He grinned, but then his angular features formed a serious expression. “Did you see anything from the Michigan Normal School?”
Sonja rolled her lips together.
“I know you’re not supposed to look, but…”
She grinned the unspoken response. One letter had been addressed to him from the school.
He beamed. “Thanks, Miss Hoeke, you’re a peach.”
Ronald ran off behind the house. Sonja stepped from the porch, and looked up at the third floor center window. Cora’s room. At least Iris had allowed Sonja to pay for extra help and for Cora’s doctor. Mrs. Geisig hadn’t forced her friend to go into town for her final days, which showed some good will on her part—either that or she wanted the money from the county for Cora’s room and board.
The Poor Farm matron returned and shoved a small wooden crate at her. “Take it.”
Startled, Sonja pulled up to her full height. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me.” The woman’s beady eyes glossed over with moisture. Had she actually possessed some compassion for Cora? “Too bad she’ll not be here for that Christmas pageant you’re always pushing on us.”
When the woman sniffed, Sonja lowered her head. “We need the girls and Ronald to come in Sunday for church so I can measure them for their costumes. And I’ll be glad to pick them up and bring them back home that day.” Perhaps that would assuage the woman’s concerns and get the youth into town.
“That’d be fine.” She swiveled toward the door, shoving her bustle down as she wedged through the doorframe. “Got supper to cook.”
Again, the door was slammed shut behind the woman. Sonja held the lightweight box—all that was left of Cora’s earthly treasures. How could this be the sum total of someone’s existence?
She strode through the yard, got back into the carriage, and directed the mare onto the bumpy drive. Then they turned back onto the county road and delivered mail to the Wellings’ home, the last on her route. Old Mr. Welling’s daughter-in-law, from Mackinac Island, was there clearing out the house and preparing it for winter now that Mr. Welling had passed on.
The scent of freshly baked bread, and something scintillatingly chocolate, wafted through the screened door on the porch as Sonja carried their mail up.
Sweet-faced young Mrs. Welling opened the door. “Why, Sonja, it’s so good to see you, but I take it this means your father has been hurt badly.”
“I’m afraid enough so that he’s off his feet for now. Dr. Queen says he may not be able to return to work for another week.” The baked goods inside tempted her senses and made her stomach grumble. Mother had recently stopped baking any desserts at home, concerned that Sonja’s father may have diabetes.
Mrs. Welling laughed. “Come in and have some cookies and milk. I’m baking them for the church before I leave town. Chocolate crinkles. My father-in-law would have wanted to contribute to the upcoming celebrations.”
Sonja grinned. This woman, who’d visited annually since she’d married Peter Welling, always made Sonja feel like she was a girl again—and a welcome visitor rather than a spinster who substituted for her father’s mail route.
She followed the beautiful dark-haired lady inside. When Sonja bent to sit at the table, the telegram to Cora slipped out of her pocket. Mrs. Welling bent to retrieve it before Sonja could. As she held it out to her, the woman’s gaze seemed to settle on the addressee.
Sonja accepted the telegram back. “Cora was my closest friend. Mr. Hood gave me the message.” My, she sounded defensive even to herself.
Mrs. Welling slid into the Queen Anne chair across from Sonja. “Is that from Louis, the young man from the Poor House that my father-in-law helped? Had Cora known him from before?”
“No, this is Mr. Penwell—Louis Penwell—and they’d never met.” The overpowering scent of the fresh baked cookies made Sonja’s mouth water. “Cora got his name and address from a railroad magazine and took up correspondence with him. Her husband had worked with trains before he died.”
The pretty woman’s dark eyes widened. “A railroad worker, you say?”
“Yes, Mr. Penwell and Cora had been corresponding for quite some time.” Viewing the confusion on Mrs. Welling’s face, she asked, “Do you know him?”
The young woman shook her head. “I know my father-in-law and someone else assisted a young man named Louis through college, after his father died.”
An hour later, when Sonja left, confusion and loss of focus over Mrs. Welling’s comments about Louis still plagued her. That night, and the next day, she mulled over Mrs. Welling’s suspicions. And although she couldn’t do anything about where Cora was interred, she picked up the headstone for her grave, intent upon having Mr. Penwell accompany her when she placed it. According to the railroad office, he should arrive tomorrow. Then she’d know who he really was.
Chapter 4
Louis disembarked the train. As the smoke cleared, he spied a blonde woman almost as tall as himself, pacing, a bundle clutched in her arm. Could it be? Sonja Hoeke? He’d always had a soft spot for the gangly girl who tagged after her older sisters only to be treated like an unwanted cat. But this woman was dressed in an old-fashioned, beaver coat. Sonja had been such a pretty girl, with large green eyes and thick blonde hair. But she’d not remember him. He’d been the boy at the Poor Farm, an orphan.
The young woman drew closer. His heart leapt to his throat. He’d been wrong—stunning was a better description for this Grecian goddess. Statuesque and beautiful. Sonja wasn’t simply pretty; she dazzled as sun glinted off her golden hair.
But Louis had made his offer of marriage to Cora. He shouldn’t even be considering the fact that now, as a railroad executive, he might finally have a chance with Sonja. But he couldn’t help the thought. Cora had mentioned that Sonja was her friend. Had she referred to her as Miss Hoeke? Was she yet single? Impossible. It didn’t matter—he’d proposed to another. And knowing the irascible Mr. Hoeke, he likely kept her at home to serve whatever needs he had. In public, Mr. Hoeke had taken to treating her like a cross between an unloved son and a servant, having her fetch whatever he needed but never offering her a kind word.
She strode toward him, the fur coat hitting her at an unfashionable mid-calf length. Probably one of her sister’s cast-offs, although it could even be her mother’s or grandmother’s.
Sonja waited, an expectant look on her face.
“Are you Mr. Penwell?” She blinked rapidly and chewed on her lower lip. “Louis Penwell?”
“Yes, I am. Were you a friend of Cora’s?” He knew she was, but his tongue didn’t seem to be working properly.
“Yes. I’m Sonja—Cora’s friend.” She scanned his face. Did she recognize him? They’d attended school together only briefly, but they’d been members at church together during the time he’d lived in Salt River. She averted her gaze to the railway platform. “Why don’t you get your luggage and then we’ll talk.”
Sonja sat on the depot bench, awaiting Mr. Penwell’s return.
Much younger and more handsome than she’d imagined, Louis topped her height by a few inches. His dark curly hair begged to be tucked up under his hat and his chocolate brown eyes meshed nicely with his ruddy complexion. She’d expected someone closer to Cora’s age and with streaks of gray in his hair—or Ebenezer Scrooge personified. She held back a laugh.
So he’d not received her letter and now he was here, in Shepherd—looking for Cora. The previous evening, she’d read Louis’s letters to Cora, looking for hints to their relationship. All were rather banal, simply correspondents discussing railway work and life in general. One missive had taken her aback—when Louis asked why Cora had recommended Sonja to him as another pen pal.
Perhaps Cora had been looking out for her friends’ interests—both Sonja’s and Louis’s—for when she’d gone on to her heavenly rewards.
Sonja clutched the petite, but heavy, mortuary stone to her chest. When he’d seen it, her father had belittled it by asking, �
�Who would visit that woman’s grave besides you?”
Here was Louis Penwell. Surely he would go to the grave with her to pay his respects.
The broad-shouldered man returned, easily carrying what appeared to be a heavy trunk. Mr. Penwell strode with self-assurance, but fleeting irritation skittered over his features. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need to tag this and have it delivered to my office right away. Somehow I’d forgotten I’d need my books and other things to conduct my work.” He rubbed his chin. “Can you wait a few moments more?”
She nodded her assent, her hat ribbons blown into her face by a chill wind. Despite the sooty air at the train station, she could swear that the scent of snow lingered. Sonja settled on a wooden bench. What should she say?
When Louis returned, Sonja pointed to the seat beside her. “I think you’d best sit down, Mr. Penwell.”
“Please, call me Louis.” He searched her face. A crease formed between his dark eyebrows.
Something in his eyes forced her recollection of the one boy at school and at church who she didn’t tower over. Could it be—was Mrs. Welling’s assertion correct that this man was Louis Smith? “Oh?”
“We do share history.”
She sucked in a breath, waiting—could it be? Was this fine-looking man the kind youth she’d known as Louis Smith?
“We are both stalwart friends of Cora.”
Were friends. Exhaling, tears began to trickle down her face. How could she tell him? “Cora was a dear friend of mine. Of both of ours.”
“Was?” His voice emerged in a rasp.
She hated to tell him but she had to. Sonja turned on the bench, facing directly into his dark eyes. “I’m afraid so.”
“She’s gone?” He rubbed his head. “Truly?”
“Yes.” Tapping her package, she frowned. “I hate to be so blunt, but I have her headstone here and I’m not sure where to put it.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I was so looking forward to finally meeting Cora.”
Louis Smith had many friends here. Had been well liked at school and church. But his dark eyes, so much like this man’s, had always been filled with sorrow after his father’s untimely death.
“I’m so sorry.” Sonja fisted her hands, inside the snug gloves. “I know you cared deeply for her.”
Deeply enough to offer marriage.
They sat in silence while passengers headed off to hail a taxi or were greeted by friends or relatives who’d arrived in their carriages, an entire queue circling the block. Mr. and Mrs. Hood strolled past, arm-in-arm. The telegram operator cast a quizzical glance at her but said nothing as the group walked past by them, leaving the platform.
Sonja blew out a foggy breath. “I know you must be devastated.”
Mr. Penwell met her gaze, his forehead bunching. “Where is she buried?”
“In the pauper’s field.”
His eyes widened and jaw slackened.
“Would you like to see the grave marker?”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “Please.”
Sonja pulled the paper free from the carved letters on the top of the small stone plaque.
Louis ran his finger over Cora’s birthdate. “This is wrong.” His face reddened.
“No. It is correct. She was forty-two last month.”
He shook his head.
“Yes.” Surely Cora hadn’t told him otherwise?
Mr. Penwell ran his tongue over the front of his even teeth.
“We celebrated. I made her a Queen’s cake with sugared almonds.” Although Cora had insisted it was the last birthday she’d see—and her friend had been correct.
“Forty-two, you say?” His dark eyes widened momentarily but then his features settled into a masklike appearance. “Her letters suggested she was much closer to our age.”
Sonja frowned. How would he know her age? Unless he was Louis Smith, as Mrs. Welling suspected? “I was expecting you to be closer to dear Cora’s age, sir.”
Dare she mention the letter she’d sent? Sooner or later he’d know that someone had offered to be a substitute bride for Cora and he’d infer it was Sonja. Now was not the time, though, to make this revelation. And if he was Louis Smith, why the secrecy?
Mr. Penwell stood abruptly. “Thank you, Miss Hoeke. I’ve just recollected that I have a meeting with the railroad staff upon my arrival and they may be expecting me.”
“Certainly.” She held out a hand and he assisted her up, a pained smile flattening his lips.
“May I escort you to dinner, once I am settled, so that you may tell me more about Cora?”
Sonja dipped her chin. “Yes. My parents often have their own plans on Friday night, so I don’t need to cook.”
She’d not mentioned her name. How did he know she was Miss Hoeke? She met his gaze. Although shabby, she’d worn her deerskin gloves—an anonymous gift left for her at church a decade ago Christmas. Gloves she’d suspected had been left by the boy whose father had died.
Louis’s gaze followed hers to her hands and settled there. A rosy tint touched his cheeks and then his brown eyes met hers.
Sonja still wore the gloves he’d left for her all those years ago when she, of all the Hoeke daughters, had none—not even a knit pair. When she’d huddled by the woodstove, during Sunday school, he’d slipped away to the coat closet, retrieved the deerskin gloves, and had tucked them into the pocket of her hand-me-down red coat. Every time he’d seen her wearing them, his heart had warmed, as it had earlier at the station. Perhaps he should have lingered, but his emotions bubbled in such turmoil, he wasn’t sure he could manage them in public.
Hours after arriving, Louis still sat at his new walnut desk and reviewed in his mind what had happened earlier that day. He leaned back into his heavily padded and upholstered high-backed chair but it offered no comfort. Cora had died. He was a man of his word, and if she’d accepted his invitation, he’d have felt obligated to honor it despite the difference in their ages. But would Cora even have accepted?
Sonja Hoeke, the quiet, studious and sweet girl of fifteen had grown into a beautiful woman in the dozen years since they’d briefly attended the same public school. He’d graduated two years ahead of her. She had at least five older sisters, all beauties and socially active girls, two of whom became engaged and then married while he lived at the County Farm north of town. And this Hoeke sister—not yet married. How was that possible? Her statement that she could only dine out on Friday, because she cooked all week flummoxed him. Her sisters could be observed engaged in all manner of social activities any night of the week. Had her parents become so infirm that they couldn’t manage their own cooking anymore? Mr. Hoeke must be in his sixties by now. Was he still a mail carrier? Hadn’t Cora said he was?
Louis opened his leather satchel and removed his planner book and well-worn Bible. He could put his pocket Bible in the desk and bring the family one to the inn. There, in King James’ English, he’d find answers. And on the morrow, he’d attend service at the Christian Church. Would the parishioners recognize him as Louis Smith, the scrawny boy from the Poor Farm? With Mr. Welling now gone, rest his soul, who would know that Penwell was his true name?
After a hearty breakfast at the restaurant below the inn, Louis rode out to his old church, looking for answers. So far, the few people he’d encountered in town failed to recognize him. That was a good thing. He needed time. After church, he wanted to talk with the preacher about the situation with Cora. Had a proper service been done? Could she be disinterred and moved to the church cemetery?
Louis entered the building’s new addition. As he headed down the hall, his dress broughams tapped out a steady beat on the pine floors. Classes lined the long rectangular corridor, with boys and girls divided by age group—if all was done as when he attended. The children now exited into the hallway. Framed in a doorway stood beautiful Miss Hoeke, dressed in a somber blue dress, a white knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“Good morning, Miss Hoeke.”
“Good to see you, Mr. Penwell.” Her voice held a tease. “Are you here to be a sheep or a shepherd?”
“For?”
She arched a light brow at him. “Our Christmas pageant, of course.”
He shrugged. “I’d prefer narrator. I’m told I have a booming voice.”
“Well, we already have an excellent orator. Ronald has volunteered.” She gave him an appraising glance, a smile tugging on her lips. “Should I ask our seamstress to stitch you up a fluffy covering or a burlap robe?”
“Not burlap.” He feigned scratching at his arms. “I itch just imagining it.”
“But, sir, they are free from the feed store in town, and we must utilize them lest we not receive the Gibson’s good offer again!”
This was the girl he remembered who’d read from Mark Twain at a school event, and whose vocal inflexions and accents brought the story to life, along with her animated expression as she narrated the tale.
Other Sunday school teachers meandered down the hall toward them. He wanted to ask Sonja about Cora’s class before they were interrupted. “Were you just teaching the fourth grade girls in Cora’s class? Have you taken over or are you substituting for now?”
She blinked rapidly. “Often the proprietress of the County Farm wouldn’t allow Cora and the others to come into town.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Geisig, claims she needs the…inmates…at home.” Sonja detested that word, but perhaps it did explain their actual circumstances. “In fact, I fear she didn’t allow them to attend today, either.”
How dare she refer to that oppressive environment of the Poor Farm as a home? Why had Cora lied? Or had she stretched the truth? He clenched his fists but then forced his fingers open. “I may have read more into her letters than was intended. Cora indicated that she helped teach the Sunday school class.”
Sonja cocked her head and her brows knit together. “Cora did indeed help me out. I tried to keep her near me with the girls. She seemed to understand their lessons better than she did some of the sermons.”
The Substitute Bride: A Novella Page 3
