“Oh?”
She ran her tongue over her upper lip. “You see, Cora only recently accepted the Lord as Savior.”
Heavy-heeled footfall sounded behind him.
“Good morning, Sonja.” A petite redhead gave him the once-over, which should have flattered him. But, if he was correct, that was Letitia, who’d been a terror in school. Even though he’d tried to protect her from taunts, she had always acted hostile toward him.
“Lettie, this is Louis Penwell, the new railroad manager for our fair town.”
“Mr. Penwell, pleased to meet you.” The pretty woman extended her hand and for a moment he wondered if he was supposed to kiss it. While women out west had taken to shaking hands, often vigorously, he didn’t recollect them doing so here in the Midwest. But times were changing, were they not? He gently grasped her hand and then released it.
“I’m Letitia Brown, and I’d best get to my pew before Mama and Papa come looking.” She gave a little wave and scurried off down the beeswax-scented corridor.
“Are you coming into service?” Sonja’s soft, sage green eyes met his.
“Yes.” He’d need to speak with the minister afterward, too. His time in the Word gave him more questions than answers. He’d seek out godly counsel. The name listed on the sign inside the corridor showed a new pastor at the church since Louis had attended.
“My parents were both unable to attend today.” She offered a warm smile. “Would you care to sit with me?”
Louis took her arm in his and escorted her down the hall. Having Miss Hoeke on his arm felt like the most natural thing in the world. He straightened his shoulders.
The pretty blonde laughed and pointed at a poster board on the wall, promoting the upcoming Christmas pageant. “Look at the sheep the children have been adding around the manger scene.”
They paused and she counted aloud, finally stopping at eight.
“So, you have all those sheep volunteers already. How about I’ll be one of the shepherds? I don’t see any of those drawn in, and I’m very handy with a pencil.”
After pulling her arm free, Miss Hoeke opened her reticule and offered a short pencil. “Display your artistry, sir, and confirm your claim.”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock dismay and then bowed low. “I am humbled by your lack of faith in my abilities.” When he straightened, she covered her mouth with her hands, laughing.
“I can see that you have a dramatic bent, Mr. Penwell. Now demonstrate your artistic skills.”
With a flourish, he pulled back his jacket over his left hip, resting his hand there, and then raised his right arm. In a dash, he drew a rudimentary stick figure holding a cane.
She rolled her eyes.
“I didn’t want the children to feel bad about their own drawings.” He winked. “Or I’d have created a masterpiece of a shepherd.”
Blonde curls bounced as she slowly shook her head. “I’ve heard that one before from students claiming they don’t want to outshine their Sunday school classmates.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Mea culpa.”
Mea culpa. Guilty.
Louis Penwell was droll and adorable. Was he the type of man to see humor in the letter she’d written, offering to be his substitute bride? She prayed the letter would get lost in its return from the West. Nibbling her lower lip, she had to be honest with herself. She was drawn to this man. And guilt niggled at her as he drew her arm back atop his, her palm resting in his broad, warm hand. This felt right, no matter what logic argued.
“May I escort you into the sanctuary?” Although the long corridor divided into two options, Louis seemed to know exactly where he was heading.
She looked up into his dark eyes. For a moment, she was fifteen, again, gazing up at the new boy in church. The slender, handsome youth, who had come to services alone. “Louis?” Her voice quavered.
His smiled faltered. “Yes?” His Adam’s apple bobbed above his striped bow tie, the twin starched inverted triangles of his white shirt collar remaining motionless.
Blinking away her apprehension, Sonja examined the man’s face. Louis Smith Penwell—why hadn’t she put those names together before? Louis Smith, the boy whose father had drowned, had been placed at the County Farm when the Smith home was destroyed by the fire in Salt River. Was it possible that this railroad man was a descendant of the Louis Smith Penwell—the famous politician and inventor from Virginia? Now wasn’t the time to ask. The Sunday school classes had emptied out, and only the tardiest churchgoers would be entering the building now. “We best get going.”
With no hesitation whatsoever, Mr. Penwell steered her toward the sanctuary. At the door, their deacon, Mr. Stewart, greeted them warmly, glancing between her and Mr. Penwell, a line forming between his sandy eyebrows. Past him in the last seat, his pretty wife, MaryBeth, swiveled to look at them. Arching a brow she also stared at Louis and then at Sonja before offering her a wide knowing smile.
Oh no.
Oh no. Here he was again after all these years.
Louis swallowed as he attempted to guide Sonja to an empty pew in the back right row, opposite the Stewart’s pew. Instead, she pointed out her family’s normal spot—the same even after a decade. Aware of the many eyes on them, Louis straightened and assumed his railroad’s man posture as he pretended a confidence he lacked at this moment. Murmurs rose, and he was certain he’d overhead the words “Louis” and “Smith.”
Their posteriors had no sooner settled upon the pine pew seats when the pastor entered. Thank you, sweet Jesus. Louis pulled out his linen handkerchief and wiped the perspiration that had formed on his brow, despite the chill in the building.
Reverend Mathews possessed a humble, yet powerful, spirit. His sermon on living for God, and not for possessions, hit Louis like a wave of a Great Lakes storm of immense magnitude. No, Louis hadn’t worked hard for goods, per se, but his intention had been the same—to provide material wealth and position to ensure he’d never suffer his father’s fate, nor would his future family. The family he’d not yet started even as he approached thirty. Yes, there had been lady friends, but none had understood him like the widowed correspondent who’d resided in the same Poor House he’d escaped from years earlier. Now Cora was with the Lord. At least she had come to know the Lord through their letters and through her friendship with Sonja. And through this church.
“Christmas is coming soon, friends.” Reverend Mathews gestured in Sonja’s direction. “Miss Hoeke is heading up the pageant this year, and we still need volunteers. And donations, too. Would you stand and tell us more, Sonja?”
A blush washed her lovely features but Sonja rose, brushing back a tendril of blonde hair from above the lacy neckline of her blouse. “Yes, well, our program theme this year is about coming home for Christmas.”
Chills shot up his arms from beneath his wool jacket.
Sonja rotated slowly to face the other side of the room and then looked over her shoulder. “With so many lost from the recent illness, we have former members who are returning to…” She wiped away a tear. “To visit their loved ones.”
Living and dead. He’d not yet visited his father’s unmarked grave, but today he would. And he’d check with the sexton tomorrow about getting a marker made. And he’d speak with both the minister and the sexton about having both Father’s and Cora’s remains moved.
The small bustle of Sonja’s gray and black striped ensemble pressed too near his face, as she rotated, so Louis scooted over on the pew, engendering some amused glances from the men seated with their wives in the pews ahead of them.
“So, we’ll need more of the marvelous baked goods our ladies make—including my famous gingerbread, of course.” She bobbed a little curtsey as laughter erupted.
“We’ll need the dentist there, then!” A portly man called out and winked at Louis.
Sonja laughed as she raised a hand. “This year, I promise I shall allow Mother to make it instead.”
“Oh no, ma’am!
” A deep voice called out.
Louis turned to locate the speaker.
Although he possessed less hair on his head and more on his face now, the dentist, who’d been brand new in Salt River when Louis and his father had arrived, stood and grinned. “I could use a little extra business before Christmas. Got new skates to buy for the children.”
Louis counted six children with various shades of red hair, and the man’s wife, her belly round with another blessing. The dentist sat, and Louis couldn’t help chuckling, too, as he faced the pastor, again. Although he’d not known Sonja well, other than admiring her from a distance at school and church, he had partaken of her baking efforts. The younger boys had used the biscuits in a game where they tossed them in a basket from various distances.
Sonja tapped Louis shoulder. “I have a potential volunteer shepherd, and he’s new to town.”
A titter rippled through the room, and Louis sensed movement behind them as well as viewed people in front of him craning their necks.
“So, if Mr. Penwell can help with our pageant, then let him be an example to others who have hesitated to sign up.” Sonja slowly rotated and Louis remained arched away from her bustle as she turned. “Thank you!”
As she sat, Sonja arranged her full skirts around her, perching herself near the edge of the seat, her bustle preventing her from sitting fully back against the pew. He slid a little closer.
Once Reverend Mathews completed the service and dismissed them, Louis rose and assisted Sonja up. Seated the third row from the front, he hoped to avoid some of the comments he’d surely receive. He wouldn’t lie. He was the Louis Smith they’d known, but his father, a drunkard and gambler, had dropped his distinctive surname of Penwell as his life became more dissolute. Louis, himself, wouldn’t have known his own last name had his mother not told him when she was dying. And Mother had said, “Your father is a good man. Forgive him.”
Of course he had forgiven the man who’d loved him and taught him so many things—when he was sober. But forgiveness had taken many years.
From the front, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Wenham, who’d fed him more times than Louis could remember, moved toward them as Sonja maneuvered out of their pew and into the aisle. He squeezed her elbow. “Excuse me, Sonja.”
Louis slipped from the pew and joined the Wenhams before Sonja could overhear any conversation. For years, the notion of returning to Salt River, now Shepherd, had been the stuff of his nightmares. Yet now, the love, the welcome, the homecoming was palpable in this church. With these people.
Gray now streaked Thomas’s temples and threaded through Fanny’s hair. “Louis, is it you? Louis Smith?”
“It’s me—Louis Smith Penwell.” When he held out his hand, the farmer grasped it firmly and pulled Louis into a quick embrace.
“Well, I’ll be!” Mr. Wenham released him and then gestured for someone behind Louis to join them. “Martin, it’s Louis.”
Both Thomas Wenham and Martin Gade had been in the boat with Louis’s father the fateful day they’d headed out with the maple syrup and ended up sinking instead. Mr. Gade, the most prosperous of the men, had helped those he could. But he couldn’t bring Father back nor could he support an almost fully-grown young man at his own table. So off Louis had gone to the Poor Farm.
Martin’s swarthy complexion paled as his dark eyes scanned Louis’s face. “Penwell? Not Smith?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be. You look like you’ve done well for yourself, son. We’ve been praying for you all these years.”
Fleeting movement in the back of the room caught Louis’s eye. A slender, almost wraith-like woman attired in a long black coat, her hair covered by a snug hat to which was affixed a heavy veil, glided past the minister without pausing to address anyone.
He glanced quickly at Sonja, waiting for him in the aisle. She followed his gaze.
“Excuse me. I see someone I must speak with…” Louis slipped away as the two men gaped at him. If he didn’t catch her now, how would he know if it was her—the woman he’d seen only a handful of times before? And always at critical times in his life.
Chapter 5
Sonja tugged her heavy winter skirt aside and followed Louis as he worked his way through the congregants. The raven-like woman he’d pursued pulled something from her reticule—a paper wrapped square—and quickly slid it onto a low shelf in the vestibule. She exited the building while Louis wove through the labyrinth of people, and then stopped by the preacher.
As Sonja made her way to Reverend Mathews, she caught the distinctive scent of incense or some other Middle-Eastern fragrance. She paused. Once, a missionary had brought frankincense and myrrh to her Sunday school classroom, and this fragrance smelled similar.
Reverend Mathews shook Louis’s hand heartily and glanced between him and Sonja. “Is this your young man, Sonja? Your father had promised me a Christmas wedding, and now, here is Mr. Penwell!”
She felt the color drain from her face. When Louis met her gaze, his dark eyes held only admiration. Then, slowly, his expression altered to disappointment.
He sees the shunned, unloved girl I’ve been. Her heart sank.
“I’m afraid not, pastor, but I’ll explain to you later, in private.”
Compassion shone in the minister’s eyes and then a flicker of devilment. His lids lowered slightly over his green eyes and Reverend Mathews chuckled. “You two let me know if that changes, all right? I’ve got my wedding ceremony all ready for you, Miss Hoeke.”
Louis laughed. “Thank you, Reverend Mathews. We’ll be sure to do that. Also, if you don’t mind, I need to speak with you about a private matter.”
“Are you coming with Sonja to the rehearsal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about we’ll chat after that?”
“Fine. Thank you.”
Sonja beamed at him, as though he’d just offered her a splendid gift. Was his time that special to her? What a blessing it would be to have her look at him like that every day.
He took her hand and guided her to the coat closet, where a line had formed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He wasn’t very good at waiting. But patience was a virtue he’d benefit from acquiring. One by one, the congregants retrieved their winter coats, donned them and their hats and gloves, and then left. Finally Louis lifted Sonja’s coat from a heavy wooden hanger and assisted her into the too-short fur garment.
His heart tugged as she pulled out the deerskin gloves and tugged them on. Tomorrow, he’d order her a new pair—lined calfskin gloves from Detroit.
Sonja tapped his coat sleeve. “Who was that woman, Louis? The lady in the mourning gown?”
“Hmmm?” He pulled out his pocket watch, a fine piece with engravings of bear and deer on it—
one of his first purchases as a railwayman.
“The woman in black you tried to catch up with.”
He exhaled a whoosh. “I don’t really know. But I’ve seen her several times.” At his college graduation. As soon as he’d received his diploma, he’d spied her stand and slip from the auditorium.
The blacksmith, Mr. Campbell, and his wife joined them. “Louis? Louis Smith?”
Louis pivoted and extended his hand. “Actually it’s Louis Penwell, Louis Smith Penwell.”
The couple frowned. “Not Smith?”
“My father chose to use that name, sir.”
“Why?” Sonja hadn’t stopped the question from slipping out and couldn’t take it back. When Louis had helped her into her coat, he’d sent a jolt through her when his hands had brushed her shoulders. Maybe that was why she couldn’t think straight. Even now she trembled at the thought of his touch. Heavens, how would she be able to conduct her rehearsal properly?
Louis ran a hand through his hair and offered a slight smile to each of them. “I’ll explain it all, but trust me, there is nothing nefarious in it—other than having a father who regularly gambled away our funds and moved us from one place to another before he’d finally
found Jesus—here, in this place, before he died.”
“Praise God for that, then.” Mrs. Campbell tugged on her husband’s arm. “And we both welcome you back.”
“Yes, welcome, Louis.” Mr. Campbell grinned. “We best get on our way—don’t want to keep that good roast waiting.”
Mrs. Campbell laughed and the two strode off, arm in arm.
Sonja needed to focus on her schedule. “I hate to rush, Louis, but I do need to partake of a quick lunch before I return for practice.”
“Lunch with me, of course?” He winked at her. “As we are betrothed, according to someone.”
Had he received the letter? Had he guessed? Or did he mean Reverend Mathews comments? She sighed. “My father has offered me in marriage to any unmarried man in the town.”
“What?” the small lines around his eyes deepened. “And whom have you chosen?”
A stranger in South Dakota who’d proposed to my best friend. “I’m afraid I’ll be assigned to a new postal position soon, so it doesn’t matter. I’ll be moving.”
Not if he had anything to do with it. Sonja Hoeke would be Sonja Penwell if God willed it. “I’m afraid I won’t have a carriage at my convenience until tomorrow. Come, let me walk you to the restaurant at the inn.”
“Are you sure?” She tipped her head in a most becoming way.
“I insist, and of course I shall pay for our expenses. I’m on an account until my home is finished.” A blessing since he had no way to prepare meals.
“The railroad is building you a house?” Sonja wrapped a long knit shawl over her beautiful blonde, upswept hair. What a shame—the garment shrouded her beauty and made her appear like an elderly woman. When they were married, he’d send to Detroit for new fancy hats for her. Gloves were one thing—hats another. She must be his wife before he’d outfit her in grand style.
“One of the benefits of this new position.” But the inn owner seemed confused when he’d shared this information with him. “They assured me the house would be a grand place.”
Sonja cocked her head, the dark shawl slipping against her cheek, contrasting with her ivory complexion. “Louis, there is no new construction. There cannot be—not with winter almost here. And if there were plans—well, most of the men in town would be talking about it.”
The Substitute Bride: A Novella Page 4
