Mail Order Sweetheart Page 9

  “Who wouldn’t be interested in an industrial magnate?” Mrs. Calloway chuckled. “But they’d be mighty disappointed if they set eyes on Mr. Stockton. He’s old enough to be their father.”

  No one else could be the mysterious man placing the advertisement. Fiona considered the newspaper tucked in the bureau in her room. Louise had noted it without comment. Perhaps she had already written a response. Ordinarily, Fiona would have ignored it, but she was desperately low on funds. Mary Clare could arrive any day. Fiona needed a husband.

  Mr. Stockton wasn’t the worst solution. He was wealthy and spent most of his time traveling. She needn’t see him often. Men who placed such advertisements had practical reasons and modest expectations for the new wife. Yes, he might be just the answer she needed. Tonight she would write in reply to the advertisement.

  * * *

  “No and no.” Sawyer placed the letters on the mercantile counter. “I’ve met the women, but, even if I hadn’t, I’m not ready to marry.”

  “Even if a certain redhead answered the advertisement?” Roland had that silly grin on his face.

  “Did she?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  In spite of a wave of disappointment, Sawyer pretended disinterest. “Just as well. I have other things on my mind.”

  Roland picked up the envelopes. “Are these your responses?”

  Sawyer had no idea what to say. “Did Pearl come up with a response for me?”

  Roland shook his head. “She seems to think it would be more honest coming from you.”

  “None of this was my idea. Besides, what would I say? They’re expecting a letter from a captain of industry.”

  “Up and coming industrial magnate.”

  Sawyer scowled. “Small distinction. You know as well as me that every woman is going to skip right over the ‘up and coming’ part and see only the rich and powerful part. They’ll expect a reply to come on fine stationery embossed with a company name and dictated to a secretary.”

  Roland’s eyebrows lifted. “For a lumberman, you know a lot about how a business office works.”

  Sawyer had let too much slip out. He tried to look nonchalant. “I’ve been in one in the past.” That wasn’t a lie. He’d been in Father’s office many times. The secretary always gave him a look of sympathy before Sawyer entered the office and endured Father’s wrath over some petty mistake.

  “I see.”

  Though Roland looked skeptical, he didn’t ask further questions.

  Sawyer turned back to the topic at hand. “I’m not answering these. They’ll be gone soon anyway. If you think they need a reply, then you can write.”

  “Should I answer for you if Fiona writes?”

  “No!” Now Roland was jesting with him, but Sawyer was in no mood for it. “How long do I have to put up with this?”

  “Until you choose someone or the applications stop trickling in.”

  “You mean there’s no ending date on the ad?”

  Roland just shrugged. “It wasn’t ever supposed to be published.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “What do I do?”

  “Wait it out.” Roland began stocking some creams and ointments behind the counter.

  That was not the answer Sawyer wanted, but he couldn’t think of an alternative. “I don’t need this now, not with the sawmill ramping up production and the possible hotel purchase. Speaking of the hotel, I’d like your advice.”

  Roland turned, a jar of cold cream in his hands. “Are you asking if it’s a good opportunity?” He set the jar down. “Well, it’s the only one in town, aside from the boardinghouse. That gives it value.”

  “VanderLeuven’s asking too much, considering the place needs work. I haven’t seen the rooms, but the dining room and lobby are pretty worn.”

  “Agreed.” Roland looked up as the bell on the front door rang and a customer entered. “What’s the question?”

  “I plan to offer a lot less than he’s asking, but I’ll still need investors or a bank loan. Which way should I go?”

  “Bringing on an investor could mean an active partner. Be sure you understand his expectations. Or hers.” Roland grinned. “Fiona would be a good partner. She must have set aside a good amount during her career.”

  Roland didn’t know that Fiona was strapped for money. Like everyone else, Sawyer included, he must assume her expensive gowns and jewelry meant she was well-off. Now that Sawyer thought about it, she hadn’t bought anything new since coming here. Judging from her reaction to his suspicions about Blakeney, she’d lost a bit of money to the criminal.

  “That’s not the business partner I had in mind.” In Sawyer’s experience, women did not make good business associates, especially when he was far too attracted to her to maintain any objectivity.

  “I was jesting,” Roland said with a laugh. He then spent the next hour, between customers, outlining how he’d found—and lost—investors. “Of course you’d be starting with an existing business. That’s more than I had.”

  “Except the receipts aren’t good, and the property needs refurbishing. That’s where I’m going to need additional finances.”

  “Anyone in your family able to help?”

  Sawyer stiffened. For a second he wondered if Roland knew who he really was, but the man’s expression was as open and honest as always. He relaxed.

  “No.” Nothing could induce him to go crawling to Father for money.

  “Then approach the banks. I’d try Saugatuck first. Then Holland.”

  This would be a risky venture, to be sure, but Sawyer was tired of waiting. He needed to make his mark now, before Father found him. Maybe, in time, he could offer Fiona the kind of security she craved, the kind he could never give her as a mill foreman. He would visit the Saugatuck bank tomorrow morning.

  Chapter Eight

  Writing a response to the advertisement felt too much like agreeing to marriage with a man Fiona had never met. In contrast, the ad that had brought her to Singapore last August did not require her to write and tout her virtues. That’s what had attracted her to it—that and the promise of a substantial inheritance, if she remembered the wording correctly.

  False!

  That had turned out to be a play on words, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this advertisement was exactly the same. Certainly Mr. Stockton could have placed it, but then why put it in the Singapore newspaper, which had a small circulation? He would know that the town had few eligible women available. It also was not the place to search for a wife familiar with social dictates.

  Perhaps that’s what unsettled her. For all of Fiona’s pretensions, she knew very little about proper etiquette for teas and soirees and the such. She had attended many a celebration but had hosted none. A woman who’d grown up in the tenements and now lived in a boardinghouse did not host social events. Well, she’d muddle through somehow. If this advertisement turned out to be genuine.

  Fiona placed the pen back in its holder and blotted her note. It took little time to read.

  Dear Sir,

  Please accept my sincere appreciation for and interest in your recent advertisement in the Singapore Sentinel. Though I am loathe to speak of myself, those of my acquaintance can vouch that I possess all the skills requested. Baking is a specialty, and music is my life. I would be honored to meet you.

  Miss Fiona O’Keefe

  Hearing movement in the hallway, she folded the note and tucked it into her pocket just before Clara and her band of wives-to-be filed into the writing room. She would bring it to the mercantile later.

  “It’s time for practice,” Clara announced.

  Fiona glanced up at the clock. “Indeed it is. Practice your scales, and I will be right with you.”

  “We don’t need to practice scales. We need t
o practice our songs.”

  Fiona had been through this argument before. “First you need to learn the notes so they are second nature.”

  “How are we supposed to match the notes when we can’t hear them?” Clara’s hands went to her hips. “We need a piano player.”

  Fiona knew precisely where this was headed. “I’m sorry that my skills don’t meet your standards.” She managed only the scales while Mrs. Calloway attempted to plunk out the tunes. Neither was anywhere close to Sawyer’s ability.

  “It’s not my standards.” Clara pouted and managed to get a couple more of the girls to join her.

  Whenever the girls wanted something, they employed this technique.

  Well, Fiona was not going to fall for it. “What we have will suffice until the service on Sunday.”

  “But you know...” Clara’s voice trailed off when Mrs. Calloway entered the room with dust rag in hand.

  Fiona did know. Mrs. Calloway played the piano as best she could, even though one in three notes was wrong.

  “We have no choice,” Fiona insisted.

  “There’s that gentleman.” Clara said no more, but her eyes moved toward the doorway.

  No one was there.

  Fine. Fiona would play along. “What gentleman?”

  Clara managed to look surprised. “Why, the one who played for us, of course.”

  Naturally, they wanted Sawyer to help out. That was not going to happen if Fiona had anything to say about it.

  “Why, that would be the perfect solution,” Mrs. Calloway crowed. “I’ve often said I’d gladly hand over the reins, and who better than Mr. Sawyer? Why his playing is the best in the whole area.” She swiped her rag over the desktop—and Fiona’s fingers. “And he knows your tempo and preferences so well.” She leaned close and spoke in what she doubtless thought was a whisper. “He’s taken a fancy to you, dear. Don’t let this one get away.”

  As if Fiona had let any man get away! Garrett Decker, the subject of the advertisement that had brought her to Singapore, never gave her a second glance. After vowing he didn’t intend to marry at all, he’d fixed his attention on Amanda Porter. Oh, he’d escorted Fiona to supper at the hotel a couple times but never with the slightest bit of genuine interest. Looking back, she suspected he’d either been trying to forget his passion for Amanda or to make the lady jealous. Whatever the reason, the moment Amanda began taking care of Garrett’s children, he’d fallen for her. Fiona could never measure up. As for Blakeney, that coward and thief had played to her vulnerabilities better than Sawyer played the piano. Never again.

  “Please, Miss O’Keefe,” the girls pleaded.

  Dinah even clasped her hands together, the knuckles white from her passionate plea. “It’d help us keep tune.”

  Fiona rubbed the bridge of her nose, where a headache was beginning to form. “All right.”

  “Thank you. Thank you,” came the chorus of squeals.

  Fiona rose. “I’ll go tell him.”

  “No need,” Mrs. Calloway said as she swept past with her dust rag. “He’s waiting in the parlor.”

  “He’s been waiting all this time?” Fiona glared at the young women. “Someone already asked him?”

  Each girl shook her head.

  Mrs. Calloway chuckled. “No dear, he’s paying you a call.”

  A gentleman caller was a whole other matter, even if it was Sawyer Evans. Considering the girls’ unfettered interest in the man, Fiona had taken a second look and found more to admire. He was handsome, honest and manager at the sawmill. She could do worse. In addition, he could be quite pleasant, but he’d made it clear that he had no interest in marrying. The ladies didn’t believe it, but Fiona had seen his resolve and how it had strengthened when she mentioned Mary Clare. Sawyer Evans was no prospect. Then why was he paying her a call? And why this irrational fluttering inside?

  Fiona rose and smoothed her skirts. “When exactly did you plan to tell me?”

  “When you were ready.” Mrs. Calloway’s laugh trailed down the hallway.

  * * *

  Sawyer paced the drawing room. What was taking so long? Silly question. Fiona was often late. When he escorted her to their concerts, he arrived a little early to prompt her to hurry her preparations.

  There was no concert today. He simply wanted to tell her about buying the hotel. The Saugatuck bank had agreed to lend him a goodly amount at 5 percent interest. To complete the purchase, he needed to talk Mr. VanderLeuven down a bit more on his asking price. The negotiations would be difficult, but Sawyer was sure he could succeed. He’d learned a few techniques in his days at Father’s office. Some he wouldn’t employ against his worst enemy, but a few were simply good business practice that ensured a fair and equitable outcome.

  First, he needed to see more of the property, especially those areas that VanderLeuven had carefully sidestepped during their tour. The man had excuses. The rooms were let. Those rooms hadn’t been opened up for the season. Winter had taken its toll on yet another section. That last particularly didn’t hold water, since the winter had been mild with little precipitation. In fact, the lack of snowfall might be why the spring rush was slower than normal. Without snow, it was tough to get the logs to the river.

  If the spring rush stayed a trickle, then jobs would be slashed and wages cut. Sawyer shook that thought away. It did no good to speculate when he had no solid information. But it did make closing on this hotel deal imperative. He had to sign the papers before the big rush arrived. The heavy influx of logs meant opening the second sawmill and bringing in additional work crews. The hotel would be full. Most workers weren’t picky about their lodgings. He could settle them in the best rooms and begin fixing the ones that needed repair. The income would fund the staff needed to operate the place as well as pay for the materials needed to refurbish. Yes, he had to move on this now.

  The giggling and not so quiet whispers should have alerted him to impending trouble. Instead, he was so deep in his thoughts that the sudden appearance of the rescued ladies just inside the drawing-room door didn’t register for a moment. He stared blankly, wondering why they just waited there whispering to each other behind their hands.

  Sawyer swallowed. “Uh, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “He speaks like a gentleman,” the redhead declared.

  From the first time Sawyer saw her, he’d compared her lighter, brassy red hair to Fiona’s glorious locks. Surely no one on Earth had hair as brilliant and beautiful as Fiona.

  “Must be,” Clara said in reply, making no effort to conceal her opinion. “Looks might deceive, but the tongue doesn’t.”

  Sawyer wanted to point out an example of a man whose rough exterior didn’t match his cultured speech, but he couldn’t think of one. On the other hand, his father appeared the gentleman and most decidedly was not. Yet the man’s silver tongue could charm pretty near any lady. If that didn’t work, Father’s wealth always impressed.

  Fiona pushed through the crowd of ladies and stood several feet away, back erect and head held high. “So, you are here.”

  Why was she irritated with him? He hadn’t even said anything yet. He stood. “Good afternoon, Fiona. Mrs. Calloway said she’d fetch you.”

  “Yes, of course, but—” Fiona stopped midsentence. “Never mind. I’m simply glad to see you. Did you wish to discuss our song choices for tomorrow night?”

  “Oh. Right.” He felt heat creep up his neck. In all the excitement of securing funding to purchase the hotel, he’d forgotten about their Saturday concert. “I didn’t know if you still wanted to sing, it being the night before Easter and all.”

  “What difference does that make?” Fiona shot the women a scorching look, but only the pale one slipped away. She then propped her hands on her hips. “Don’t you ladies have work to do? All the silver must be polished and
each dish spotless.”

  Grumbling set up among the women, who gradually drifted away. Only when the last had gone did Fiona turn her attention back to Sawyer.

  “There now. That’s better.” She swept across the room to the piano. “You accomplished your purpose.”

  “My purpose?” Sawyer was mystified. Then it occurred to him that Pearl or Roland might have spilled the news of his hotel purchase. “I didn’t realize you knew about my efforts.”

  She snorted. “How could I not know, when they were only too glad to promote it.”

  “They’re promoting it? But I haven’t even settled on the purchase price yet.”

  She stopped leafing through sheet music. “Purchase? What purchase?” Now she looked as mystified as he was. “What are you talking about?”

  “Buying the hotel. What are you talking about?”

  Her eyes widened, and then a laugh burst from her lips. She covered her mouth with one hand before exclaiming. “You thought—” She stifled yet another outburst. “Oh, my. I was talking about my choir, and you thought I was asking about buying the hotel. Is that what you said?”

  He nodded. “The VanderLeuvens have put the hotel up for sale, and I plan to buy it if we can settle on a price.”

  “You?”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised at the skepticism in her voice. Fiona thought he hadn’t a penny to his name, a perception he’d carefully crafted in order to squirrel away every dime he earned.

  “Yes, me.” He left it at that and watched her expression change from disbelief to hesitation and back to disbelief.

  “You. Sawyer Evans. A saw operator. You have enough money to buy a hotel.”

  “Yes, I do.” It felt good to throw her misperceptions upside down. He didn’t need to mention the bank loan. “Once we settle, you’re looking at the newest hoteli—” He caught himself just before he threw out hotelier, a word that was bound to raise suspicion that this sawmill operator wasn’t what he claimed to be. “Hotel owner.”