The Substitute Bride: A Novella

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “Out?”

  “Leaving! My brother-in-law has come to fetch me home.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine as goose down, thank you very much.” She glanced up at the tall man beside her. “But

  those brats upstairs are sick with whatever killed Cora and old man Welling.”

  Sonja sucked in a chill breath at the woman’s callous words.

  “Ain’t Iris’s responsibility no more.” The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This place has been sold.”

  “Sold?” Sonja squeaked. She looked up at the two.

  “Right.” Iris squared her shoulders. “And the woman who bought it—she gave me a bundle of money if I’d move on right away.”

  “But what about the children?” Sonja finally managed, her voice firmer now as she gathered up righteous indignation.

  The former matron shrugged and descended the two porch stairs.

  “Did you at least send for the doctor?”

  “I’m getting Iris home before she gets sick like them inmates.” Mrs. Geisig’s brother-in-law frowned as he, too, descended the steps. “I left her here when that woman died, and I regretted it.”

  Mrs. Geisig extended her hand to Sonja. “I’ll have that mail now, thank you.”

  She clutched it to her chest. “There is only one letter for you, and per postal policy I shan’t be allowed to give you the rest.”

  The woman raised her hand as though to strike Sonja or to at least grab the mail. Backing up a step, she flinched. The man grasped the matron’s arm, preventing whatever she intended to do. Mrs. Geisig’s round face flushed red.

  “Ain’t worth it Iris, ya got plenty of cash now.” He released his hold. “Take your letter and let’s get out of this place.”

  Quickly finding the one missive belonging to the offensive woman, Sonja thrust it at her and then backed away. “I’m going in to check on the children. Would you at least be so kind as to send the doctor out?”

  “Not on our dime, missy, but we’ll tell him to come.”

  This man and Mrs. Geisig should get along just fine.

  Several customers crowded around the post office wood stove as a gentleman settled his packages on a table nearby. Louis approached the postal counter, inhaling the mingled scent of lemon oil and woodsmoke. “I’m Louis Penwell, the new railroad man. I’ve come to collect my personal mail, if you have any.”

  “Nice to meet ye.” Mr. McLaughlin blinked up at him.

  If he recognized Louis, the postmaster didn’t say. They’d never met, because the Poor Farm matron had made the changes to Louis’s mail when he’d come to the house and when he’d left.

  “I’m delighted to be here with the railroad, in my new position.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Penwell. I hear ye are the new manager.” The man’s Scottish brogue was almost as thick as Louis remembered.

  “Yes, and I’m pleased by what a vibrant town Shepherd is—with the railroad as well as the mills, so active.” So altered since he’d lived there a decade earlier.

  “Times have changed. We certainly see a lot more mail coming through.” Behind them the door chimes jingled.

  “I can imagine.” There was the feeling in the air of change, of progress.

  “Oh! Before I forget—I’d not even affixed any postage yet—ye just missed a lady who paid to have us deliver something to ye via the mail.” The post office superintendent scratched his head. “She insisted, even after I explained that yer office was only a wee bit up the street.”

  The crick in Louis’s neck, from poring over the two books the previous evening, stiffened further. “Was it a parcel about this big?” He held up his hands to indicate the size of a book.

  The man shook his head then bent and retrieved a large envelope and handed it to Louis. “No, it was this.”

  No return address. And only “Mr. Louis Penwell” was written on the front, in bold lettering.

  “Did she give her name, sir?” It had to be the same mysterious woman who’d brought the books.

  “Afraid not.” He bent once more and retrieved a slim stack of missives and slid them across the counter to Louis. “Here’s yer mail. I noticed one was from here.”

  “I confess, sir, I did live here previously.”

  “Ye did?”

  “My father used the name Smith, then, as did I.”

  The man’s lips formed a sympathetic, “Oh. So sorry, lad. He was a verra good man. Always had a bit of scripture to quote to me.”

  How could Louis forget all that had happened in this town? Yes, Father had died. But he’d also gone on to heaven. And he’d changed. “He found the Lord here, sir.”

  The man cleared his throat. “I ken some good came of his short time with us, then, despite all the trouble for ye that followed.”

  “Yes.” God had blessed them here, too. Not all had been bad. Behind him, Louis sensed other patrons stirring.

  Mr. MacLaughlin tapped the top letter and frowned. “Looks like Miss Hoeke’s handwriting to me. Did ye know her, before?”

  “Yes, in school and at church—but we were very young then.” And she hadn’t known his true surname.

  “Verra good. She’s a sweet lass.” McLaughlin tapped the side of his head. “But I ken, ye’re already aware of her disposition.”

  “Indeed.”

  McLaughlin rapped three times on the countertop. “I’ll cancel the request for her transfer to Mackinac Island, son. Dinna worry about a thing. I’ll nay have Sonja sent off right when ye have just arrived.”

  What if Sonja wished to move on in her postal career? Louis remained silent.

  The door opened behind him again, and then closed, bells jingling to announce the new arrival. One of the customers called out, “Good day, Doc.”

  Louis swiveled to see the physician standing there, face pale.

  “Doctor Queen, I’ve got your mail right here.” Mr. MacLaughlin retrieved a pile of missives tied with string.

  “I’m here for Penwell.” The doctor raised his arm and pointed to the door. “I think he’ll want to come with me.”

  After Ronald returned from town with the carriage, he stumbled up the back steps and into the kitchen, where Sonja had a kettle of chicken broth simmering. Trembling, he ran a hand across his sweaty brow. “Miss Hoeke, Iris’s brother-in-law stopped at the physician’s office but he wasn’t there. He left a note.”

  Shaking, the young man sank onto a wood stool by the wall and unbuttoned his coat. “I’ll hang this in a minute. But I’m so hot.”

  “Straight to bed with you!” Sonja aimed her ladle toward the hallway. “Do you need help?”

  “No.” But when he stood, Ronald’s legs looked like they might give out. He removed his jacket, swaying.

  Sonja strode to him, wrapped an arm around his waist, and slung his arm over her shoulder. “Come on.”

  They stopped to hang the threadbare garment, damp from snow, on the coat tree in the hallway.

  Heat radiated off the young man much like the cook stove emitted. Like the other residents, he possessed a raging fever. “I’m just weak, is all.”

  “You’re sick.” They took several steps toward the stairs. The scent of chicken and herbs overpowered the odor of the dried flowers that Mrs. Geisig had left behind.

  He drew in a deep breath. “We’ve not been fed since two days past.”

  What kind of monster treated people that way? Sonja clenched her jaw. She wanted to scream in outrage at Iris Geisig. “Let’s get you upstairs. I’ll pour you some water. And soon I’ll be up with some broth.”

  His stomach growled as they began to mount the stairs.

  “If you can keep water down, then I’ll give you some crackers.”

  “Good.”

  Did she imagine it, or did Ronald seem to be leaning less on her now? “Thank you for putting the horses up. I don’t know how you managed.”

  “God,” he murmured. “Only God.”

  Yes, God was here wit
h them. Tears pricked her eyes but she beat them back with her eyelashes. It wouldn’t do for Ronald to see her weeping.

  Once upstairs and in his room, the young man sat on his bed and looked down at his feet. Sonja bent, undid his work boots, and pulled them off. He sighed and she looked up.

  “No one has done that for me since my Ma died.” Ronald’s gaze went to his small dresser, atop which a tintype of a young woman gaze in solemnity at the camera.

  Those blasted tears threatened again, and Sonja let them chase down her face and fall to the pine floor as she tugged Ronald’s damp wool stockings free. “One day, your wife will help you.” If he lived. Dear God, hadn’t you just this morning promised me a merry Christmas?

  “Miss Sonja?” His thick voice sounded like Cora’s had, when she’d become more ill.

  She sniffed as she removed the second wool sock. “Yes?”

  “I think I’ll just take my suspenders off and sleep in my clothes until the doc gets here, okay?”

  Sensing his embarrassment, and suddenly feeling her own, Sonja wiped at her face and stood. “Agreed.” She went to the washbasin and found the pitcher beside it, a quarter full. She poured Ronald a glass and brought it to him. She’d need to pump some more and bring it up to all of them, as the girls’ pitchers were also getting low.

  After he’d gotten beneath his covers, Sonja exited the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She returned to the kitchen and went to the sink, grateful for the indoor pump, which some homes, including her own, lacked. After plucking a clean jug from the drainboard, she filled it and returned to the hallway. The matron had removed all the framed pictures that had once lined the hallway—bucolic scenes of countryside that in no way reflected life in this house, on this farm.

  Two hours later, fatigue hovering over her, Sonja carried up yet another pitcher of cool, fresh water. Wall sconces, lit on her last trip up, cast eerie shadows on the stair treads. After rapping on the first door on the right, she entered the Finnish girl’s sickroom. A single kerosene lamp cast a pool of light near the restless girl, whose bedcoverings were once again entwined around her thin limbs.

  Sonja moved to the bedside and pressed a hand to Liisa’s forehead. She was burning up, still. Sonja poured water into the basin. Then she dipped a cloth in water, and dabbed the child’s brow. No curtains or wallpaper softened the room. Outside the mullioned windows, the sun dipped low over the tree line. How long until someone came from town? She’d been waiting for two hours, dividing her time between the three patients. God, don’t let this child die when she’s come so far. Only to have found her father and her brother had died in a lumber camp accident. Those blasted tears filled Sonja’s eyes again.

  “I’d like to bring up some more broth for you, Liisa.” She raised the young girl’s head and held a glass of water to her pale lips. “And I want you to try a few crackers.”

  The girl pressed her eyes shut as if in affirmation.

  “I’ll be back in a little bit.” She had to get some kind of nourishment into them. Ronald had finished a half bowl of soup, with her assistance. They were so weak, how could they fight this illness?

  Louis and Dr. Queen discussed Mrs. Geisig at length on their way to the Poor Farm. But he’d not shared with the physician that the Poor Farm property had been deeded to himself by an anonymous benefactor. While waiting at the man’s office, Louis had opened the large envelope left for him at the post office. Enclosed had been the property title to the last place on earth he’d ever want to own. Someone had a twisted sense of humor. And that morning, he’d received confirmation that no building permits had been sought to construct a new home for him.

  He’d not read his other missives, but would do so later, once he and the doctor ascertained the severity of the illness at the Poor Farm. The letter that the postmaster indicated was from Sonja—was it the reply to his invitation to Cora to be wed? Did the young woman know he’d impulsively asked Cora out of desperation to have a mate when he was given his new promotion? What if his pen pal had survived? What if she’d accepted him? And then he’d arrived and become reacquainted with Sonja?

  “Last time I was out here was to check on Cora. I understand you were her writing correspondent—a pen pal of sorts?” The doctor directed his black horses to turn onto the country lane, which was dusted with snow.

  “Yes. She was a sweet woman who shared the love of the railroad. She’d lost her husband and ended up in desperate straits. But she never lost her kind heart.” Louis pressed his spine against the seatback as the horses maneuvered the turn.

  “Cora told me that she hoped one day you’d come visit her.” Dr. Queen clucked his tongue as the geldings entered the roadway.

  “As did I.” Louis tugged at the scarf around his neck, holding the front of his rocking seat with his other hand. “Though, in truth, I had no idea I was being sent back here by the railroad. I’d assumed my promotion was where I lived in South Dakota.”

  Louis turned to gage the doctor’s reaction. The physician’s rueful smile was broken by a curt laugh. “Did you know Cora wished for you to meet Sonja?”

  Redirecting his gaze to the road ahead, Louis shrugged. “I don’t believe she knew that we’d already met during our youth.”

  “Is that correct?”

  Dr. Queen hadn’t been practicing in the area when Louis had resided in what had later become the town of Shepherd.

  “I never mentioned to Cora that I’d lived here. We, that is, I…” He swallowed back the loss he’d experienced. “…lived here for only a little over a year.”

  They’d first begun corresponding right after her husband had died. He’d seen her letter to the editor of his favorite railroading magazine. He had sought out the correspondence to comfort a widow and share their love of the railroad—for Cora still did enjoy all things related to the railway, despite having lost her husband to it.

  “Your letters were a light in her life. But maybe not for the reasons you might think.”

  A rut in the road jostled Louis and he stiffened.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Cora shared that she believed you and Sonja would be a perfect match. And once she’d accepted the Lord as Savior, Cora prayed that somehow you’d meet her friend.”

  Louis puzzled over these comments. Had his friend, his pen pal, embellished some of her recent comments about her activities to test the waters as far as Sonja? Was she about to make an introduction by mail? Cora never had implied anything about seeking a romantic relationship, herself, but he’d offered out of friendship, necessity, and the desire to remove her from the Poor Farm.

  “Forgive me for overstepping the bounds of professionalism.” Dr. Queen kept his gaze focused forward as a light breeze kicked up. “I thought you might wish to know.”

  “Thank you.” His burdens suddenly lightened even as a gust of wind sent snowflakes pummeling into his face and he ducked.

  Chapter 7

  Desperate to improve her broth and tempt the invalids’ appetites, Sonja stood at the stove and added more of what little garlic she’d found and some pepper and parsley. Sampling it, she grimaced. Too much salt, still.

  Through the kitchen windows, white snowflakes flurried down, visible in the twilight as the physician’s carriage came into view. Her heartbeat escalated. Help had arrived, thank God. As the two bay mares drew to a stop a tall man jumped down and opened the doors to the carriage house. The gig was soon maneuvered into the outbuilding.

  Before long, the back door creaked open and then slammed close. The men stamped their feet.

  “I’m here in the kitchen!” she called out.

  “Going upstairs, Miss Hoeke!” Dr. Queen’s baritone voice boomed as he popped his head into the kitchen and unbuttoned his coat.

  “I’ll be up in a minute, Doc.” Louis pulled the physician’s coat off and returned to the hallway, where a coat rack stood.

  Sonja tossed in a handful of parsley then stirred the soup with a huge wooden spoon she’d found in a dra
wer. From the looks of things, very little real cooking had gone in the place for several days—just as Ronald had said. Would the young man pull through? Would his college dreams be fulfilled? Would her suggestion that one day his wife would help him with his boots come true?

  Louis Penwell entered the cavernous room, and her heart flipped. “Thank God you’ve come.”

  “And thank God you were here, Sonja, for the residents.” His dark eyes grew even blacker as he took two steps closer to her, then stopped, only inches away.

  Her heartbeat sped up. With all those sisters and brothers-in-law, she recognized what that look meant. Sonja turned and dropped the spoon into the heavy pot, afraid of what she saw in his eyes. But when she turned back around, Louis hadn’t moved. Instead, his gaze danced over her features as he looked at her hair, her eyes, her nose, before settling on her mouth and lingering there. He was thinking about kissing her, and she wanted that kiss, too. Trying to catch her breath, she took one step backward but he caught her by the arm.

  “Don’t burn yourself on that stove.”

  He grabbed her elbows, holding her fast. Only the thinnest rim of brown remained around his dark pupils. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes reminded her of how much time had passed since they’d first met. His lips beckoned her even closer.

  Footfall descended the stairs and Louis backed up, gently tugging her in his direction, away from the stove. In a moment the doctor joined them.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Fine.” Except he’d almost kissed Sonja right here in the place he’d hated most—at the farm he now owned—while the occupants, upstairs, lay ill. “Why don’t we bring up a little soup, if it’s all right?”

  “Yes.” Sonja’s breathless, single word caused him to inhale sharply. One day soon, he’d ask her to marry him and that would be the word he wished to hear.

  Louis’s world had to have gone off kilter. His organized world, in his job, seemed as distant as South Dakota.

  “Sonja, can you fill a couple of mugs?” Dr. Queen’s voice held a gravity that made Louis’s heart twinge. Unspoken words seemed to hang in the air.