Imogene's Ingenuity (The Alphabet Mail-Order Brides Book 9)

by Reina Torres

  The final straw came when she gave the bedding a big tug, determined to find the offending item and upended her bag onto the floor.

  Her head dropped until her chin almost touched her chest and she struggled not to stomp her feet or shout. It wouldn’t do to wake up the others in the boarding house, even if Mr. and Mrs. Hampton had told her she was the only one on this side of the floor.

  She just couldn’t let herself embarrass Madam with such a display.

  Lifting the hem of her blouse, she untied the bow in her laces and tugged her corset open enough that she could get down on the floor. Kneeling beside her bag, she started to gather all of the contents and set them back inside in some sort of order.

  It was all a mindless exercise until she felt the edges of worn paper under her fingers.

  Her heart gave a painful kick in her chest as she unfolded the paper and held it up. It didn’t matter that the light in the room was negligible at best, she didn’t need light to read the entry circled again and again in pencil.

  It was the advertisement that had brought her across so many miles and days away from her childhood home.

  WANTED – TYPESETTER

  I am in need of an assistant with a quick mind, fast hands, and of strong enough constitution that long hours on your feet and late nights at the press will not be daunting in the least. Quiet and organized, unassuming and dedicated? Contact Silas Hix in Bower, Colorado

  Silas Hix.

  She had sent ahead two telegrams to Bower. The first to inquire if the job was still open and the second to let Mr. Hix know that she was on her way, or rather that ‘I am on my way,’ which she knew he’d believe was from a man.

  Imogene just had to hope that once she arrived in Bower and spoke with him that he’d understand what the job meant to her.

  She knew how much he valued what he did. It wasn’t just a vocation to him. She’d spoken to Mr. Porter at his print shop often enough and he’d met his fair share of printers, so he should know. “A man doesn’t go into printing to keep his hands clean, my dear. A man who works with a press knows what hard work is and is glad of it. The machine is as finicky as a cat and as fickle as some women I’ve known, so believe me when I tell you that a man who works with a press is a man with a calling.”

  A calling she believed in.

  Her interest was in printing books someday. She wanted to create the physical form of stories, not necessarily her own. So many of her volumes had come at a dear cost to her, even when they were purchased used from others.

  Imogene wanted to become a printer and a binder, which she feared might be the only use for her sewing skills as embroidery had been a skill far beyond her hands.

  And if she left now, she realized, she would be taking a step back from her dream.

  Here in Bower, she had an opportunity that she would never have had at home. She’d spent nearly as much time at Mr. Porter’s printshop as she did at the school. Still, when she’d asked him to consider hiring her on, he’d given her a look of near horror at the idea. A woman in his shop? Working for him?

  The idea was beyond his understanding or interest.

  Here, she had the benefit of an interview and a trial period of employment.

  Placing the advertisement back into her bag, Imogene got to her feet and began to prepare for sleep.

  If she had any hope of making her dream a reality, she would have to get up and go to her interview. From there, there were no guarantees.

  All she had were her skills and as much determination as she could muster. From there, it was up to Mr. Hix.

  Placing her journal in her bag she set it on the floor by the foot of her bed, draped her blouse and her skirt over the back of the chair and tried to slide under the mussed linens of her bed.

  As she drew the blankets over her body she shifted onto her side and heard a sickening snap of sound.

  Closing her eyes on a grimace, Imogene bemoaned her luck.

  “At least I found my pencil.”

  Chapter 2

  The next morning at breakfast, Imogene felt a strange feeling of nostalgia as she sat at the big table in the Hampton’s dining room. With other boarders surrounding her she didn’t feel the pang of loneliness she’d felt when she’d woken up in her room.

  Even though the majority of the boarders were men, they were well behaved and didn’t display many of the habits that Madam had explained were commonplace amongst men outside their school.

  Likely it had to do with the presence of The Hamptons. Mrs. Hampton’s smile and gentle ways were perfectly matched by her husband who doted on her as well as he sent stern looks around the table when they were needed.

  One of the men across the table, taking umbrage with a comment from her side slammed his cup on the table top and Mr. Hampton gave both men a stern look. Both men offered the table their apologies and the meal continued.

  The gentleman seated beside her cleared his throat, turning her head. “I know this is presumptuous,” he wiped his hands off on his napkin several times before he offered her his hand. “I’m not sure if you remember meeting me when you arrived.”

  Leaning back a bit in her chair, she was able to get a good look at the man. “You run the train depot.”

  His cheeks, tanned from the sun warmed with pride. “Yes, Miss. Theo Laughlin. Pleased to have a chance to welcome you to our town without the smoke from the stack coloring the air around us.”

  She took his hand and gave it a gentle shake. “And the noise,” she smiled, “made it difficult to hear much of anything.”

  When she lowered her hand back into her lap, Mr. Laughlin picked up his coffee cup and took a small sip. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he lowered his hand, but only touched the underside of his arm to the table’s edge, “what brings you here to Bower?”

  Now it was her turn to have her cheeks warm with a touch of color. “I’m here to interview for a job.”

  “A job, Miss?” Mr. Laughlin’s voice held a note of shock. “Most folks post job notices down at the depot on my board. I don’t rightly recall a job opening for a young woman.”

  She lowered her eyes to the tabletop and reached out for her tea cup but instead of grabbing it, she only managed to nudge the curved handle.

  “I have an interview for the typesetter job at the printer’s office.”

  “With Silas?” Mr. Laughlin brought his hand up to his mouth and coughed. And then he coughed again, harder.

  When he coughed again, Imogene turned in her seat and touched his shoulder with one hand. With the other she gave him a good whack.

  “Mr. Laughlin?”

  “Theo?” Mr. Hampton was on his feet and by the other man’s side a moment later.”

  Mr. Laughlin waved off the man’s assistance and tried to do the same with Imogene, but his eyes were watering and his face had taken on a livid red color.

  She picked up his napkin from the table where he’d dropped it and handed it to him. “Would you like some water, Mr. Laughlin?”

  His coughs softened and he eased back in his chair until he saw Mr. Hampton’s concerned face looking down at him.

  “You gonna live, Theo?”

  Holding up his hand, the depot manager nodded. “I sure am,” he explained, “if only to come back at supper time to find out how Miss Wigg fares with Silas.”

  “Silas Hix?” Mr. Hampton turned to look at Imogene. “Pardon me for asking, Miss Wigg, but-”

  “Mr. Hampton?”

  The whole gathering turned to look at the lady of the house. Her countenance was poised and gently smiling, but there was the slightest hint of an edge in her voice. One that commanded attention.

  “Yes, Mrs. Hampton?”

  Again, the gathering turned, but this time in the opposite direction, now to the gentleman of the house.

  “Is something amiss, my dear?”

  “I am sure some discussions and questions should have their own time and place, hmm?”

  Imogene felt her cheeks heat e
ven more. She had no wish to become the center of attention, nor did she wish for her plans to be the object of anyone’s speculation.

  “Mister Thomas?”

  The man with the dark suit and impossibly starched collar turned his head so very carefully in the direction of their hostess. “Yes, Mrs. Hampton?” He set down his fork, still holding a small piece of his flapjack on the tines.

  “You’re also new in town.”

  He inclined in his head once in a slight nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you visiting, or making your home here in Bower?”

  The gentleman gave her a hint of a smile. “I’ll make my home here as long as there’s work enough to keep me busy.”

  “Oh?”

  Imogene could almost see the relief on the other woman’s face.

  “Wonderful. What business is that, Mister Thomas?”

  Turning his head, the fastidious gentleman managed to look at all in attendance without crinkling his collar. A feat that Imogene found quite impressive considering its height.

  “I’m the new undertaker, Ma’am.”

  “Well,” Mr. Hampton cleared his throat as he walked back to the head of the table, and to his wife’s side to brush a light kiss on her temple, “how is that for conversation at table, my dear?”

  Imogene couldn’t help but see the gentle regard that the Hampton’s had for each other. Even though she knew that Mr. Hampton was poking fun at his wife, she heard no malice in his tone and saw none in his expression.

  As the morning meal continued around her, Imogene found herself an avid listener to the conversations around her, but in the back of her mind she felt another wave of apprehension building up.

  She was too unsure of herself to ask Mr. Laughlin or Mr. Hampton what they knew about Mr. Hix. After all, she was hoping that he wouldn’t look badly upon her for her sex. How could she try to delve into his character beforehand when she was expecting him to take her at face value?

  “Miss Wigg?”

  Startled, she turned to look at Mrs. Hampton who stood beside her with a pitcher of cool water.

  “Have faith, my dear. Bower is a place where true friends and new beginnings can be found.” Imogene watched as her hostess filled her glass and then set a gentle and reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I have a good feeling about you.”

  Looking up from his place, her husband turned his smiling countenance to his wife first and then to Imogene. “You’ll find no better odds in a saloon, Miss Wigg. My wife has never been wrong about people who come to Bower. If she says you’ll settle here and be happy. Then you will.”

  She felt a tremor in her hand as she picked up her cup. “Thank you both for your kind words. I greatly appreciate your support.”

  Mr. Laughlin added his own words of encouragement. “It’s never easy to start anew, but I believe you have the courage to make this work.”

  A smile touched her lips as her heart began to beat in earnest. Her friends and sisters had always told her she was more stubborn than most. Now was the time to prove them right.

  It was easy enough to find the print shop. The neatly painted sign hanging over the door creaked back and forth with a wind strong enough to push at the flat surface.

  PRINT SHOP

  S. Hix, Proprietor

  Stepping closer to the window, Imogene reached into her reticule and removed a square of newsprint that she’d brought with her from Mr. Porter’s print shop. The ends of the paper that weren’t fit for the press weren’t thrown away in a wasteful fashion. They’d used the ends to wipe down the windows and ink from his fingers.

  Setting her reticule back on her arm, looping the cords near her elbow, Imogene reached the scrap of paper to a square of the window glass and started to rub.

  Over and over in circles she wiped and cleared the glass enough to see into the shop. If she had been worried about the quality of the man she’d come to see, she lost that concern in a heartbeat.

  The room was packed with boxes. Papers hung from the long board across the room at a height a few feet about his head and racks lined several sections of the wall, housing more papers. Two gloriously large cases of metal type stood at the side of the room. Staring at the rows and rows of tiny metal pieces, her fingers began to itch with excitement.

  She couldn’t help but think of the thousands upon thousands of combinations that could be made. It sent a rush through her veins. And there, at the side, a rack of blank plates ready to be filled with type.

  It was, in a word, a dream.

  Anyone who created such a wonderful space full of such potential had to be a strong-minded and capable man.

  Standing at the press was a tall man, lanky and plainly dressed. His hair seemed the color of burnished brick where it was touched by the lamplight from the wall. There was a good amount of late afternoon sun coming through the front windows, but the wall behind him was deep in shadow, alleviated by the warm glow.

  When he paused and picked up the last sheet of paper, he held it up and turned it toward the front windows, likely looking for something he couldn’t see in the corner of the room.

  Shaking his head, he lowered the paper and drew up short.

  Had he seen her?

  He leaned forward and squinted his eyes in her direction.

  Lifting her hand from her side she waved at him.

  She tried not let her disappointment show when his shoulders sagged a bit before straitening with some effort. He gestured for her to enter and she picked up her courage as well as her smile as she walked to the front door and turned the knob.

  “Good Morning, Miss.”

  “Good Morning, Sir.” She drew in a breath to steady her nerves. His height was something that she hadn’t known from their correspondence and while she knew there were people in the world that were taller than her experience, there was something about his height and the breadth of his shoulders that made her breath a little short.

  “Sir, I-”

  He cleared his throat. “Are you… unwell?”

  She shook her head but the motion only served to make her appear a fibber as she swayed on her feet.

  “Goodness.” He was suddenly there, taking hold of her arm. “You’re about to faint, aren’t you?”

  She started to shake her head again and felt her knees begin to turn to jelly. To hold herself upright she took hold of his arm and there they stood with her hand wrapped about his arm just shy of his elbow and his in the same place on hers.

  It was a strange position if truth be told, face to… well face to sternum if her memory of anatomy held true.

  “If you will give me a moment, sir,” she hated that her tone was more of a beg then a request, but the last thing she wanted was to end up face first on the floor and seeing a doctor she might not be able to pay for, “I will be well enough once I catch my breath.”

  He looked down at her. She didn’t see the movement, but she felt it echoing through his frame.

  “I’ve never understood corsets,” he mumbled, “it seems as though fashion and not man has become content to put women in cages. Only with corsets the jail is within their clothes and not without where we are likely to see the garment as a method of torture, saving us from any measure of guilt that should rightly arise from such practices.”

  He stopped talking in the same rush that had started him off and she found herself staring up at him with a bit of pleasant surprise in her eyes.

  “Forgive me,” he managed the words through clenched teeth, “I realize that speaking on the subject of your undergarments might be seen as inappropriate.” He cleared his throat and straightened his posture, nodding his head a fraction of an inch. “My most sincere apologies, Miss. If I have offended you, I do hope that you will allow me to make amends.

  “No,” the word blurted out and she saw disappointment flicker across his features. “No, no… goodness,” she stumbled over her own thoughts, “I meant ‘no’ you did not offend me. While I understand that yes, the discussion of under
garments is one that I am interested in as I happen to believe that rational dress should be accepted and allowed for women, I can understand the point you made about a corset being a cage.” She smiled up at him. “Even with layers of undergarments, it is quite de riguer to suffer heat sores and the busk can pinch. I have never understood suffering for fashion, but I am told that I don’t understand the finer points of courtship either. And how anyone could say that being pinched by your undergarments has anything to do with finding a proper husband makes not a bit of sense. And yet, I’m told it does.”

  She stopped speaking and noticed the quizzical way he was looking at her.

  Her heart sank into her belly. “Oh, dear. I am sorry.” She flushed to the roots of her hair. “Perhaps this might be a good time to offer my own apologies?”

  He looked down to their arms and seemed shocked that they were still holding onto each other.

  “I trust that you feel… you‘ve recovered yourself?”

  She released his arm at about the same time he let go of hers.

  “My breath, definitely.”

  They both smiled and he gestured toward a chair beside the desk. “Still, I would ask you to sit for a moment or two, just in case.”

  Grateful for the offer, she moved to the chair and sat down with a relieved sigh. “Did you find it?”

  “Find what?”

  Imogene gestured to the paper in his left hand. “You were looking at the paper in your hand. You didn’t seem happy. I was wondering what you were looking for. And if you’ve found it. If not, I would be happy to help. I’ve been a teacher and taught reading.”

  She saw it, the moment of reticence that invariably came when a woman offered help to a man.

  If a man accepted the assistance, then he was weak. If he didn’t, he was strong, but stubborn.

  It always seemed easiest for the man to choose self-reliance. It made sense, she guessed, since they talked about men being ‘their own men.’

  She left it alone and tried to think of a reason to bring up the advertisement in her reticule.