasn’t trying to be unfriendly, but conversation was the last thing she wanted.
The woman’s eyebrows arched higher as she awaited Ann’s response.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m from London.”
“London? How exciting! What brings you to America?”
Before Ann could respond with her usual falsehood about visiting an aunt—the story she had crafted to help draw as little attention and interest from her fellow passengers as possible—something gave her pause. As she drew closer to her final destination, so grew the chance of someone catching this particular lie.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ve changed my mind about that apple.”
The woman smiled broadly and fumbled with her bag to retrieve the fruit.
“Here, let me clean this up for you.” She buffed the apple against the fabric of her skirt. Ann flashed a cursory smile of thanks and turned back toward the window. The apple lay heavy in her hand and her mouth watered at the heady scent of ripe fruit. Crisp and sweet, it tasted glorious after weeks of ship and train food. She savored each bite to prolong the silence. Each time Ann entered into a conversation, it led to questions she had no desire to answer.
All too soon only the apple’s sticky core remained. She glanced about for a place to tuck the scrap.
“Let me take that from you.”
The woman produced a small paper sack. Ann dropped in the core and wiped her tacky hands briskly against her skirt. Before she could turn away, the woman spoke again.
“I’m returning from a visit with my sister. She just had her tenth child.” She paused, clearly waiting for a reaction, and Ann humored her by opening her eyes wide in a show of surprise. “Yes! Tenth! Her sixth girl. She needed help, of course, with some of her younger ones, and I was delighted to lend a hand.”
The woman paused again. Her eyes softened, and she reached out and patted Ann’s hand in a motherly way. “My children are all older now. My oldest daughter is near your age. I so enjoyed being near babies and young children again.”
“How lovely for you.”
The woman grinned. “My, your accent really is nice.”
“Thank you.” Ann had learned long ago how to mimic the melodic upper-class accent of her employers.
“Are you traveling on from Columbus?”
“Yes, to New Haven.” Her own words sounded strange. She hadn’t told anyone even a fraction of the truth in days.
The woman clapped her hands. “Isn’t that wonderful! I’m from New Haven.”
Ann felt a rush of thankfulness that she hadn’t lied.
“Are you visiting someone?” the woman continued.
Ann shook her head. “No, not exactly. I’ll be living there.”
The woman waited a beat for Ann to continue. Ann smiled weakly.
“Who will you be living with, dear? I was born and raised in New Haven. I’m sure I must know them.” The woman’s voice grew softer than before, but no less friendly.
Ann cleared her throat. “James McCann.”
The woman’s brows knit together and she pursed her lips tight. Ann knew what her next question would be. She saved her the trouble of asking. “He’s to be my husband.”
Ann dreaded the interrogation sure to follow. But there were no questions—at least not right away. Instead, the woman’s hand found Ann’s again and she squeezed it tight.
“That is wonderful news. Really wonderful. James McCann is a fine young man. I wish you both much happiness.”
Ann’s heart jumped, and for a moment her walls dropped. She leaned forward. “You know him?”
“Yes, of course. Not terribly well, but everyone in town knows James.”
“Is he a nice man?” Ann’s voice cracked.
“Yes, he is.” Her head cocked to the side. “But don’t you know that, dear?”
“I’ve never met him.” Ann’s cheeks burned and she turned her head down, knowing full well the woman would soon guess the nature of their relationship. This reinforced why she’d avoided talking to anyone during her travels. She’d been assured that respectable women became mail-order brides all the time, but the idea still made her blush.
“Well, James McCann is a fine man. Any young woman would be blessed to have him.”
Ann’s gaze snapped back to the woman’s face. No judgment or mocking that she could observe. Only a warm smile that creased her cheeks so deep her eyes almost disappeared.
“You said you didn’t know him well,” Ann murmured.
“He doesn’t get to town much. His obligations on his farm keep him very busy. He’s also quiet and keeps to himself mostly, but he’s honest and decent. He’s in church every Sunday, he comes from a fine family, and I know for a fact he pays his bill at the store in full each month.” She wagged her finger to punctuate these last two points.
“And you say that any young woman would be blessed to marry him?” Ann tried to smother feelings of hope. Certainly this woman had no reason to lie? She’d imagined James McCann desired to send away to England for a bride because he had few other choices. She certainly wouldn’t be here if a pretty face and no references could get a servant girl more than a room in a brothel.
“Oh yes. He is—or rather was—a very eligible bachelor.” She bobbed her head in emphasis, and the loose bun on top bounced along with her.
“Might you even say he is kind?” Her voice was plaintive, even to her own ears.
The woman pursed her lips and patted Ann’s hand. “Very kind. Generous, too.”
Ann exhaled at the news. The girls at the agency had guessed right. She’d made an ugly match in James McCann. Most of them had been matched with men living in western America, where she’d been told eligible brides were as rare as the gold the men sought. When she shared with them the news of her future home in Ohio, these girls had smirked knowingly. He’s either ugly or wicked, they’d said. It relieved her to hear he was the former. She’d take an ugly, kind man over a cruel, handsome one any day. She hadn’t entered into this endeavor with any romantic notions. She only desired someone who could provide for her. To expect more would be foolish.
“I never introduced myself. I’m Mrs. Margaret Ludlow. And your name, dear?”
This question could be her chance to make a new start with a new identity! But no. James McCann already knew her by her name of the past eight years. It would have to remain. “Ann. My name is Ann.”
“Nice to meet you Ann—soon to be Ann McCann.”
She’d never thought to test out her new name. The result sounded like a silly joke, and she mouthed it silently for the first time. It possessed a surprisingly pleasant cadence. She liked it, all things considered.
Before she could ask Mrs. Ludlow any more questions, the conductor entered the car and announced their impending stop in Columbus. Her stomach quivered and she immediately regretted eating the apple. Despite misgivings, Mrs. Turner at the agency had allowed Ann to make this journey alone. Moral support proved a powerful thing, and most girls were required to travel in pairs. Clients weren’t happy when the brides they’d paid for got cold feet and failed to arrive. But Ann never intended to back out of the agreement. The orphanage had no more work for her, and her reputation as a servant for the upper class had been forever tarnished. Marrying James McCann was the best chance she had at a decent, stable future. Still, as the train edged closer to the station Ann wondered what would happen if she disembarked at the next station and disappeared into the crowd.
Mrs. Ludlow leaned over and pointed out the window. “We’re almost to my stop.”
“Your stop?” Ann’s heart fluttered. She’d found some measure of comfort in thinking this woman would be with her until her journey’s end.
“Didn’t I say? I’m staying in Columbus with another sister for a few days. Don’t worry. New Haven is only thirty more minutes.”
Mrs. Ludlow moved with excited efficiency, smoothing out the wrinkles in her traveling dress and using her palms to beat away at the dust clinging to the hem. Her haphazard toilet made Ann conscious she’d been traveling all day without so much as a glance at her reflection. She fetched a pocket mirror from her bag and bobbled it on her knee as she repinned her hair at the nape and smoothed the locks around her temples.
Mrs. Ludlow glanced over as Ann tidied herself and nodded approvingly. Ann smiled inwardly under the woman’s gaze. She’d been born into little, but God blessed her with beauty. She could only guess her looks had garnered a premium price as a prospective bride. No doubt the reason the agency accepted her application, despite their initial hesitation.
When the train finally ground to a stop, Mrs. Ludlow hoisted her carpetbag onto her lap. “There’s my sister’s husband,” she said, pointing to a stout man grimacing at his pocket watch. “I’d wait with you until the train departs, but the poor man doesn’t have an ounce of patience.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine. It was very nice meeting you.”
Ann ached for her to stay.
“The pleasure was mine, dear. May I call on you sometime?”
The question jarred her. She would soon have a home—her own home—in which she could accept visitors.
“Certainly. Of course. I would like that very much.” Ann stumbled over the words.
“I’ll let you settle in before I do. Every married couple needs time to get to know each other.”
Ann’s stomach turned to ice at the reminder of her approaching wedding night. How much time did she need to get to know a stranger? “I look forward to your visit.”
Mrs. Ludlow repeated her goodbyes several times and stopped at the door and waved before stepping from the train. Her brother-in-law hurried toward her and snatched the bag from her hands in chivalrous impatience.
Ann immediately missed Mrs. Ludlow. It had been weeks since she’d had a real conversation with anyone, and the woman’s kindness had reopened a loneliness Ann had tried hard to deny. Soon new passengers boarded the car and Ann’s heart dropped when the train lurched forward twenty minutes later, and she remained seated alone.
In that moment she would have welcomed even the most irritating of seatmates to distract her from thinking about what lay ahead. A new life in a new country. An intended husband whom she’d never met. After weeks of wondering and waiting, only a train stop stood between Ann and her future.
* * *
James McCann ran a calloused hand along the side of his wagon and grimaced. “I should have brought the buggy, Fred.”
Frederick Renner ambled over, his portly frame casting a shadow over the wagon boards. James had wiped down the seats and swept out the wagon bed, but most of the boards were split at the ends and embedded with the grime of farm work. The entire contraption could have done with a fresh coat of paint.
“Doesn’t look so bad to me,” Frederick offered. “And haven’t we already covered this? She’s going to have luggage. Probably a trunk or two. They would never fit in the buggy.”
“We could have left them with the stationmaster. I could have come back tomorrow with the wagon.”
Frederick chortled. “Boy, are you in for trouble if you think a woman would be content to be parted from all her worldly possessions for an entire day.”
James sighed. His friend was right. The buggy was the more attractive vehicle, but the wagon was the practical choice. The only choice. He wanted everything to be perfect for his bride, but if the pain of losing Emily had taught him anything, it was practicality served one so much better in this world than beauty.
“Besides,” Frederick continued, “if you’re trying to impress her, I’m sure that suit will do the trick.” He jabbed a chubby elbow into James’s ribs.
James tugged at the dark suit jacket, the new fabric stiff and unforgiving. The collar seemed to grow tighter by the minute. He slipped a finger between his neck and the material. A sparse breeze raked over a trickle of sweat and teased him with coolness. If only the day hadn’t turned stifling, maybe his heart wouldn’t beat so quickly.
The puff and clatter of the approaching train rumbled softly in the distance. The small crowd on the station platform buzzed and pushed forward like a swarm of bees, and James moved to join them. Frederick tapped him on the shoulder and held up a large cardboard sign with Ann Cromwell neatly lettered in black paint. “Don’t you need this?”
James waved him off. Like the unnecessary new suit and haircut, Frederick and his cousin Delia had insisted on the superfluous sign. “I’ll know her when I see her.”
“How exactly? You don’t have a picture.”
James exhaled. Frederick was a good friend, but he didn’t understand why James sought a bride from outside New Haven. He’d be flabbergasted if he knew how I expect to recognize her. He pushed the sign back into Frederick’s hands. “I just will.”
The train entered the station and James’s heart quickened. He clenched his fists at his sides, willing them to remain there instead of mussing his hair as he often did when he was nervous. In mere moments he would be face-to-face with his future wife, God willing. A young woman alighted from a third-class car and glanced back and forth across the platform.
It was her! Wasn’t it? His legs carried him forward before he could hesitate. As he strode closer, her features and form grew clearer. Yes, it had to be her. Tall and broad shouldered with mouse-brown hair yanked back into a severe bun. He drew close enough to observe a constellation of pockmarks on her cheeks. Her small eyes darted about before landing briefly on James. He smiled. Her brows pulled into a crease and she glanced away.
His heart fell. The sign! Frederick had been right after all. He recognized his bride, but she clearly didn’t realize he was her groom. His steps stuttered, but only for a moment. He couldn’t very well leave her on the platform while he fetched it. He approached the woman and removed his hat.
“Excuse me, miss?” Did his voice always sound so hoarse?
The corners of her mouth turned down and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Clara! Clara, dear, I’m so sorry!” A thin, middle-aged woman in a blue dress with similar mouse-brown hair and an equally painful-looking bun appeared at James’s side and wrapped the young woman in a tight embrace. “We had the time wrong. I thought we were arriving early, and here you are, poor niece, left waiting all by your lonesome.”
Warmth swept over James’s cheeks as a vise of embarrassment replaced the drumbeat of nerves in his chest. The tall woman eyed him warily over her aunt’s shoulder as he replaced his hat and backed slowly away. He drew a deep breath. Ann Cromwell stood somewhere at this station and he needed to compose himself so he could find her. The crowd quickly dispersed as trunks were carried to waiting wagons and reuniting families finished their embraces. He scanned the thinning platform until two figures caught his eye. Frederick, cardboard sign in hand, speaking with a woman dressed in a dark green traveling dress with her back to James. Frederick’s eyes goggled.
James had no doubt the true Ann stood before his friend. Frederick’s gaping surprise told him everything. He chastised himself for not being the first to greet her. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his back and his shirt clung to every inch of his torso as he rushed over to join them.
“There you are, James,” Frederick said as James approached. “We’ve had a bit of confusion. Miss Cromwell saw the sign and thought I was you.”
“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Cromwell.” Her diminutive size surprised him. The agency shared her height, but he never imagined she’d be so...petite. He stepped around the pair and at that same moment, she lifted her face to him in greeting.
“Oh my,” he breathed. His heart stopped and his mouth went dry as a haystack. Golden blond hair framed a delicate face accented by high cheekbones. Her eyes, as blue as a robin’s egg, blinked in the sun and her full, rosebud mouth turned up in a hesitant smile. “Are you the real James McCann?” Her voice held a teasing tone.
It took several beats for James to shake off the shock of finding a beauty instead of the plain, even homely woman he specifically requested. He removed his hat and held out his hand. She placed her impossibly small hand in his. “Yes, I am. Nice to meet you.” Oh no. There’s been a mistake. A terrible mistake.
“Do you have any trunks, Miss Cromwell?” Frederick asked.
“Please, call me Ann. And yes, I have one.”
She handed him her claim ticket, and Frederick stepped away to wave down the nearest porter, leaving James to shift his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. His heart raced, but no longer from anticipation. The cold flush of panicked sweat threatened to soak through his jacket.
The smile on Ann’s perfectly pink lips slowly faded as the silence between them grew. He had to say something. Anything. “You’re Ann Cromwell?”
Her brows knit. “I am.”
“From the Transatlantic Agency?”
She laughed softly. A nervous laugh. “I gather my picture didn’t arrive.”
“It did...not.” His mind fogged. His hat remained in his hands and he replaced it before the urge to muss his hair became too strong.
“I imagine the post can be rather slow from England to Ohio.”
“Yes.” Words failed him. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her face. His mind skipped like a phonograph needle, playing the same thoughts over and over. Some sort of mistake. An enormous mistake. Thankfully Frederick returned and slapped him on the back. The jolt broke his trance.
“The trunk’s being loaded. Are you two ready?”
James stared at his friend. “Ready for what?”
Frederick smirked. “Didn’t you say you’d made reservations at Donahue’s?”
“Yes, yes.” He would follow his original plans for now. In a few hours he’d be at home and more than a few feet away from this woman and he could think clearly again. For now he struggled to keep his voice steady as Ann looked up at him through impossibly dark lashes. “I thought we could get some dinner in town before going back to my farm.”
“That sounds lovely.”
James offered her his arm, and Ann placed her hand on the sleeve of his jacket. He swore the heat radiated through two layers of material and scorched his skin.
Frederick cleared his throat. “It was very nice to meet you, Ann. Very nice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The brim of her hat obscured her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice. Ann’s lilting accent sent a shiver through him. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, as well, Mr. Renner.”
“Frederick. Call me Frederick.”
“A pleasure, Frederick.”
Frederick winked at him and hurried away as fast as his short legs and ample frame would allow. He disappeared around a corner before James could think of a reason to convince his friend to stay.
Donahue’s stood four blocks from the station, but the journey felt like miles. Ann asked polite questions about each building they passed, and James tried his best to keep his eyes directly forward as he answered. The smallest glance at her face disoriented him, and he couldn’t help but notice how her beauty’s effects extended to passersby. He caught smiles of admiration, eyes slit with jealousy and two men received pointed elbows from their female companions for the mistake of looking too long. Several men outside the tobacco shop sent streams of juice down their shirts in distraction. Every eye in New Haven seemed to be fixed on Ann, save for his. Please, Lord, he prayed during the brief moments of silence. Grant me wisdom.
James couldn’t taste a bite of his two-dollar steak. He dutifully chewed the meat and swallowed, but his brain barely registered the meal. How many times had he walked past Donahue’s Hotel and Fine Dining and wondered when he might have an occasion to eat there? Now inside, he couldn’t be bothered to take in the grandeur of his surroundings or the extravagance of the meal. It all paled next to the beauty of the girl seated across from him.
Even as new rivers of perspiration trickled down his back and his hands trembled when he reached for the salt shaker, she showed no signs of being nervous. No one would guess she’d been traveling for days, let alone recently met the person she thought to be her future husband. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright and her golden hair freshly styled. If only she knew what James had to say. His throat caught at the thought of telling her.
“I hope your steak is as delicious as mine,” she murmured.
Her lilting voice brought his attention to the piece of steak on his fork. How long had he been holding it? James took a bite. It sat as coarse and flavorless as week-old mutton in his dry mouth. “Yes, delicious.”
“Your friend Frederick seemed very nice.”
“Yes, nice.”
“Have you two been friends long?”
“Fairly long.”
Ann pressed her pink lips together and took a long draft of water from her cut-crystal glass. He couldn’t keep her at arm’s length for the entirety of the meal without upsetting her, let alone for the weeks or even months it would take to sort all this out. Yet he knew he couldn’t tell her in the middle of Donahue’s. She was a foreigner in a new land and none of this was her fault. He must be tactful.
“Frederick and I have been friends since we were kids,” he offered.
Her smile returned. “And he lives near you?”
“He lives here in town.”
“Shall we be seeing him in town tomorrow, or is he visiting your home?”
“I’m sorry?”
She cocked her head to one side. “He said he would see us tomorrow.”
Creamed spinach caught in his throat and his eyes watered. He took several gulps of water to keep from choking. “He did, didn’t he?” he croaked.
How could he explain this one? He would have to tell her the truth. At least part of it. “The agency said some couples marry almost immediately,” he blurted.
For the first time Ann’s calm demeanor broke. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes widened. Her hand trembled as she reached for her water glass. “Yes, Mrs. Turner said some choose to marry rather quickly.”
“So I’d made an appointment with Judge Vollrath at the courthouse for tomorrow. I’d planned for Frederick to meet us there and act as a witness.”
Ann bobbled her water glass but righted it before any liquid spilled. “You did?”
“But I’ve decided to cancel,” he added quickly. “It seems hasty.” Why hadn’t he started by saying that? Something about Ann Cromwell made it hard for him to put his thoughts in the proper order. He chastised himself as the red in her cheeks faded, returning them to their natural rosy hue.
“Mrs. Turner said many couples like to get to know one another before they marry. Assuming, of course, there is no—” she paused and her cheeks flushed again “—impropriety.”
Something about her embarrassment made James’s heart leap in his chest. It took everything he had not to reach across the table and take her hand in reassurance.
“I’m afraid I can’t afford to put you up anywhere, but my Uncle Mac lives with me. Never leaves the house, in fact. Would you object to him serving as our chaperone?”
She shook her head. “That sounds quite acceptable. I don’t imagine Mrs. Turner would object.”
James speared an impossibly thin potato with his fork and pushed it around the gold-rimmed plate. His next questions required delicacy. He knew nothing of Mrs. Turner and the Transatlantic Agency outside a brief correspondence and their ad in the New Haven Gazette. Fine English Girls Seeking Home and Hearth in America.
“I completed a profile for Mrs. Turner. Did you do the same?” He tried to sound casual.
“We all did. She also conducted extensive interviews before she matched us.”
James feigned immense interest in the pattern on his silverware. “So there were a lot of girls at the agency? And they all matched with someone?”
“Oh yes. Dozens of girls came in every week, and all very eager to live in America. Most were matched with men far west of here. The Great American Frontier, I believe?”
James chuckled. “If you believe the newspaper advertisements.” So the agency teemed with potential brides, and he’d been matched with this one. She hadn’t been sent due to a lack of other options.
Ann leaned forward and cocked her blond head. Her soft blue eyes gazed at him expectantly. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Yes. Why on earth did the agency match me with you when I specifically requested a plain bride?
Chapter Two (#u72be62c0-eb70-597d-af5b-faca7d46c59d)
Ann had hoped her meal with James McCann might break down this peculiar wall between them, but as he guided her to the wagon, she could almost palpate the barrier. She knew things would be awkward at first—the agency had prepared her for that—but she hadn’t expected the bewildered greeting or the clear discomfort.
They were both nervous, she reminded herself. She simply hid her nerves better. If only he knew how her breath had caught in her throat when she first laid eyes on him. She’d been expecting an ugly man, not a handsome one who sent her pulse racing. Perhaps if he knew, he could make eye contact with her for more than mere seconds.
James released her hand the instant she alighted from the wagon, as if her touch burned him. She glanced back at her trunk for the first time. A beautiful quilt lay folded on top. A pattern of intertwining gold circles rested on a background of forest green and sky blue.
“What’s this?” For a moment, she forgot the awkwardness between them and held up the quilt.
James glanced over as he juggled the reins. “It’s a present from Frederick.”
“A present for me?”
His cheeks flushed crimson. “For us. A sort of early wedding present.”
“Who made it?” Ann unfolded the quilt to examine it further. Even from a distance she knew it had been made by an expert hand. Up close the stitching proved exquisite.
“Frederick’s cousin is a seamstress’s apprentice. She works over there.” He pointed to a brick storefront with a bright blue awning squeezed between the tobacco shop and a mercantile.
“From this work she looks to be more than an apprentice.” She made a quick count of the stitches. “Why, there look to be fourteen stitches per inch!”
“You know quilting?” He sounded surprised.
Ann smiled. “Yes, well, embroidery mostly. Though I love any kind of stitching. The more stitches in an inch, the more accomplished the quilter. This work is some of the finest I’ve ever seen.”
“You didn’t mention it in your letter.”
There had been only two short letters exchanged between them before Ann had left. The expanse of the ocean made it difficult to have any kind of courtship. How very much like strangers they were.
“Your letter didn’t say much either.” Four paragraphs. He summed up his life in four short paragraphs.
They left the town behind, and James took off his hat and ran his hand through his thick sandy hair. The wind tousled it and gave him a decidedly boyish appearance. She studied his face. He possessed a straight, strong nose and finely lined lips. James McCann proved as handsome as they come.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
Ann clapped her hands together. Finally! “How much time do we have?”
“The ride back to the farm is around forty-five minutes this time of year.”
Her stomach dropped, but she tried not to show her disappointment. It had been years since she’d lived more than a few blocks from the nearest store. “Isn’t that a rather long time?”
“Quite a short time. In the spring the skies open and this road turns to mud. That’s why it’s called Mud Pike. When the road turns soggy it takes two, maybe three times as long. On those days it’s faster to walk.”
The sticky heat of the summer evening clung to Ann’s back. She tried to push the thought of walking to town as far away as spring felt.
“You’re a farmer, aren’t you?”
James nodded.
“Are you originally from New Haven?”
James only nodded again. Ann sighed. She needed a new line of questioning.
“How old are you?” She tried.
James turned to her. “Didn’t the agency tell you all of this?”
“Yes, but I wanted to hear these things from you.”
“I’m twenty-five. You’re eighteen, right?”
“Nineteen in September.”
Ann waited for him to ask her a question but he remained silent.
“Isn’t there anything you wish to know about me?”
James took his eyes off the road and placed them squarely on Ann. She shivered under his intense gaze. “The agency said you used to work as a maid.”
“That’s correct. I was eight years in service.”
“You don’t look like a maid.” He sounded accusatory.
“May I ask what a maid is supposed to look like?”
His eyes narrowed. The effect made him look thoughtful rather than menacing. Ann sat up straighter and tried to look more confident than she felt. As his scrutiny continued, blood drummed in her ears and perspiration trickled down the back of her neck.
“I guess I never thought a maid would look like you,” he answered finally.
“And you don’t look like a farmer.”
James eyes widened and his lips drew into a broad smile for the first time that day.
“Alright, then. What does a farmer look like?”
Ann narrowed her eyes in the same way James had, and tried to mimic the intense scrutiny he had applied to her. Her efforts had the opposite effect. His smile grew wider. And what a simply splendid smile. Straight teeth and full lips. The fading light darkened the green in his eyes, and fine lines crept out from the corners. He sat perfectly straight as he drove, and his work-broadened shoulders tapered into a lean waist. The fingers of the hand holding the reins were long and slender, but thickly calloused. He’d likely worked hard every day of his life.
“I’ve changed my mind. You do look like a farmer.”
“You still don’t look like a maid.”
Ann sighed and crossed her arms. She wanted to get to know him better, but he didn’t make it easy.
They continued the rest of the trip in silence and Ann tried to ignore the bumps in the road that bounced them closer and closer together on the wagon seat. She let out a breath when James announced, “There it is.”
James’s farm sat a quarter mile off the main road. A large whitewashed brick two-story with a gray slate roof and gracefully arched windows perched atop a small hill at the end of the drive. A deep porch sporting a sun-bleached porch swing ran along the front. The barn and other outbuildings shone bright with new red paint, and a neatly trimmed yard spread out in front of them. A well-tended garden filled with neat rows of green sat beside what appeared to be half a dozen fruit trees. Ann’s heart leaped to find something else that day that exceeded her expectations.
James stopped the wagon in front of the porch steps and helped her down. As she stood waiting for him to return from the barn while he stabled the horse and put away the wagon, she admired the clumps of freshly planted white and yellow daffodils around the foundation. Had he asked a neighbor for some transplants for her benefit? James returned carrying her trunk and the quilt, and she tentatively held his elbow as they walked up the steps. His arm didn’t stiffen this time.
An elegant panel of windows flanked either side of the front door, and it opened into a small but inviting entry. A long rag rug, shallow side table, oval framed mirror and a gilt framed photo of the very house they were standing in adorned the space. A graceful walnut railing curved along the staircase.
He set the trunk down at his feet and gestured to the left. “This is the parlor.” A stiff horsehair sofa and chairs faced the fireplace. “And the dining room to our right.” Six curved-back chairs surrounded a cherry dining table. A high cabinet with glass front doors held a small collection of matching china dishes encircled with blue flowers.
Ann smiled and nodded, hoping he could see how the house pleased her. Mrs. Turner had tried to prepare her for something small and sparse and her heart lifted in delight to see she couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Where’s the kitchen?”
“Through the door at the end of the hall. My father only put on a lean-to when he built the house.”
Ann perked up at the mention of his father. “When will I get to meet him?”
“Who?”
“Your father, of course.”
James set down the bags and rubbed his hands together. “I’m afraid you can’t. He and Mother died some years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “When will I meet your brothers and sisters?”
“No brothers or sisters. It’s just me and Uncle Mac.”
“I thought all farmers had many children.”
James laughed. “Where did you get an idea like that?”
“In England, farmers always have scads of children.”
“Did you grow up on a farm?”
Her thoughts turned to the orphanage and the Atherton house. The simplest answer felt the easiest. “No.”
“Mother and Father wanted more but the Lord only blessed them with me. A farm is hard work with only one son to help. I pray God chooses to bless me with many children.”
Ann’s hands grew slick with sweat and her stomach lurched like a newborn foal finding its legs. He wanted children? Had her one request been overlooked? Ignored? Certainly her face reflected the nausea that lurched within. James tilted his head in scrutiny, and she drew in a deep breath to stifle the sickening dread that threatened to overtake her.
“Are you alright?”
What could she possibly say? Two dollars in coins jangled in her pocket book. It was all the money she had in the world.
“I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”
He picked up her trunk and pointed toward the stairs. “I’m sure you’re worn out after all your travels. Let me show you to your room.”
Upstairs were three closed doors. James stopped at the first on the right and opened it. Inside a small side table and dresser sat below a plainly framed mirror. A single bed hugged the wall next to the window. He marched in and set her trunk down in the middle of the faded green rag rug and draped the quilt across the top.
“Uncle Mac has the room next to this one, but he’s in bed already. You’ll meet him tomorrow. My room’s across the hall, but I’ll be sleeping on the back porch.”
“Is that really necessary? I’d feel horrid if you weren’t able to get a proper rest.”
“Don’t feel bad on my account. I sleep out there most summer nights anyway.”
“Oh.”
“Can I get you anything?”
Her head and neck ached and the fatigue of travel and stress enveloped her like a heavy blanket. She could only think of the inviting-looking bed. Ann shook her head.
“Well then, good night, Ann. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
Ann sank onto the bed. A dull ache throbbed across her temples, and she closed her eyes and tried to sort out the day’s events. The more she reviewed the day, the more peculiar it all felt. James had been nervous when they met, but something more hid behind his green eyes. It wasn’t only surprise. Was it confusion? Disappointment? He’d had plans to marry her the very next day—plans he’d quickly changed. Though she was relieved—surely they could get to know one another a little while before they were betrothed—she couldn’t help but wonder why the sudden change of heart? And what of that comment about wanting lots of children? Surely Mrs. Turner hadn’t made a mistake?
She closed her eyes and replayed her exchange with Mrs. Turner in the cramped and stuffy offices of the Transatlantic Agency. Mrs. Turner had announced with resolution, “I believe you and Mr. James McCann will be as perfect a match as any.” Ann took deep, measured breaths and tried to slow her racing heart. Mrs. Turner wouldn’t make a mistake of this magnitude. Her business depended on it.
Ann rose and stared into the mirror above the dresser, hoping to find some clue to James’s dismayed reaction at their meeting. The hint of a shadow traced under her eyes, and two stray hairpins poked their heads out like nosy children. She appeared as she expected after so many days on the train. She removed her brown felt hat and ran a hand over her forehead. The pain in her temples spread over her creased brow. Ann plucked out her hairpins and untwisted her coiffure. Her hair fell down past her shoulders and she groaned as the ache in her head eased.
She opened her trunk and retrieved the few things she needed for her toilet. The pitcher proved empty, and James hadn’t shown her the privy. Did all men forget women had need of such basic necessities? The reality of sharing a home and life with another would drive anyone to distraction. Maybe that was all that was wrong between them—awkwardness and nerves.
That thought cheered Ann, and she convinced herself of it on the short walk downstairs with the pitcher. If houses in America were like those in England, the well pump would be directly outside the kitchen door. James had also failed to supply her with a lantern or candles. Thankfully, the summer sun had not yet set, and soft fingers of orange sunset lit her way.
She opened the kitchen door and found the room bathed in dusky light. James sat at a worn wooden table with his back to her. The floor creaked as she entered and he jumped from his seat, sending papers scattering to the floor. They both stooped to retrieve them and his fingers grazed hers. He snatched his hands back and ran them from the crown of his hair to the nape of his neck.
“I’m sorry I startled you. I came to fetch some water.”
James’s gaze fixed on the papers in her right hand. She passed them to him, but not before she saw the salutation.
“Why are you writing to Mrs. Turner?”
James colored and opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut. He pulled out a chair and directed Ann to sit down.
“I’m sorry, Ann. I should have said something sooner. But when you got off the train, you caught me by surprise and I didn’t know what to do.”
“You’re sorry? What has happened?”
James locked his eyes with hers. “There’s no use beating around the bush. I never expected a woman like you.” He raked a hand through his hair.
“The agency sent you to me by mistake.”
Chapter Three (#u72be62c0-eb70-597d-af5b-faca7d46c59d)
The room spun. Her hands tingled strangely and the pitcher fell from her fingers. James lurched forward and rescued the pitcher within an inch of its smashing into the floor.
“By mistake? That isn’t possible,” Ann protested. “Mrs. Turner gave me your name and you had mine. We exchanged letters. How could there be any confusion?”
James set the pitcher on the table and stared at it rather than at Ann. Had she done something wrong in the previous few hours? She mentally picked through the events of the evening, but couldn’t uncover any clues.
“I think the agency made a mistake when they matched us. I had one request and you don’t fulfill it.”
Ann sank into the nearest chair. How could this be? Ann had suspected a mistake minutes earlier but brushed the thought away from her mind like a bothersome fly. Mrs. Turner didn’t make mistakes, did she? “We’ve only just met. We barely know one another. How could you already be so sure?”
James met her eyes before dropping his gaze to the worn wooden floorboards. “I knew in an instant. From the moment I saw you.”
“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Turner had prepared the girls for all sorts of excuses if their matches had a change of heart. They didn’t work hard enough. They cooked terribly. Her mind raced through several reasons why a man might object to marrying her, but none could be ascertained with a glance. He would have to know my heart. She shuddered at the thought.
James met her eyes again. “At the train station today. You could see my surprise at the sight of you.”
“You were nervous. To be honest, so was I.”
James sucked in a lungful of air and pushed his words out in one long breath. “It was more than that. I was surprised because I expected a plain girl. An ugly girl, even.”
Ann rubbed her aching temples. What on earth was he talking about? She’d also expected an ugly match, and had been pleasantly surprised. If only every girl at the agency, and every lonely bachelor in America could be so fortunate. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t see the trouble.”
James ran both hands through his hair until it stood up in tufts. “I requested the agency send me someone as plain as they come. That was my one and only request.”
Ann shook her head. She knew James McCann might have many valid reasons for rejecting her as a wife, and she had steeled herself for all of them. But she’d never expected him to outright lie. She squeezed her hands together to keep them from trembling. “No man would ask for such a thing.”
James sighed. “I did. Farm life can be hard. I knew a pretty girl would expect more than I could give her. I don’t need that kind of nonsense.”
Ann’s cheeks grew hot. Her heart thudded so loud she feared he could hear it. “Why go through an agency at all? I’m sure America has as many ugly girls as England.” She winced at the harshness of her own voice. She’d never been good at keeping her temper. Ann bit her lip.
James brow creased. “I thought someone who needed to find a husband through an agency would have no other alternatives.”
A shiver coursed through her. James McCann had described her situation perfectly. Still, she bristled with irritation on behalf of all the other girls at the agency. “You thought all mail-order brides were desperate.”
“No, no.” He waved his hands as if to bat the words out of the air. “I meant no disrespect.”
She sat up straighter. “What did you mean?”
“I thought a mail-order bride would be more content with this life.”
“This life?”
“I’ve been working on this farm by myself far too long. Uncle Mac needs tending to. I need a helpmate.”
“And why have you already deemed me unsuitable?”
James dipped his head and smiled sheepishly. “A woman like you couldn’t know what hard work really is.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “A woman like me? I’ll have you know I’ve worked harder than most men all my life.”
James chuckled and coughed to disguise it. “I know you worked as a maid, and I’m sure that is hard work, but it’s not the same as farm life.”
“You have no idea,” she replied between clenched teeth. The labor of farm life seemed a sweet reprieve in comparison to her former occupation. Her neck burned with heat and she clenched her hands until the nails cut into her palms as she fought to control her wretched temper.
He dropped his gaze and turned away. “You don’t understand. Regardless, you’re to be someone else’s bride. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so surprised by your beauty, I would have put you right back on that train the instant I laid eyes on you.”
“Back on the train to where?”
“I know some other girl is supposed to be here instead of you, and you’re supposed to be married to some rich banker in California. Or an oil baron in Texas. I’ll send a telegram in the morning, so they know of the mistake, and a letter going into more detail. When we hear back from the agency, we’ll make the proper arrangements.”
How could she fight this? James believed the agency sent her by mistake. In her heart, for her own reasons, she agreed. She took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. “It could be weeks before we hear from the agency. What shall we do until then?”
“Only a few people knew you were coming, but I suppose there’s no way to hide your presence now. We’ll tell everyone the truth. We’re getting to know one another. When you leave they’ll assume you didn’t like me.”
Ann laughed bitterly. James didn’t join her. “You aren’t serious?” she asked.
“Those who know I chose an agency to find a bride already think I’m peculiar. It won’t seem odd to them that you decided not to marry me. And with Uncle Mac here, there’s no reason for anyone to think the arrangement improper.”
“And what if you change your mind about me in the meantime?” Her stomach plummeted and her cheeks burned. Why had she asked that? He must think her positively desperate.
James’s feet stopped tapping and his eyes locked with hers. “You aren’t supposed to be here, Ann. We must right this mistake.”
The resolve in his voice broke something inside her. Her body ached with exhaustion. She’d come so very far, only to be turned away. Soon she’d be completely alone in this world. Ann had been so afraid of rejection, but never in her wildest dreams had she believed it would be because of this. She blinked hard, but it didn’t squelch the tears. They spilled over her lashes and spattered the tabletop.
James reached for her hand and squeezed it tight. She allowed him to hold it, though she desired to wrench it away. “Ann, you’re a fine girl. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife. But I’m also certain if you’re here, some heartbroken fool has been sent the homeliest girl in all of England.” She forced a laugh, and he gripped her hand tighter. She wanted to squeeze his hand back until he yelped in pain. “Don’t you see? We must make this right.”
She nodded, but the desire to pinch his fingers between her own remained. Ann dried her tears with a handkerchief from her pocket, and James excused himself to fill her pitcher. The moment the door closed behind him she snatched the papers from the table and turned them over.
Dear Mrs. Turner,
It is with regret I must write to you so soon. Your agency assured me you would deal with any issues should they arise, and I have an urgent and pressing concern. As you must recall, my only request for a match was the girl be plain. The match you have sent to me, Miss Ann Cromwell, is the most beautiful girl I have ever—
The letter ended there and she flipped the pages back over a second before James returned. He handed her the pitcher.
“I should have voiced my concern the moment we met. Please forgive me.”
Ann forced a weak smile. “It was an overwhelming moment for us both.”
His shoulders slackened and he let out a long breath. “I appreciate your understanding.”
Back in her bedroom, Ann splashed her face with cold water and tried to absorb what had happened. Mrs. Turner’s voice echoed in her head, as clear as in her office. This is your match, Ann. You must try to make it work. No dejected and miserable banker had greeted his plain bride today, with only his immense wealth to ease his disappointment. No lonely oil baron. If James didn’t want her, no one did. The agency intended her to be here or nowhere.
As she readied for bed, Ann sorted through her hopelessly tangled thoughts. There had to be something she could do. She’d been faced with a seemingly insurmountable hardship before. She would simply have to work out her next course of action. She stretched out on the bed and stared at a crack in the ceiling. She had to think! She couldn’t return to London. Even if she could somehow pay for the passage, it pained her to even contemplate the life waiting for her there. No, she could not go back.
She had only one choice. Stay in America. Hadn’t she heard someone on the steamship call it “the land of opportunity”? But could a young girl really support herself here, with no family and no references?
Ann couldn’t cook, of that she was certain, but her years of experience as a maid had to be an asset. She hadn’t noticed many fine houses in New Haven, but there must be wealthy people nearby, and the wealthy were always in need of domestic help. She only had to seek them out and offer her services. She’d never imagined working as a scullery maid again, but without references, she would have to start again at the bottom. The wages were sure to be poor, and the tasks backbreaking, but they were backbreaking in England, too, and she’d survived them before. She was still young, strong. At least she would have food in her belly and a roof over her head.
Sleep didn’t come easy that night. The house remained quiet but Ann’s thoughts did not. Each time her eyes closed, she saw herself on the streets. Sometimes in England. Other times, America. No matter the location, the image sent her pulse racing.
When sleep finally overcame her, fear haunted her dreams. Night fell and a destitute Ann lived in a filthy alley overrun by rats. She found a quiet corner and curled into a ball in a desperate attempt at sleep. As she closed her eyes in exhaustion, a ghastly howl pierced the quiet of the night. A moment before she’d been alone. Now a screaming baby in a bundle of rags wailed into Ann’s chest. Its face reddened with each cry, and from its open cave of a mouth spilled forth the most horrible sound she’d ever heard.
Ann awoke with a start and shuddered. The room remained dark and she threw back the sheets now soaked with sweat. It had been over two years since she’d heard that cry. Two years of trying to forget. Now it echoed in her ears as if she’d last heard it yesterday. Ann hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth.
Please, Lord, she prayed. May I never have that horrid dream again.
* * *
James couldn’t get comfortable. He’d slept on the back porch countless nights before, but tonight the hammock sagged more than usual, his pillow lumped beneath his head and the still air drew every mosquito within a mile to his breath. He stretched a tattered quilt over his face but only succeeded in trapping several whining insects beneath it.
Why did she have to be beautiful? Certainly plain girls were everywhere, if the population of New Haven was any indication. Did the British consider Ann homely? James chuckled at the ridiculous thought. An island nation populated entirely by women as exquisitely attractive as Ann Cromwell would be a sight to see.
Hours passed and sleep never came. Soon it would be light and the chance for rest would be gone. A mournful moo echoed through the barn beside him. James flipped from the hammock onto his feet and stretched his arms until they touched the bead board of the porch ceiling. No sense waiting another hour to milk the cow. It might help keep his mind occupied on anything other than the woman asleep upstairs.
When dawn peeked her head over the horizon, James had completed all of his prebreakfast chores, mucked out the horse stall and reorganized his hand tools. He would have repainted the whole house if it meant avoiding Ann for a few more minutes. His stomach grumbled loudly and he sighed in defeat. He would have to go inside eventually.
Lord, please let her hair be up, he prayed as he entered. James didn’t think he could stand the temptation of seeing her blond hair cascading over her shoulders again as it had the night before. When she’d entered the kitchen, it had taken everything he had not to tear up the letter to Mrs. Turner right then and there. But that wouldn’t have been fair to any of them. This wasn’t where she belonged.
Something felt different when he entered the house. The soles of his boots left gray ghosts of dust on the floor as he walked. Odd. They’d never done that before.
Ann stood at the stove. He was thankful to note that her hair was pinned up. He grunted a hello, poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked.
He nodded into his cup.
“Will your uncle be joining us?”
“Uncle Mac takes most meals in his room. If he doesn’t come down shortly, you can take some up to him.”
Ann cracked two eggs into the skillet from the basketful he’d collected early that morning and left in the kitchen long before Ann awoke. They sent up a sizzle and added a homey scent to the new and pleasant odor in the room. When had he smelled it before? Something was definitely different. The white of the baseboards gleamed whiter. The red-checked curtain over the window hung crisp and vibrant. And the floor had been scrubbed! He realized that his boots always left prints, only now he could see them as they contrasted against the gleaming wood.
She set breakfast before him. Two eggs and a thick slice of leftover bread she must have found in the pantry. His stomach rumbled and he shoveled in several bites. Raw egg white mingled with burned yolk. A large shard of eggshell crunched between his teeth. James stifled a gag and sipped his coffee. Coffee grounds mixed with the mess of egg in his mouth and he swallowed hard. His stomach churned. Thank You, Lord. He needed a reminder of why he’d requested a plain bride.
“You said you used to be a maid?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve never been a cook.”
“No, the house always had its own cook. I worked only as a maid.”
James sighed. “Come here.”
She stepped closer.
“Did you use lard?” She shook her head no. “Had you ever cracked an egg before?” Her cheeks colored and she shook her blond head again. “Why did you scramble them?”
“The yolks broke.”
He sighed again and pushed away from the table. Ann stood stock-still until he grasped her by the elbow, and guided her to the stove. James retrieved an egg from the basket on the sideboard and cradled it in his palm.
“Think of this egg as money. If you hadn’t gone and ruined those—” he cocked his head toward the table “—I could have sold them for almost two cents apiece. You wouldn’t throw two cents out into the field would you?”
As the words came out, he was vaguely aware he was speaking to her as though she were a child. She cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “No, I would not throw two cents out into the field,” she replied coolly.
“What you do is this. Make sure the skillet is nice and hot and drop in some lard. Roll it around until it sizzles. If it smokes, move it off the fire.” He could make eggs in his sleep. Once the lard had melted into a shimmering puddle, he deftly cracked the egg with one hand. It hit the pan with a hiss and bubbled along its edges.
“I don’t like my eggs scrambled. I like them over easy. It takes some practice and a soft touch.” He took her hand and placed it on the handle of the spatula and covered her hand with his own. Together they turned over the egg. It sizzled again.
“The yolk didn’t break,” she half whispered.
James chuckled. “Not if you do it right. Fetch that plate,” he directed.
She retrieved his dish from the table and scraped the offending eggs into the slop bucket. He took the plate and held it near the skillet.
“Can you do this yourself? You still need to be gentle.”
“I think so.” She slid the spatula under the egg and James held his breath as it crossed the short distance from skillet to plate. They smiled at each other as it came to rest.
“Perfect,” he breathed. James raised the plate to his nose and inhaled. “Now, do the next one by yourself.”
Ann yelped and jumped back from the stove. She’d grasped the blisteringly hot handle of the cast-iron skillet.
James’s heart jumped to this throat and he snatched up her hand. The flesh on her thumb and first three fingers pulsed red and angry. Several white blisters appeared before his eyes. He plunged her hand into a pitcher of water on the kitchen table. “You must always cover the handle of the skillet with a towel,” he gently scolded. He withdrew her hand and blew a cool stream of air on it. “Does it still hurt?” he murmured between breaths.
She bit her lip. “Yes,” she gasped.
Without a word he slipped an arm around her waist and led her out the back door. The water pump stood a few yards away. He pumped the handle with one hand and plunged her fingers beneath the icy stream that bubbled forth with the other. Every few moments he removed her hand from the water, examined it and blew a new stream of air across the wet skin to ease the pain.
Each time he drew a breath he also took in the scent of her. Lavender soap and rose petals. Focus! He had to focus on her hand. If he broke the blisters, she risked infection. A curl of her golden hair escaped its pins and brushed his cheek. She turned her face to him and smiled weakly. He shivered.
The shudder of movement cleared his head. He’d let her entrance him again. “We need to get some salve on this,” he said gruffly.
“Do you have butter?”
“Butter’s no good. I have something better.” He grasped her uninjured hand and drew her back into the house. He left her in the kitchen and returned with a tiny silver tin and strips of clean cloth. She wrinkled her nose as he slathered the foul-smelling paste on the burn, but he smiled at the sulfuric, acrid scent. It always reminded him of Mother.
“This smells awful.” She drew up her mouth and pinched her nose.
He mimicked her grimace and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” She tried to jerk her injured hand away but he held on tighter.
“Just trust old Doctor McCann.” He slowly wound the strips of cloth around her slim fingers as he scrutinized the calluses dotting her palm. He still couldn’t imagine a beauty like her assigned to more than the lightest of household tasks. Maybe she was simply thin-skinned?
She picked up the tin of salve with her free hand and eyed the contents. “What’s in this?” she asked warily.
“Beeswax, honey and a few local herbs, among other things.”
“What kind of herbs?”
“Guess.”
Before he could stop her, she placed the tin under her nose and took a deep breath. Her eyes watered and her rosy cheeks turned beet red. She coughed daintily into the sleeve of her free arm but the cough turned into a choke. Soon tears streamed down her cheeks as she barked in ladylike fits. James laughed.
“What is so funny?” she demanded as she wiped at her streaming cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Ann. I didn’t mean to laugh. You just looked so adorable.”
His stomach turned to ice and his heart raced. He dropped her hand.
“I looked so what?” Her deep blue eyes narrowed.
Had she really not heard? “I have a lot of work to do outside,” he mumbled. He had to get away from her. “I’ll take my breakfast with me.”
James snatched up his plate and stepped onto the back porch. The cool morning air washed over him like a sobering bucket of cold water.
The emotional ups and downs that came just from being around Ann were making him dizzy—and angry. He’d had such a simple plan: marry for practicality to a plain, decent woman who’d never leave him so twisted up inside. And then Ann walked into his life and ruined everything, from his peace of mind to his sleep to his breakfast. He stomped back into the kitchen.
“This.” He pointed to the slop bucket with the ruined eggs. “This is why I didn’t want a pretty bride.”
Ann’s cheeks flushed crimson and she clenched her hands into fists. “You think an ugly girl will make you a better breakfast?”
“I need to eat, Ann. Uncle Mac needs to eat. The animals need to eat. The crops need to be planted and harvested. And you can’t even cook an egg.”
“I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you, Mr. McCann, but why are you berating me? If I’m another man’s intended, you won’t be bothered with me much longer.”
James’s cheeks burned. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Forgive me.”
He escaped out the back door before he could say something else he regretted. Ann was right. It didn’t matter that, despite the disastrous breakfast, in a single morning she’d impressed him with much more than her beauty. She’d risen early to clean the entire kitchen by dawn, made an attempt at breakfast and stood stoically through the dressing of a burn that would likely make a grown man cry. None of that mattered. The agency intended her for another, and he had to keep reminding himself of that. Forget for an instant and he risked falling in love.
Chapter Four (#u72be62c0-eb70-597d-af5b-faca7d46c59d)
James had been gone half an hour, and Uncle Mac still hadn’t appeared. Did James still expect her to bring the older man his breakfast? She fried a second batch of eggs that, despite James’s lesson, looked only slightly better than her first. She fished out a large piece of eggshell with the tines of a fork and broke both yolks in the transfer to the plate. Ann exhaled loudly as the yellow liquid ran over the burned edges of white.
She scrounged a dented metal tray from the pantry, and arranged the tray with the plate of eggs, the coffeepot and a cup and saucer. After surveying the meager meal, she added the last of the bread heel she’d found under an oilcloth. On impulse, Ann poured a cup of coffee for herself and sipped. Wretched! She spit the bitter mess back into the cup and replaced the coffee with a mug of milk. Her ill-suited suitor was right. She was hopeless in the kitchen.
Upstairs, she hesitated at the bedroom door next to hers. Ann had years of experience serving, but her employers expected her to remain unseen. She cleaned rooms after the family vacated them, and if called to a room where her employers were present, she entered and exited as quickly as her legs and duties allowed. But that kind of detachment wouldn’t do here.
“Mr. McCann? This is Ann Cromwell. I have your breakfast.” Her knuckles softly rapped the paneled door. Was he even a McCann? Oh dear, she may have offended the man. Feet shuffled on the other side, but they didn’t move toward the door. Had his nephew even shared with him news of Ann’s arrival?
“Mr... Sir? Your nephew sent for me through the Transatlantic Agency. I’m to...to stay with both of you for a time.” How had the burden of explanation fallen on her shoulders?
Ann waited several long minutes, knocking louder and louder at regular intervals, but still no one approached the door. The sounds from the other side assured her Uncle Mac remained both alive and mobile. She set the tray on the floor.
“I’ve left you a tray of breakfast, sir. I hope you enjoy it.” Unlikely.
Back in the kitchen, she cleaned up the few dishes from breakfast and surveyed the room. It had been dusk when they arrived the night before, and the house had appeared neat and well-ordered. In the morning light she’d discovered the truth. Everything had been tidied recently, but by someone who knew every trick of creating the illusion of clean. Tabletops were spotless, but the spaces beneath were a tangle of cobwebs. Windows had been washed but their sills were trimmed with dust. Had James even noticed how she’d scrubbed the floors, wiped down the baseboards and chased spiders from every corner? And all before she’d prepared breakfast.
Ruined breakfast, she chided herself.
She never expected to become a proficient cook overnight, but her first attempts in the kitchen were sobering. To earn her keep here, and cook for herself when she left, she’d need to learn. Perhaps James would give her a few more lessons.
Ann tried to shake the thought from her head, but it wouldn’t budge. The whole thing had been a dreadful mess, and yet the memory stirred her heart. The thought of James standing beside her, his strong hand gently guiding her through each step of frying an egg sent goose bumps down her arms. When she’d carelessly burned her fingers, those same strong hands turned impossibly gentle as he tended her wounds. For a brief moment she’d forgotten she wasn’t meant for James and had thanked God for her good fortune at being matched with someone so unlike the man who’d caused her so much pain in the past.
Just as quickly the memory soured. She didn’t blame James for his outburst. He knew as well as she did they weren’t meant for one another. It did neither of them any good to pretend. But did he have to remind her of her shortcomings? She knew them as well as anyone.
Ann’s stomach knotted as it so often did when she grew nervous or upset. She chided herself. James McCann occupied far too many of her thoughts already, despite being no more than a begrudging temporary landlord and she his unwelcome houseguest. She needed a distraction. Polishing and scrubbing were good for that, but she’d already depleted the meager supply of soap and polish she’d found in the cabinet. Her needle lace had always been a comfort to her, so she fetched some from her room and set to work.
The simple piece—a square of linen on which she built up needle-lace scallops and flower petals one stitch at a time—didn’t require enough attention to prevent her mind from drifting back to her situation. Despite James’s beliefs, she knew no one waited for her. She would soon be alone in a strange country. Basic necessities to buy. Room and board to pay. The very thought of each expense made Ann’s stomach go cold.
Embroidery proved a very poor distraction. Her hands trembled over the stitching as she contemplated her future, and after she ruined the third petal with her carelessness, she tucked the lace away in her apron pocket.
The creak of floorboards snapped her attention to the back porch. The wooden screen door swung open and James entered in his stocking feet. He’d walked through the kitchen with his dusty shoes on this morning. Did this mean he’d taken note of the markedly cleaner floor?
“Is lunch ready?”
Ann’s throat constricted. A glance at the clock proved the day approached noon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted me to prepare something.”
“That’s alright. I don’t think I could stomach another meal like breakfast.”
Heat rose up the back of Ann’s neck, and her fingers itched to snatch a plate from the table and launch it at his head. James smiled and teasingly winked. The angry heat receded a little.
“I’ve cooked my own meals for years. I think I can manage a little longer in exchange for a house this clean,” he added.
He had noticed!
Before she could respond, James stepped abruptly from the kitchen into the hall. His footsteps moved from the dining room to the parlor. He returned, his lips pulled down into a frown. “The other rooms haven’t been cleaned. What have you been doing all this time?”
His accusation warmed her blood again. She rose from her chair and drew a deep breath to calm her temper. “I am not lazy, James McCann.”
He gestured about the room. “No lunch and a dirty house. What do you call that in England?”
“I’ll have you know it would have been my pleasure to clean your filthy house. You would have walked in the door and lost your senses at the great beauty of clean floors and windows not covered in grime. But you’re out of supplies.” Ann bit her lip to keep from saying more, though she feared the damage was done.
James’s eyes widened and the taut muscles of his jaw relaxed. His voice grew soft. “I’m out of supplies?”
Ann stood up straight and clasped her hands submissively behind her back out of habit. She’d assumed this same stance whenever her employers addressed her while in service. She realized this immediately and let her hands fall to her sides.
“I used all of what you had cleaning the kitchen. I should have told you earlier.” If you hadn’t stomped out of the house before I could.
James dipped his sandy head and his cheeks colored. “Figures. I paid a woman from town to clean the house but she obviously cheated me. House is still dirty and she took the extra soap and polish with her.”
He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Ann. He looked...sheepish? Like a schoolboy caught with candy in his desk. “I’m sorry I accused you of being lazy. What have you been doing this morning?”
“I made Uncle Mac breakfast, though he didn’t come to the door when I knocked. I left the food on the landing.”
“It’s my fault for not making proper introductions. We’ll right that this afternoon. What else did you do?”
Her heart raced as she dipped her hand into her apron pocket. James would likely think her time better spent staring at the wall than working on needle lace. She withdrew the piece from her pocket. “I worked on this.” She held out the handkerchief and cringed when he took it from her with dirty fingers.
She gestured to the cloth. “I’m sure you think such work is worthless, but I had nothing else to fill the time. I would have cleaned had I found more supplies,” she repeated.
James examined the handkerchief as she spoke. Over and over, he turned it in his calloused hands. The more he studied it, the lighter his touch became, as if he handled a fragile porcelain cup. “You did all of this? The lace?”
She nodded.
His eyebrows raised and Ann saw a flicker of what appeared to be admiration. “No one helped you?”
Ann laughed at the absurd question. “Do you see anyone else here?”
James chuckled softly. “I meant—did someone help you with this before you arrived in America?”
“No. I began the work a week ago.”
“After lunch we’ll go into town for cleaning supplies. You’ll take this.” He gently folded the handkerchief into quarters and set it in her hand. His fingertips brushed her palm. The touch sent a warmth through her hand. She set her jaw and shook off the feeling.
James cobbled together a stew for lunch. “For Uncle Mac,” he explained as he ladled the first steaming bowlful. He paired the stew with a mug of milk and they took the meal upstairs together. They hadn’t even reached the top step before Ann spotted the breakfast tray. The spotless plate and empty mug suggested at least someone had enjoyed his meal that morning.
James rapped on the door. “Uncle Mac? Lunch is ready.” Bedsprings creaked, but still the door didn’t open.
“Best leave these here. There’ll be plenty of time for introductions when we get back from town.”
After lunch James retreated upstairs and returned wearing a clean shirt. His freshly scrubbed cheeks shone pink and water droplets clung to his tousled hair. Ann made a mental note to refill the pitcher in his room.
While James hitched the wagon, Ann stood outside and took in the expanse of land. Row after row of young green plants stretched in all directions. A small grove of oaks and maples, no more than five or six acres, anchored the east end of the field.
“May I ask what you did outside this morning?” Ann asked James as he helped her onto the wagon seat.
“Hoed the fields.”
The field nearest Ann seemed enormous as she imagined someone clearing the weeds row by row. “When will you be done?”
James laughed drily. “A job like that is never done. Not until the corn grows tall enough to shade out the weeds. I’ll be out here every morning until then.”
“And when might that be?”
“Well...” James paused and rubbed his chin. “We have a saying. ‘Knee-high by the Fourth of July.’ When the stalks are that tall, we should only have a week or two more of weeding.”
Weeks and weeks of hoeing this sweeping vista of green. Ann made a note to help him beginning tomorrow.
“What crops are you growing?”
James’s eyebrows rose and his shoulders drew back. “Corn in the big south field and some wheat in the north field. Most everyone around here grows either corn or wheat as their main crop.” He pointed to the next farm. “Hal Schneider has corn, too.”
The meandering rows of corn on Ann’s right weren’t planted with nearly the precision of James’s fields, and weeds were in abundance. In a few spots she couldn’t tell the crop from the intruders.
“It looks like Hal Schneider needs to weed,” she observed.
James glanced at the field. “Hal has a lot more than weeding to do.”
“What do you mean?”
James’s brow knotted and his mouth became a hard line. “The man has two young children and a house falling down around them. His wife died last year, and he didn’t take it very well. He needs to tend to his children and himself as well as those fields.” His voice held an edge of concern.
Ann strained to see the Schneider house, expecting to find children playing in the yard. It stood quiet and empty. She turned to James to ask him another question about his neighbor, but the top of an envelope jutting from his pocket caught her eye. So that was why he’d been so quick to suggest the trip to town. He needed to telegraph the agency and mail the letter to Mrs. Turner. Another reminder of her unknown future.
“Do you have much business in New Haven?” Ann tried not to sound too curious.
“A bit.”
She waited for him to continue. He didn’t.
“Am I to accompany you on your errands?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
It was like their trip from town to the farm all over again. Why must he swing betwixt friendly and withdrawn? Ann smiled through clenched teeth. “And what am I to do?”
“First you’ll buy the supplies you need to clean. And then—” he turned to look Ann straight in the eye “—you’re going to make yourself a new friend.”
“What kind of friend?”
His eyebrows arched. “You’ll see.”
* * *
James sighed inwardly. He abhorred being so short with Ann, but what else could he do? Every time he let down his guard with her, his head spun. It was a familiar feeling. He’d felt it every time he’d been in Emily’s presence. When she’d wanted something, he’d fallen over himself to do exactly as she’d asked, like a dutiful dog who only sees the good in its master. The need to please her had remained even as both his heart and God told him she was not the girl for him. At least now he knew how easily he lost his senses around a pretty girl. Better to focus on getting Ann to her intended husband and bringing his plain bride to the home where she belonged.
They drew into town and James turned onto the square and hitched the wagon in front of the first building. Davis Mercantile was neatly lettered in red and gold on the window.
“You can buy supplies in Davis’s. Charge them to my account,” he said as he helped her down.
“You aren’t coming with me?”
“I have a few things to take care of first. Mr. Davis can help you find what you need.”
James set off across the street. The post office sat on the other side of the square. Inside he handed the envelope to the clerk and asked him to calculate postage to England. He then spent ten minutes wording his telegram to the agency. Since he paid by the letter he had to get his point across as succinctly as possible. Afterward, he stepped into the library to fetch a book for Uncle Mac. Then he turned in the direction of the mill. He itched to confide in someone, and Frederick was his closest friend.
He stopped short on the wooden sidewalk a block away from the mill and chided himself. Ann had been in this town less than a day, and he’d left her unaccompanied. His weakness shouldn’t mean she had to suffer through new experiences in a strange country alone.
He continued to the mill, but only stayed long enough to write a note to Frederick informing him he was no longer needed at the courthouse that afternoon. He gave the note to the foreman, who assured James he would deliver it to his friend.
He returned to the square and walked straight to the mercantile. The dark interior of the store was a sudden change from the sun-drenched sidewalk, and for a moment James couldn’t see. He heard Ann’s lilting voice well before he saw her.
“And you’re sure this soap does a proper job?”
“Absolutely, miss. We don’t carry Sunlight, but Fels-Naptha won’t disappoint.”
The store came into focus, along with Mr. Davis behind the counter. His dark mustache rose at the corners as he smiled in greeting. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. McCann,” Mr. Davis called.
Ann stood at the counter and turned her golden head to face him. She smiled softly, and her shoulders dropped a hair, as if in relief.
“How will you be paying, miss?”
James strode to Ann’s side. “Put everything on my account, Mr. Davis.” He could hear the tremor of nerves in his voice. Why was he so nervous? He’d done business with William Davis for years.
Mr. Davis cocked a brow, but reached for the ledger book and entered the total without question.
Ann looked up at James, her blue eyes telling him something. Introductions! Apparently, he forgot even the most basic of social graces while in her presence.
“Mr. Davis, this is Miss Ann Cromwell. She’ll be staying with me and Uncle Mac for a little while,” he announced with far too much force.
“Delighted to meet you, miss,” the shopkeeper replied. “It’s always nice to have new people come to New Haven.”
James silently thanked the man for not asking any questions. William Davis didn’t get to be New Haven’s most successful businessman by being nosy.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. McCann?”
“Did those new hand tools come in yet?”
Mr. Davis gestured to the farthest corner of the store. “Leroy just finished stocking them. Take a look. I think you’ll find the new auger design superior to the old one.”
James made his way to the back of the store while Mr. Davis wrapped Ann’s selections and tied the bundle with string. He tried to concentrate on a shiny awl in front of him, but Ann’s voice carried to him from the counter.
“This is a lovely town. On the drive in, I admired the many fine homes along the boulevard.”
Mr. Davis chuckled. “I don’t think any street here is fancy enough to be called a boulevard, but we do have some beautiful residences.”
“In London, large homes employ several full-time servants.”
“I imagine they would.”
“Is that the case here in New Haven, as well?”
“Oh yes, miss. Half a dozen families here have servants.”
“They do?”
Was James mistaken, or did her measured tone change? She sounded...anxious? Eager?
“Doc Henderson is the only one with live-in help. He has a cook and maid. Heard he’s looking for a new one, though.”
“A new cook or a new maid?” she asked.
He’d heard right the first time. Her melodic voice held a frantic edge.
“He employs one girl to do both.”
“A maid of all work.”
“If that’s what you call it.”
James stole a glance at the counter. Ann’s lips were pursed and her large eyes cast down.
“In England, a servant who both cooks and cleans is called a maid of all work,” she replied.
Mr. Davis’s eyebrows arched. “Is that so?”
Was Ann looking for work? But why? They would be hearing from Mrs. Turner within a few weeks, and after that she’d be off to her true intended. Was living with him so miserable she’d rather work for someone than live with him? Heat flamed his cheeks. He had to treat her more as a guest, and pray it didn’t lead him down a path to his own destruction.
Ann hoisted the packages off the counter but James arrived at her side in seconds and eased them out of her arms. “You shouldn’t have to carry such a heavy bundle,” he explained. Ann bit her bottom lip and murmured her thanks. Was she trying to stifle a laugh? He didn’t doubt it. Everything Ann Cromwell did or said took him by surprise.
Chapter Five (#u72be62c0-eb70-597d-af5b-faca7d46c59d)
Ann waited on the sidewalk while James placed her purchases in the wagon. She’d almost burst out laughing when he suggested the parcels were too heavy for her to carry. She was used to carrying basket upon basket of firewood up three flights of stairs for most of the year. The package of soap, polish and scrub brushes weighed nothing in comparison.
“Where to now?” she asked when he rejoined her on the sidewalk.
“Remember that friend I promised you? She should be in there.” James pointed to the blue awning directly next to Mr. Davis’s store. New Haven Dressmakers.
The shop appeared empty, but a bell clanging above the door brought a young woman bustling in from the back. Dark abundant hair piled high atop her head added even greater height to her tall and slender frame.
“Good afternoon, Delia. I wanted you to meet Ann Cromwell.”
The woman’s eyes widened and a broad grin broke across her face. In an instant she had Ann clasped in a hug. Ann stiffened and managed a feeble squeeze in return.
“So you’re Ann! But didn’t you mean to say Ann McCann?” The girl winked at James. Flames licked Ann’s cheeks and she turned to find James’s face suffused with pink. He took a half step back and bumped into a dress form, which teetered precariously before he righted it. James ran a hand through his thick hair and Ann’s stomach tumbled. Did all men look so handsome when they were embarrassed?
She must change the subject, for both their sakes. “Were you the one who made that beautiful quilt?” she guessed. She recalled James saying this shop employed its maker.
The woman beamed. “Did you really think it beautiful? Frederick saw me working on it weeks ago and asked to buy it.”
“And you are Frederick’s cousin?”
The young woman placed a palm to her forehead. “Where are my manners, Mrs. McCann? I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Ardelia. Ardelia Ludlow.”
Ann shook her hand, and knew they couldn’t let this woman’s assumptions go uncorrected any longer. “It’s still Miss Cromwell.” She glanced again at James. His face flushed scarlet.
“Forgive my mistake.” Her smile didn’t dim and she laughed. “I’d say I’m still Miss Ludlow, but no one calls me that. My friends call me Delia, and you should, too.”
Ann felt a twinge of the familiar and fumbled back to the jumble of memories from the day before. “I met a woman from New Haven on the train yesterday. She told me she had a daughter near my age. You both have the same last name.”
Delia clapped her hands together and brought them under her chin. “You met Mother? What a coincidence!”
“This woman said she’d been visiting her sister.”
Delia nodded her head vigorously. “That was her, alright. She visited my aunt in Pataskala. Just had her tenth child—can you believe it?”
“Your mother was so kind to help her.”
Delia pointed to a cluster of chairs in the corner and a love seat. “Please, let’s all of us sit and have a chat.”
James rocked back and forth on his heels. The color in his cheeks diffused.
“Maybe I should leave you two alone,” he offered.
“Nonsense!” Delia exclaimed. “Miss Cromwell, implore him to stay.”
Ann bit her cheeks to keep from smirking. As if she could convince James to do anything.
“If I’m to call you Delia, you must call me Ann.”
It didn’t seem possible, but Delia’s smile grew broader.
“Ahem.” James cleared his throat. “Ann, did you bring that...uh...thing I asked you to?”
Ann bit back another smirk. So like a man to refer to a lady’s handkerchief as a “thing.” “Yes, I did,” she replied, and fished the piece from her pocket. “It isn’t quite finished.”
No sooner had the lace left the folds of Ann’s skirt than Delia snatched it from her hand.
“This needle lace is exquisite! Did you make this yourself?”
Ann nodded. Pride stirred in her middle.
“Handmade lace and embroidery are rare skills around here.”
“It isn’t as difficult as it appears. I am far more impressed with your quilt work.”
Delia’s dismissed Ann’s compliment with a wave of her hand. “Everyone quilts. My baby sister is already better than me. But lace like this!” She chewed her lower lip. “I wish I could buy this piece for the shop today.”
“Buy it?” Ann’s voice rose half an octave. She paused and continued in a more ladylike tone. “You believe you could sell my lace?”
“Certainly. But I’m only an apprentice. Mrs. Williams, the shop owner, would have to make the decision to sell your work here. She’ll be back tomorrow. Can I keep this and show it to her?”
James stepped forward. “Is it really all that special? That kind of lace, I mean?”
“Absolutely!” Delia stood and held the handkerchief a few inches from his nose. She traced a slim finger along one of the scallops. “See this pattern? It was made by embroidering scores of stitches, one on top of the other, to build up the design. There’s no backing to guide it, like bobbin lace, just a needle and thread. Lace like this requires true talent.”
Ann’s mind raced with figures. It would cost one or two dollars a week for a boardinghouse. Twenty-five dollars to repay James for her steerage ticket, followed by the agency fee—the price of which she couldn’t even guess. Still, she’d brought with her several dozen handkerchiefs. If they fetched half a dollar each, she might have some hope of supporting herself.
“Do you have any idea how a handkerchief like this might be priced?” Ann could barely contain the tremor of excitement in her voice.
Delia walked to the window and held the handkerchief in front of the glass. Sunlight streamed through the embroidery and painted a patterned shadow on the floor. “It’s hard to say. We won’t have many buyers in New Haven for something so fine, but we are getting more customers from Columbus. And it’s English-made, which is very popular.”
Ann laughed. In England her work was maid-made.
Delia looked up when she laughed and smiled back. “Five dollars.”
It was good Ann remained seated. Otherwise she might have fainted. Had she heard right?
James coughed and backed into another dress form. “Did you say five dollars?” he croaked.
“Like I said, I’ll have to check with Mrs. Williams, but I think that’s how she’d price it.”
Ann’s head was spinning. “When will you know?” she breathed.
“You’ll be at church this Sunday?”
Ann looked to James. He nodded.
“Wonderful. I can tell you then if Mrs. Williams is interested. If she is, I’m sure she’ll wish to meet with you.”
Ann moved through the pleasantries as if in a trance. It was only when James lightly touched her elbow that she realized they were leaving. She returned Delia’s hug goodbye, and allowed James to guide her to the door. Once on the sidewalk outside, with the shop door safely shut behind them, James let out a long, low whistle. His green eyes met hers and he squeezed her elbow. “Five dollars!” he said, as if it were a fantastic secret between them.
His excitement added to her own. She drew a deep breath to retain her decorum. “Mrs. Williams might not think it’s worth so much.”
James laughed. “Even a few dollars is a lot of money for some old handkerchief.”
Ann stiffened at the comment. “Needle lace takes years to learn and countless hours to create a few inches.”
“I believe you. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
James’s loose hair flopped over his right eye and he hadn’t yet raked it back into place. The sight positively unnerved her. It was hard to concentrate as he gazed at her through the sand-colored strands. Why hadn’t he swept it back?
A realization flickered. “You intended for me to meet Delia, didn’t you? She was the new friend you mentioned?”
“Delia or Mrs. Williams. I thought you’d find something in common with them and could make a friend during your short time here.”
“And you like it? The needle lace, I mean?”
He raked the hair from his forehead and met her gaze straight on. “Beautiful but impractical.”
A shiver coursed through Ann’s shoulders. He wasn’t just talking about the handkerchief.
James extended his arm toward the wagon, and helped her alight onto the seat. “Where’d you learn it?”
“Hmm?” His strong hands had touched her lightly as he held her palm and arm, but the phantom sensation of his touch remained. Her other hand throbbed lightly from its burn, only serving as further reminder of the last time they touched.
“The lace. Who taught you how to make it?” James hauled himself onto the wagon seat and flicked the reins.
“We were instructed in basic embroidery at the orphanage. When I entered service, I took handkerchiefs out of my mistress’s dresser and studied the needlework. Later, I would copy it.”
“Why were you in an orphanage?”
James didn’t know he’d asked Ann two questions. She’d lived in an orphanage twice in her life, but for very different reasons each time. Explaining the reason for her first stay was easy. Even thinking of telling him about the second made her stomach hurt. “Why are American children sent to orphanages?”
James squinted at Ann through dark lashes and nodded slowly. “Of course. I apologize for the callous question. You lost your parents. I’m sorry.”
His voice grew soft as he apologized. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch his hand. To let him know she appreciated his words. The hand closest to her rested palm up on his knee, the reins slack upon his fingers.
He caught Ann staring at them and gripped the reins.
Ann averted her eyes. “Delia seems like a nice girl.” She’d seemed like more than a nice girl. A few minutes with her and Ann felt she’d found someone she could confide in.
“All of the Ludlows—and the Renners, for that matter—are good people. You’ll get to meet many of them at church.”
“You aren’t going to make me stay home? Hide me away until you hear from Mrs. Turner?” she teased.
James blushed. “I told you we’d tell everyone the truth. Or at least most of it. We met through an agency and you’re staying with me and Uncle Mac to see if we suit. There’s really no other way to explain why you’re living in my house. Besides, half the people in town seem to know already.”
He was right. Mr. Davis hadn’t so much as blinked when James directed him to charge her purchases to his account. She now saw how ridiculous her inquiries regarding positions of service in New Haven had been. To all of New Haven, she would always be the intended Mrs. James McCann. It would be too awkward for any of them to hire her on. If she wanted a new position, she’d have to leave. Not only would she be starting yet another new life, but it must be far away from here.
Ann played with the hem of her sleeve and her breath caught in her throat. She must handle this next topic delicately. “We haven’t yet discussed the terms of my staying with you.”
He shot her a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
Ann swallowed hard. “I—I don’t have much money at the moment, to pay for room and board. However, if my handkerchiefs fetch as dear a price as Delia believes, I can repay you for everything. My passage. The agency’s fee.”
James waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t you worry about board. If you clean the rest of the house as well as the kitchen and keep it that way, I’ll consider it payment enough. The kitchen hasn’t looked like that since Mother died.”
“Oh.” Had she detected a compliment? What a pleasant surprise.
“Of course, I’d hoped you’d cook as well as my mother, but I guess that was too much to wish for.”
Ann bristled. She bit her tongue to keep her retort at bay. This man was never going to relinquish his prejudice against her.
“As for your passage and the agency,” he continued, “I wouldn’t worry yourself too much about that.”
Ann cocked her head and puzzled over his comment. “Why not?” she asked finally.
“I’m confident the agency will refund their fee. They’d have to after the kind of mistake they made. And once you’re properly matched with your intended, he can repay me for your ticket.” He laughed. “I’m sure he’ll be scandalized to discover I could only afford steerage. Maybe we’ll tell him I sprang for a second-class ticket? Get a few more dollars out of him?”
He turned to Ann and his smile dropped. “I’m only joking, of course. I’d never be dishonest.”
Ann barely managed a weak smile in return. If only he knew the cost of repayment rested squarely on her shoulders. Even if she procured money, she’d first have to think of supporting herself. “But you’ll be alright until then?” she asked hopefully.
James cleared his throat and gave a nervous chuckle. “Yes, though the sooner we hear from Mrs. Turner and get you sent off, the better. Fact is, I used most of last year’s profits to pay the agency fee and your passage. Until this year’s crops are in, I’m stretched a little thin. I counted on a lot more help around the house and the farm this summer and fall. It’ll cost to hire a hand during harvest.”
Her insides clenched. If only a wealthy suitor really did await her, checkbook in hand.
“Did you post the letter to Mrs. Turner?” she asked, sure that he had.
James chewed his lip. “I did.”
So it was done. The countdown had begun.
* * *
Back at the farm, James let Ann off by the door before pulling the wagon into the barn and tending to the horse. He took the few minutes of solitude to mentally review their trip to town. When he’d invited Ann to stay with him, he never imagined he could be so weak. He’d prayed over and over that morning for strength to focus on the task at hand. Such a simple task. Patiently await the arrival of his intended bride—a helpmate for the farm and the future mother of his children—all while sharing a home with the most breathtaking beauty New Haven had ever seen.
He stifled a chortle. Simple? This was the hardest task of his life. Every time he turned around, a compliment escaped his lips. Why did he keep doing that? The only antidote he could think of was to follow his praise with criticism. To remind himself he couldn’t be caught up in the deceit of beauty again. Yet each time he criticized her, Ann’s doe eyes reflected the wound. Then his chest would tighten to see he’d caused her pain, and he’d be caught up in her gaze all over again.
No, he couldn’t do this to himself! His time with Emily would be for nothing if he repeated the same mistakes. From the moment they met, he’d been utterly blind to Emily’s flaws. He’d ignored every warning God gave him and plunged ahead, hoping she’d grow a heart for farm life and family devotion.
The summer sun still hung high in the sky when he left the barn. His cheeks burned and his mouth felt dry as dust. He headed to the well pump for a drink of water and found Ann already there. She let the tin cup hanging by a chain drop with a clatter and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

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