Mail Order Sweetheart Page 8

  Sawyer had planned to seek investors to make up the shortfall between the asking price and his savings, but he didn’t stand a chance of beating out Roland for them. To make this deal, he would have to get the property at a low price. Then he could turn Astor House into the finest hotel on Lake Michigan’s eastern shore.

  * * *

  “I don’t have to do anything you tell me to do,” shouted Violet Burr, the chestnut-haired young woman whose contentious nature came out the minute Fiona announced the forming of a church choir. “My church doesn’t believe in singing or music of any sort.”

  Fiona couldn’t conceive of such a thing. “Why ever not?”

  “Because it leads to pride.” Violet jutted her chin.

  Fiona was not going to argue. She’d done enough of it with her siblings to understand it was a way to get others to do what you wanted. Violet was testing her. Fiona wouldn’t bite. “Then you may leave.”

  Violet cast her a withering look. “I don’t need your permission.”

  “And you don’t need to come back either.”

  Violet looked spitting mad and ready to spout off some vulgarity.

  Clara stepped between them. “No one has to sing. Miss O’Keefe just wanted to give us somethin’ to do to pass the time.”

  Fiona wished she had those diplomatic skills instead of losing her temper whenever challenged. It was a flaw that had cost her at home, where she was often at war with her equally volatile sisters. Witness Lillibeth’s sending Mary Clare at the least convenient time.

  With the ladies’ choir, Fiona held the advantage, and she wasn’t relinquishing it. After all, the women would soon be gone to their island with its impossibly perfect village of Harmony. There they would discover the realities of marriage to men they’d never met. For a moment, Fiona’s heart ached for them. Still, maybe it was better than sixteen-hour days in a factory.

  “There has to be another way,” she muttered aloud.

  The six women stared at her. If Violet hadn’t possessed the best soprano voice of the lot, Fiona wouldn’t care if she stayed or went, but the feisty young woman reminded her too much of herself. She was a fighter, and she had talent. It would be wasted homesteading on some northern island.

  Fiona drew in a breath and calmed her temper. “I would like you to stay, Violet. Your voice carries the soprano section and would uplift many a soul on Easter Sunday.”

  The girl’s shoulders eased. “I’m sorry, Miss O’Keefe. I got a temper sometimes. Miss Henderson said it’d get me in trouble one day.”

  By now, Fiona had figured out that Miss Henderson had run the orphanage. Her immediate problem was getting this ragtag group together in three days.

  “We will rehearse all day until nightfall, if necessary, but we—and by that I mean all of you—will be ready for Easter Sunday services. It’s your sacred duty.”

  Apparently that struck a chord, for the bickering and protests abruptly stopped. In fact, the women assembled in their proper places without a word. Fiona was stunned until Clara’s glance toward the doorway gave away the true reason for compliance.

  Mr. Adamson nodded at her. “Carry on.”

  For the next half hour, practice went beautifully. With the exception of the pale, quiet one whose name Fiona could never remember, they even sang reasonably well. Thankfully, the pale woman’s off-key voice was so weak that the others covered it. When they finally finished the piece, Fiona lifted her eyes to the heavens in thanksgiving. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. In three days they might even draw closer to perfection.

  “I have news, ladies,” Mr. Adamson stated brusquely.

  Fiona hadn’t realized the man had stood in the doorway listening the entire time. Now he’d come into the parlor, and the ladies quietly gathered around him.

  “Mrs. Adamson and I received a telegraph today by way of Holland stating that another ship will leave Chicago on Easter Monday, weather permitting, and arrive here the following day. Seeing as you have ample time to learn the songs for the Easter service, I expect you to listen to Miss O’Keefe’s direction and do our Lord proud on Sunday.”

  Fiona watched the women’s reactions. Though they remained stoic while Mr. Adamson was in the room, that changed the moment he left. A mixture of hopefulness and dread filled most faces, though the pale one looked as though she might swoon, and Violet crossed her arms in front of her.

  “I don’t wanna leave,” whispered Dinah, the young blonde. She looked hopefully to Fiona. “Can we stay here?”

  Fiona didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t promise anything. There were no jobs until the flow of logs increased and the second sawmill began operating. Even then the positions were menial or unsavory, like working the saloons. Fiona would not stoop to that type of work. She’d been asked to sing there and had turned down the owners every time.

  “There isn’t a lot of opportunity here,” she said slowly.

  “There’s that rich businessman,” Dinah retorted.

  “The who?”

  “That magnate who wants a wife. That’s what Clara said a magnate was. I thought it was something you used to pick up a lost needle.”

  The other women snickered, making Dinah blush.

  Fiona felt for her. She was too young to be making this forever decision. “Why did you ever agree to marry someone you’ve never met?”

  “Mr. Adamson assured us they’re God-fearing, nondrinking men,” Clara answered for the rest. “Can’t do no better than that.”

  Perhaps not. But then again, maybe they could. What if there was another solution? What if Singapore boasted some way for women to earn enough to pay their own way? Wages for women were notoriously low. A decent wage could bring a woman a measure of independence and self-confidence.

  If only there was a way.

  Her old singing instructor had once told her that if there didn’t appear to be a pathway to your dreams, you must make the path yourself. Somehow Fiona had to come up with a solution, and it had to happen before Tuesday. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to give the terrified girls another option than sailing off to an unknown future.

  An excited murmur from the women broke Fiona from her thoughts. Yet another man stood in the doorway to the parlor, this one infinitely more attractive than Mr. Adamson.

  Sawyer smiled and tipped his hat. “Ladies.”

  Dinah blushed furiously.

  Clara pounced on him. “Come in and sit a spell.”

  Though the woman unceremoniously grabbed his arm, he didn’t budge. “I was hoping to speak with Fiona—Miss O’Keefe.”

  “Oh.” The disappointment rang clear in Clara’s voice but didn’t last long. “Then when you’re done, you can join me. I’ll sing for you. If I knew how to play piano, I’d play for you, but there isn’t one of us that can play.”

  “I can accompany you,” Sawyer volunteered.

  Fiona wanted to shout out what a bad idea that was, but the damage was done. All the girls crowded around him, begging him to play something for them. Like most men, he seemed to be dazzled by all the feminine attention and allowed himself to be dragged to the piano, where he proceeded to play not one song but six, while each girl took her turn singing.

  Men. Why were they so oblivious to the machinations of women?

  Or was he?

  Sawyer had clearly forgotten that he wanted to speak to her. She might as well not even be in the room.

  Fine.

  Her temper high, Fiona stomped from the parlor and retreated to the kitchen. Surely some batch of dough needed pounding.

  Chapter Seven

  With six young women clustered around him at the piano, Sawyer didn’t see Fiona leave the room. He spotted her absence when he wanted her to demonstrate a particularly difficult passage for the ladies.


  For a moment he wondered where she’d gone, but then another of the ladies asked for a different tune. They had a seemingly insatiable appetite for singing, though only one of them had a decent voice. The rest were too weak, too bold, flat or sharp. Yet they’d sounded fairly good when he’d first approached the boardinghouse. Fiona was working wonders with them.

  “Honestly, I do have to go,” he said for the umpteenth time.

  “Just one more,” the pretty blonde with the long eyelashes pleaded. “We don’t even gotta sing. I just love watchin’ you play.”

  Blondes only reminded Sawyer of Julia. He avoided them, but this one was cloyingly persistent. When he hesitated, she took it as approval to go on and selected another song from the available music.

  “D’ya know this one?”

  Everyone knew the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Though it brought up painful memories, he couldn’t wriggle out of it when surrounded by a chorus of “please, Mr. Evans.”

  “Last one.”

  He played two verses and rose. “I have work to do.”

  “At this hour?” the brunette asked.

  It was nearly supper. That gave him an idea.

  “You must need to freshen up before you eat.”

  “No, not at all,” the ladies insisted.

  The blonde even wound her arm around his. “You’re gonna join us, aren’t you? I been wantin’ to ask if you know who put that advertisement in the newspaper. You must know who around here is a...a magnet.”

  The girls giggled.

  The blonde corrected herself. “Magnate.”

  Sawyer forced a stiff smile. “Couldn’t tell you, ladies.”

  Nor did he intend to ever tell them.

  “Stop monopolizing him, Dinah.” The brunette pouted.

  So the blonde was named Dinah. One of the letters in his pocket was signed by Dinah.

  “I ain’t doing no such thing, Clara,” the blonde shot back. “I’m only gonna show him to his seat at the table.”

  Clara was the other applicant.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to eat with you,” Clara said. “Maybe he has other plans.”

  Sawyer didn’t mention that he often ate in the kitchen. Since he wasn’t a guest at the boardinghouse, he didn’t sit at the dining table but paid for and ate his meals at the kitchen table. Doubtless they would have insisted on joining him.

  “Actually, I do have something to do.” He extracted his arm from the blonde’s grasp. He’d wanted to tell Fiona about the hotel being for sale, but that would have to wait. He wouldn’t get a moment alone with her with these ladies around. No, he needed an excuse that drew him away from the boardinghouse. “I need to check on progress at the mill.”

  He didn’t really, but he’d find something to verify, even if it was just ensuring the machines had been properly shut down for the night. Anything to escape these ladies.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Calloway called for assistance preparing the table, and an older gentleman appeared to shoo the ladies to the dining room. Sawyer plucked his hat off the sofa and nodded his gratitude to the gentleman.

  The man surveyed him closely. “You’re one of the fellows who rescued us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man nodded. “Best not let the girls know that. They are all engaged to marry and don’t need any...complications in their lives.” Then, without so much as a thank you or a nod, he swept from the room, presumably to tend to those engaged women.

  Sawyer gratefully left the boardinghouse and loped down the boardwalk toward the sawmill. As long as the young ladies were staying at the boardinghouse, he would have difficulty seeing Fiona. Unless she was in the kitchen.

  He backtracked to the rear of the boardinghouse. Maybe that’s where Fiona went. Maybe she was baking something. The memory of her flaky biscuits from this morning made his mouth water. Fiona didn’t look like she could do one bit of menial labor, but her baking was exceptional.

  The back stoop was sand-covered, which was unavoidable after a long day. No matter how many times a person swept away the sand, it returned. He climbed the stairs and poked his head into the steamy kitchen. No one was there, but he could hear banging and rattling.

  “Fiona?”

  Her head popped up above the corner of the stove. “What do you want?”

  Though taken aback, he attributed her blunt response to frustration with whatever she was struggling to do.

  “Can I help you?”

  Her lips thinned. “I think you’ve done quite enough ‘helping’ for today.”

  He rounded the stove to see she had dropped a heavy pan on the floor. It took only a second to grab hold, and he would have lifted it onto the stove or the table or wherever she wanted it except she wouldn’t let go.

  “I have it,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Her red hair was in disarray, completely fallen out of its pins. With the high color in her cheeks and the spark in her eyes, she was utterly and completely attractive. It took everything in Sawyer’s power not to kiss that frown off her lips. Instead, he set the pan on the stove.

  As soon as he let go, she moved it to the table.

  “See?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I knew far better than you where I wanted it.”

  Sawyer raised his hands in surrender. “Just trying to help out.”

  “Well, you can ‘help out’ in the parlor and leave me to do my work.”

  “You’re working in the kitchen?” Until that moment, Sawyer hadn’t taken her claim to need an income seriously. He’d thought she baked for pleasure.

  Her gaze narrowed. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Uh, no.” He searched for something that would lighten her mood. “Your biscuits this morning were delicious.”

  Her hands left her hips, and she began wiping the pan she’d just set on the table, though it was perfectly clean and dry. “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

  “Roland said you’re an excellent baker.”

  She looked up sharply and then resumed wiping the pan. “I used to bring bread for Roland and his brother when they were bachelors living above the store.”

  “You felt sorry for them?”

  The dots of color hadn’t left her cheeks. “Some.” She didn’t look at him.

  Then the truth hit him. What a fool he was! She’d baked the bread to demonstrate her skill to Garrett Decker, in an attempt to prove she was the one he should marry. But that didn’t explain her baking and working in the kitchen now. Unless Blakeney had somehow talked her out of funds. He’d heard rumors the man had gone through the area seeking “investors” for his new sawmill. If Fiona would bake to lure Garrett Decker, she might agree to whatever Blakeney suggested in order to claim his attention.

  “Tell me Blakeney didn’t bilk you out of money.”

  Again she looked up sharply. “I am no fool, Sawyer Evans.”

  Yet her jaw was tense and her eyes flashed with anger. Sawyer felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. That rogue Blakeney had not only abandoned her, he’d stolen money from her. Fiona must be in desperate straits, especially with her niece due to arrive soon. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said sharply. “I don’t need your pity. I’m fine. Just fine. And don’t you forget it.”

  Sawyer choked down his sympathy. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want anything from him. What could he do anyway? Even if she would accept help, the opportunity he’d been waiting for had finally arrived. He’d come here today to tell her about the hotel, but that news would only make things worse. If he was able to buy the place, he would have to close it for a few months to refurbish and renovate. That would cut into her income.

  He backed away. “Sorry for bothering you.”
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  She didn’t stop him from leaving.

  * * *

  “You need to assign them chores,” Fiona told Mrs. Calloway when she entered the kitchen. It was easier to dwell on the ladies than think about how easily Sawyer had figured out she’d invested a small amount of money in Carson Blakeney’s sawmill. It wasn’t much, but it was all the extra she had above the reserve set aside for passage to Chicago. The cheat had taken her money and whatever he’d coerced out of others to who knew where. Fiona hated that he’d duped her. Even worse, his lies had come on the heels of Winslow Evanston’s deceit. She should have known better. She was usually a good judge of character. Those ladies, for instance, had no intention of waiting until they reached Harmony to snag a husband, and they’d begun with Sawyer.

  “Who needs more chores?” Mrs. Calloway asked.

  “Those girls.” Fiona waved her hand in the direction of the parlor. “Singing can only occupy so much of their day. Mr. Adamson said they will be here through Monday at least. Can’t they do something around here?”

  “They are already cleaning their rooms and sweeping the public rooms, but I suppose we could do laundry tomorrow, considering Good Friday and Easter are coming up.”

  “There must be a lot of it.”

  “There is.” Mrs. Calloway sighed. “We didn’t get the half of it done on Monday. All right. It’s settled. We’ll do laundry tomorrow and bake on Saturday.”

  That wasn’t how Fiona had planned to spend her Saturday, but it would have to do. At least the young women would be too busy to chase after Sawyer. Now, if she could just find something to keep Sawyer away from them.

  Mrs. Calloway pulled a pan of chicken and dumplings from the oven. “I take it you’re not so keen on keepin’ them here now.”

  Fiona blew out her breath. She was being hypocritical. “I do sympathize with their plight,” she said slowly, “but they only seem interested in marriage.”

  “That’s what all young ladies want.”

  Was it? Fiona recalled those heady days of youth when she might well have fallen into the wrong man’s clutches if not for her mother’s stern warning and her older sisters’ examples. She’d been cautious but still fell victim to the likes of Evanston and Blakeney. She seemed to attract the louts, whereas the good, decent ones, like Garrett Decker, didn’t give her a second thought.