Mail Order Sweetheart Read online

  Her utter silence spoke more than words ever could. His news had stunned her. Though a grin wanted to tug up the corners of his mouth, he stuck to business.

  “If you weren’t talking about my purchase, then what were you talking about?”

  That snapped her out of the stunned disbelief. “Oh. About accompanying the choir on Sunday. You did agree to play piano for them. That’s what Clara said.”

  It took mere seconds to process the misunderstanding. “You thought I was here to talk the ladies into asking me to play the piano for your little choir? Don’t I have enough to do already between running the sawmill, working out the details of purchasing the hotel and playing concerts with you?”

  Red dotted her cheeks even as her back stiffened. “I’ll have you know, Sawyer Evans, that my ‘little’ choir’s songs at the Easter Sunday service are not insignificant.”

  Now he felt chagrined. “Of course it’s significant. I’m sorry. That came out wrong. But I don’t understand. No one asked me to play the piano.”

  “They didn’t?” She spun and stalked to the window. “I cannot believe those women—if you can call them that. Such a childish, ill-conceived, selfish thing to do.”

  This time Sawyer let the grin curve his lips. Fiona was gorgeous when she was spitting mad—as long as that temper wasn’t directed at him. He went to her side, drawn like a moth to flame. “I’ll do it, but only if their director wants me to.”

  She whipped her head around. “Their director?”

  “Or is it conductor?”

  “No.” She drew in a deep breath. “No, director is fine. You care about my opinion?”

  “I do. You are the one in charge. Every decision needs to go through you.”

  Her frown changed to a smile, and the sparkle returned to her eyes. “You’re right, of course. It is all my decision. Oh, thank you, Sawyer.” She grasped his hands, sending a jolt through him. “Thank you for reminding me.”

  Sawyer pulled his thoughts away from the softness of her hands to what she’d said. “Then you want me to do it?”

  “I suppose it would be all right this one time.” She heaved a sigh and smoothed her hair, though it was perfectly in place. “They will be gone on Tuesday anyway.”

  “You’ll miss them.”

  “No.” She looked startled. “Well, maybe a little. But it’s more that I’ll miss the chance to help them.”

  “How could you help them more than you already have? You’ve taught them to sing together. You’re encouraging them.”

  “But they’re still going off to some island to marry homesteaders. I don’t think they have any idea what that means.”

  That statement gave Sawyer pause. “And you do?”

  “I know what it means to be poor.” She turned away from him to stare out the window again. “I know, and I will never go back.”

  He’d clearly struck the wrong chord. He wouldn’t have guessed she came from poverty, if she hadn’t just told him. Weren’t they an odd pair? He wore ragged clothes to disguise his wealthy upbringing. She wore fine clothing to hide her roots in poverty. If she knew that advertisement pointed to him, she would call it trickery and deceit. But she didn’t, and he’d better keep it that way.

  Still, he couldn’t resist the topic. “Did you see that personal advertisement in last week’s Sentinel?”

  “The one for a wife?” She sniffed. “I don’t believe one word of it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “No man who was actually on his way to becoming a leader of industry would bother to place an advertisement in the Singapore newspaper. It makes no sense.”

  Sawyer had to agree, but only Fiona had been intelligent enough to recognize it. “Then it must be a joke.”

  “At others’ expense.” She crossed her arms. “That is cruel, utterly cruel. If only you knew the desperation some women face. Why those advertisements are their only hope.”

  It sounded like she was referring to real people. Others or herself? Or perhaps the stranded brides.

  “Don’t worry about them,” he assured her. “They’ll soon be on their way to a new life.”

  “It’s not just the ladies headed to Harmony. Louise, Amanda and I came here in answer to an advertisement that proved false. I don’t want to see anyone hurt again.”

  “Like you.” The words slipped out before he’d fully thought it through.

  “I happen to have fortitude and a talent that pays the bills.” Her eyes flashed. “Other women are not so fortunate. We are expected to marry to secure our futures. If we don’t and the family can’t support us, we must take employment at a pitiful wage. You can afford to buy a hotel. We must pray we earn enough to buy the next meal.”

  “It’s a harsh world.”

  “One that could get better if influential people would act to solve the problem.”

  Maybe that’s why she’d set her cap on marrying a wealthy man, so she would have the power to enact change. Sawyer not only didn’t blame her, he couldn’t help but admire her drive to help the plight of others. That’s what his father could have done instead of the incessant drive to acquire more. Compared to Father, Fiona was powerless. She was the sort that his father preyed on.

  “You can’t help everyone,” he said quietly.

  “I must help. Somehow. There’s no choice.”

  He had a feeling she wasn’t talking about the shipwreck survivors.

  * * *

  Fiona stared out the window without seeing the barren landscape. Sand and tufts of wiry grass filled the space between weathered buildings. It looked the same every day since her arrival. The only difference was the amount of snow and the shape of the drifts.

  Today her thoughts drifted far from Singapore to the tenements in New York. Mary Clare had spent seven years in squalor. Only Fiona could give the girl hope of a different future. That meant writing in answer to every promising advertisement for a wife, including the preposterous one in the Singapore Sentinel. As soon as Sawyer left, she would bring her letter to the mercantile.

  The prospective groom must be Mr. Stockton. Who else could it be? Then why place the advertisement here? He knew Singapore boasted few eligible women. Unless he had seen either her or Louise on one of his infrequent visits and developed a fancy for one of them. Considering the advertisement specified musical affinity, he must be sweet on her! A moment of panic was followed by amazement that a man of his prominence would go to such lengths to secure her interest. He could have stated his case and expected a positive response in return. Perhaps he was reserved by nature, and preferred to handle marriage in the same way he would handle a business deal. Just as well, for she couldn’t summon an ounce of affection for the man.

  If all this speculation was true, she would thrust herself into a situation just as unknown as the brides bound for Harmony. The thought gave her pause, and Fiona was not prone to pausing.

  “Maybe I can take your mind off things you can’t change,” Sawyer said.

  Fiona jumped at the sound of his voice. She’d forgotten he was there. Then he’d gone and spoken to her exact need. Had he read her mind? Surely not. She searched her memory for what they’d been discussing before her mind wandered. Mary Clare. She had to take care of her niece. Sawyer’s comment still made no sense, for she had every intention of changing Mary Clare’s plight.

  “I will do all in my power,” she replied. “Without anyone’s assistance.” That wasn’t quite true. She was about to throw away caution and place her hope in marriage to a man she’d never met.

  “I’m sure you will.” Sawyer’s gaze softened. “You are a strong and capable woman.”

  She melted into those warm brown eyes. Men often complimented her appearance or her voice, but Sawyer was the first to acknowledge how hard she’d worked to create this life.

&nbs
p; He gave her a schoolboy shy smile. “The real reason I called on you today was to ask your advice, but maybe it’s not a good time.”

  “My advice?” Men never, ever asked for her advice on anything more serious than which handkerchief to tuck in a suit pocket. “It’s perfectly fine. What did you want to ask me?”

  “About the business deal.”

  Now he had her attention. Sawyer wanted her opinion on business? She could have fallen over from the shock. “What business?”

  “The hotel.”

  She drew in a deep breath. She didn’t know much about the hotel business aside from entering a hotel lobby on occasion.

  “You’re asking me for advice about buying a hotel,” she repeated just to make certain. “You do realize that I’m a singer, and the only business I’ve managed is how to pay for room and board and necessities from the little they pay me.” That included her wardrobe, which was small but stylish, created to project an image of prosperity and status.

  “You also have a keen eye for potential. I’ve heard your choir. They sound good—very good—certainly better than I would have imagined in such a short time.”

  She basked in the compliment.

  “And you are familiar with the Astor House...not to be confused with its namesake in New York.”

  She chuckled, having made the same comparison soon after arriving here. “I’m only familiar with the dining room. I’ve never stayed there.”

  “However, you must have stayed in New York City hotels.”

  She couldn’t tell him that she hadn’t. She’d only been able to afford a room in boardinghouses. She would never go to a gentleman’s hotel room. Ever.

  “Why is my experience with hotels so important?” she asked instead.

  “Because if I buy the hotel, it will need repairs and renovation.”

  “Ah.” Still not something she was qualified to remark upon.

  She took a deep breath and tried to imagine Sawyer running a hotel. He was all wrong for the job. A hotel manager ought to display impeccable manners, speech and attire. Sawyer spoke well for a lumberjack, and his manners were good, but his attire left a great deal to be desired. On the other hand, Singapore’s Astor House was rather dilapidated compared to a big city hotel and was located in a lumber town. Maybe he would get more of the workers to stay there if he looked more like them and less like a big city hotel manager.

  “Well, it is an opportunity.” Her mind tumbled to another thought. “But weren’t you just promoted to manage the sawmill?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would leave that?”

  “A man can’t make his mark under another man’s thumb.” Surprising passion rang through every word.

  Something—or someone—had pushed Sawyer too much. Stockton? As owner, he was the ultimate boss over everyone working at the sawmill. Just like the theater owners had lorded over her. And the Adamsons held the final word where the young brides were concerned. Her mind landed on a brilliant thought.

  “Wouldn’t the hotel make a wonderful school?”

  “A school? Why would you say that?” Sawyer frowned. “The new school building is already taking shape.”

  Fiona had forgotten about the replacement for the schoolhouse that had burned last November. With the warm winter, the foundation had already been dug and put in place. Soon the floor and walls would rise.

  “Not that kind of school,” Fiona said. “A boarding school.”

  Sawyer looked like he was going to laugh but stifled it. After a bit of throat clearing, he managed to choke out, “In Singapore?”

  “Why not? Miss O’Keefe’s School for Young Ladies.” She could see the sign above the door, painted with fancy lettering like they used in the posters advertising her singing engagements in New York.

  More coughing issued from Sawyer, and his face had grown red.

  Fiona narrowed her gaze. “You think it’s a ridiculous idea. Well, I’ll have you know that there’s a need. Take the girls from the shipwreck, for instance. Being married off to men they’ve never met.”

  “Like answering a mail-order advertisement.”

  Fiona felt her face heat. “At least with an advertisement there’s an opportunity to meet the man before making the final decision.”

  “I see. And what would a boarding school do to improve the ladies’ lots?”

  Wasn’t it just like a man to miss the obvious?

  “Why, it would train them so they can better their lives. Didn’t I tell you the other day about the pitiful wages paid to working women?”

  “How would training improve their lot if owners still refuse to pay more?”

  “Perhaps they could learn skills to run their own business.”

  By the expression on Sawyer’s face, he found that impossible to believe. “Some women are forced to run their late husband’s business, but to choose it?” He shook his head. “Is that what you want, Fiona? To open your own business? I thought you came to Singapore to marry.”

  The words cut to the quick. She had. She was guilty as charged. A response to that ridiculous advertisement still rested in her pocket. She was willing to tie herself to Mr. Stockton or whoever wrote that ad without knowing a thing about him.

  “Sometimes women are forced to make that choice for the sake of others.” Such as Mary Clare. “My school would give women hope that they could earn enough to live comfortably on their own.”

  He looked ready to dispute her yet again but changed his mind. “It’s a worthy cause but not the sort of business I am qualified to run.” His jaw worked. “Do I understand that you would be competing with me to acquire the hotel?”

  The glorious dream evaporated. She could not afford to rent a room, least of all buy an entire hotel.

  “No,” she said softly. “I will not stand in the way of your purchase.”

  His smile returned, but her heart sank. Like most women, she must rely on the hope of marrying well to secure her future.

  Chapter Nine

  In the light of day, the hotel looked a lot more dilapidated than it did in the evenings when lamplight hid many of the defects. Sawyer descended the staircase the next day, having surveyed several of the guest rooms. Many of the furnishings needed to be replaced. That would be costly enough, but he’d seen evidence of leaks. Repairing the roof and the damage within could bankrupt him before he even started. VanderLeuven would not have shown him the worst rooms, so Sawyer had to surmise that those were uninhabitable.

  “She’s a fine place.” The owner smoothed a hand over the banister. “With the right man at the helm—such as yourself—she’ll turn a handsome profit.”

  The hotel needed more than a firm hand to turn it around. It needed a serious investment in order to return to profitability. Sawyer didn’t have the kind of money that could turn Astor House into a hotel worthy of its namesake in New York. Not at the current asking price.

  He quickly did the calculation in his head. The amount promised by the Saugatuck bank—ensured only because Sawyer was now manager of the sawmill—in addition to his savings less the purchase price would only leave enough to make a dent in the refurbishing that needed to take place.

  “It’d take a wealthier man than me.”

  VanderLeuven blanched. “It doesn’t take a mountain of money. A bright young man like yourself has the skill and connections to make things happen.”

  Sawyer was about to protest when he realized that he did have connections. The people he knew and called friends would step in to assist, but Sawyer couldn’t afford to hire anyone. Not with those costs. Neither could he ask people to work or supply materials on credit. He could repair the door, recaulk the windows, paint and varnish the wood floors, but it would take forever by himself.

  He shook his head. “It’s still too much.” He
named a figure that would give him an allowance for materials.

  VanderLeuven sputtered and protested, but came closer to Sawyer’s price.

  If Sawyer delayed some of the refurnishing or was able to buy some items on credit, he might be able to afford a couple workers. That would get the place in running order in time to take advantage of at least some of the spring rush, not to mention the influx of visitors for the launching of the new schooner this summer. But it wouldn’t allow for any new furnishings.

  “It’s still too much.”

  “Name a price,” VanderLeuven responded, his jowls red.

  Sawyer didn’t want to get pinned down. He’d already given his preferred price, which had been rejected out of hand. He had a figure in mind, but naming it would give the advantage to VanderLeuven, who could then push him higher.

  “I already gave you my bottom line.”

  VanderLeuven mumbled as he worked figures on the scrap of paper he’d pulled from a pocket.

  Sawyer’s mind spun with ideas. He could oversee the construction and repairs, but he had no taste or experience when it came to furnishings. He needed someone with a keen sense of color. One face drifted to mind. Fiona. In spite of her penchant for overly bright clothing, she knew what a fine hotel ought to look like. Her backdrop for the nativity play last Christmas had shown proper restraint as well as talent.

  Yes, Fiona would be the perfect choice. That meant working together, often very closely. Not an unpleasant thought at all. He’d come to appreciate her spirited conversation. She might even warm to him once she saw his determination to make a success of the place.

  VanderLeuven shoved the paper at Sawyer. “This is the lowest I can go. What do you say?”

  Sawyer eyed the lobby and main entrance. Heavy velvet drapes blocked what little light drifted through the grimy windows. A little cleaning and redecorating would take care of that, but what would he find when the light was better?