The Substitute Bride: A Novella

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “First, let me add a little water to the broth.”

  In a few moments, Louis followed Dr. Queen upstairs, carefully holding a mug steady.

  When they entered Ronald’s room, the young man struggled to get up onto his elbows. The kerosene lamp in the corner cast a pool of light at the bedside, where a small tray-table sat, holding an empty glass and bowl. Louis moved closer.

  “We brought you more soup, Ron. And I hope you’ll not use this method next time to get out of your oratory obligations.” He winked at the youth. “I had to utilize my own rusty skills from my college speech classes to substitute for you.”

  Behind him, he sensed that the woman he loved had joined them, but he daren’t move lest he spill the contents of the mug. Sonja came alongside him, efficiently removing the detritus from the tray. “I’ll take all the dishes downstairs and get them washed.”

  Dr. Queen moved to the other side of the narrow single bed. “Sonja, please boil the water to full roiling for the rinse water.”

  “I’ll come down to pour it for you.” Louis didn’t want her getting scalded—not after his romantic behavior almost resulted in her getting burned. “Please don’t attempt that yourself.”

  After Ronald was examined, they’d checked on Liisa, who spoke remarkably good English despite her recent arrival from Finland, and then the other girl, Joanna. When finished, Dr. Queen carried his leather satchel into the hallway and set it on a narrow half-oval table, above which a dark, empty circle contrasted with the faded burgundy flocked velvet wallpaper illuminated by wall sconces. “Looks like Iris Geisig even ran off with the mirrors in this place. The board isn’t going to like this one bit.”

  The county board. Louis hadn’t considered that now he must answer to them. If he continued to keep this house as a Poor Farm. Which he wasn’t sure about. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’ll stay with the sickest one.”

  “That would be Joanna.” Dr. Queen stroked his chin. “She needs someone with her. In case…”

  “All right.” Louis cut off the doctor’s words. The patients didn’t need to hear any dire predictions. “It will take some time for Sonja to get a huge pot of water at a full boil. So I’ll stay with Joanna for now and then go help Sonja.”

  The doctor nodded solemnly. “Not much else I can do here now, Mr. Penwell. I’ll be heading back to town.”

  Louis cringed. The man was leaving them? What if the inmates died? Louis was contemplating the very words he hadn’t wish uttered.

  Dr. Queen opened his leather bag and removed packets of medication. He handed them to Louis. “One per patient, dissolved completely in a cup of warm water; every few hours until tomorrow night.”

  “Is that all that can be done?”

  “Keep them as comfortable as you can but don’t let them get chilled.”

  Dr. Queen descended the stairs, physician’s case in hand.

  Louis entered Joanna’s room—his old room. He shuddered, as he had earlier when they’d entered. The young woman slept, an arm thrown across her head. Dr. Queen had given her medication earlier. Dear God, let it work. Louis set several of the medication packets on top of the monstrous bureau, stained black and carved with what appeared to be snakes—but they might actually have been vines. As a young man, imprisoned here, the carvings seemed to writhe together. He shivered at the recollection of his horrid nights stuck in the room. That piece would be burned for firewood now that Louis owned the place. The foreboding chest of drawers had dominated this room, where he’d once slept for three hundred seventeen nights, all marked off on the back of the piece with a pocket knife.

  On impulse, Louis pulled the heavy bureau away from the paneled walled and ran his finger down the back right side. His fingertips hit the grooves and he counted the indentations. They were still there.

  God, what am I doing here? Why me?

  Dr. Queen entered the kitchen, his coat donned and hat on. Sonja stood by the large cookstove, stirring her secret cider remedy. Scents of chicken broth and apple cider mingled in the steamy room.

  The physician tucked his case under his arm. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  Sonja ladled out spicy apple cider for him, into a mug. With cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves, this mixture had helped Cora breathe easier. It was also very tasty. She’d found the spices tucked far back in the cabinet, behind an almost-empty sugar bowl. “Take a cup with you for the road, Dr. Queen.”

  He accepted the hot cider. “Thank you. I’ll check on the horses before I leave and make sure they’ve got food and water.”

  “I can do that. Or perhaps Louis can.”

  “No, I have to go out anyways and it shan’t take me long.” He stood there, appraising Sonja. “Young woman, you may have saved these inmates’ lives. Now we give them into God’s hands.”

  Exhausted, but unable to sleep, Sonja finally closed down the kitchen and went upstairs to the room where she’d sleep, carrying a bayberry scented lamp. Quietly, she made her way to the northwest bedroom, which was surprisingly large. But this grand house had originally been built for a prosperous farmer. The bedroom would have been filled with furniture and included a portion of the room for a cradle. Who would occupy this room now? Would a happy baby ever coo in this place?

  As she searched for bedsheets, Louis’s blazing eyes kept intruding on Sonja’s thoughts. And now he was only several rooms down the hall. She should offer to remain up with Joanna. What had the doctor been thinking, leaving him there with her? She blinked. She should send him back to town. No, it would be too dangerous now, with the snow already having accumulated several inches, if not more. She huffed out a sigh. Tongues would wag, but there was nothing to be done.

  Bending to look under the former matron’s bare bed, Sonja discovered a box of blankets stuffed beneath the bed frame. She pulled them out and gathered them up. They were the wool blankets donated by the church years earlier, but all appeared unused. Sighing, Sonja brought several to the first two bedrooms. Each resident had only one thin quilt. Liisa rested comfortably, as did Ronald—both their brows cool, thank God. She extinguished their lamps.

  She returned to the matron’s room and considered. Dr. Queen wasn’t here now, and she would be alone in Joanna’s room with Louis. Obligations and duty first—hadn’t that been how she’d been raised? And look what it had gotten her—an old maid about to be run off from town. Hands trembling, she retrieved several more blankets and headed back down the hall.

  As she entered Joanna’s room, she spied Louis, asleep in a chair. Poor man. His pocket watch lay open in his left hand, a book resting in his lap. She leaned closer to look at the time. Three in the morning. No wonder he’d fallen asleep. He’d mentioned he normally rose well before five o’clock to prepare himself for his day’s work.

  She moved to the bedside and pressed a hand to Joanna’s cheek, which felt clammy. She still fought to throw off her fever. Sonja pulled two blankets over the young woman.

  She would put the lamp out before she left, but first she’d cover Louis with the last blanket and remove the book from his lap.

  As she drew nearer, she saw that it was yet another copy of A Christmas Carol. But while the other two books had been printed years, if not decades earlier, this book appeared fresh from the printing press. Its black leather cover showed no signs of wear. Louis’s hands rested in his lap, his head tilted to the side against the heavily upholstered sitting chair. Strands of wavy dark hair lay plastered against his forehead.

  Oh no. Was he ill, too?

  Sonja pressed her hand to his head, which was warm but not hot.

  “Don’t!” He grasped her wrist and she tried to pull free as he awoke, his eyes wild with fright. His breath came in gasps.

  “It’s me, Louis, it’s Sonja.”

  He released her arm. “Sonja?”

  “Yes.” She knelt at his side and tried to remove the book, but his wide hand came down over hers.

  “
The doctor gave me this book on our ride out.” Louis drew in a deep breath.

  “Were the others from him, then?”

  “No. He said someone left this for me at his office—along with a note for him.”

  “How odd.” She resisted the impulse to kiss his cheek. What would it feel like with the faint stubble on what was usually a cleanly shaven face? “What was the message?”

  Louis shrugged. “It said his wages for the year, as consultant for the Poor Farm, had already been deposited at the bank. And that regardless of any payment from the county, or lack thereof, his medical services to any residents at this address were covered. And that additional funds could be requested via the bank.”

  “Remarkable.” She tapped the book, where a piece of black funeral ribbon protruded from a section near the end. “I’m guessing Christmas future was marked in your book.”

  “It was.” He glanced toward the heavy Eastlake chest of drawers. “And I just had the strangest dream.”

  “What was it?”

  He took her hand in his. “I dreamed that I was buried on this property, beneath that chest, and I was screaming to get out.”

  Sonja shuddered. “How awful!”

  “Yes.” He squeezed her hand, sending warmth through her. “I called on God and he brought me a book.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “Surely not A Christmas Carol.”

  No.” He chuckled. “I’m positive it was the Bible.”

  Joanna moaned and rolled toward them. “Miss Hoeke?”

  “I’m here.”

  The girl’s eyes grew wide as she looked at Louis. “Who are you?”

  “A former inmate here. But now I’m the owner, it seems.”

  “What?” Sonja and Joanna’s voices merged.

  “I’m Louis Smith Penwell, once the inhabitant of this very same room—albeit with several other young people in here with me.”

  Sonja sighed. “I wish my family could have taken you in, Louis.”

  “With several young women in the home, I doubt your father would have considered it even once.”

  “He did. Although only once.” She smiled.

  Joanna’s bleary blue gaze moved between Louis and Sonja. “You two know each other? Isn’t Mr. Penwell Cora’s pen pal?”

  “Yes.” Louis ran a hand across his forehead. “She was a good friend to me.”

  Sonja cocked her head to the side. “To all of us.”

  The girl flopped back onto her pillow. “I guess her plan worked then.”

  “What was that?” Sonja settled on the bed, beside her.

  “She wished for you two to get together—said if only Sonja were your pen pal, Mr. Penwell, that you’d be married by now, and she would be settled in South Dakota.”

  Louis’s deep belly laugh made Sonja cringe. Was he laughing at her? “Joanna, I believe Cora was correct. But perhaps God needed me back here.”

  Chapter 8

  So much had happened in the past week, Sonja felt like her head might spin off. Rolling up her last pair of stockings, she wedged them into her grandmother’s old trunk. How had the Hoeke family felt crossing an ocean to begin a new life? Sonja’s every nerve was on edge, and she was merely moving outside of town.

  Her mother knocked on the open door before she entered. “Reverend Mathews is downstairs.”

  “Oh?” Father had threatened to force a marriage between her and Louis, despite Dr. Queen’s arguments that Father was overreacting to the news that the two had spent the night at the Poor Farm together.

  “Reverend Mathews will drive you out to the farm. He needs to discuss the plans for the pageant with you. Seems there is to be a larger reception this year.”

  Sonja exhaled in relief. “We’ve so much to be thankful for, despite the losses.”

  Mother drew closer, bringing with her the scent of violets. “Thank God all those pour souls are healing well.”

  “Yes.” Sonja closed the trunk. “And I’m sure Father will be relieved to have me gone.”

  “Now, dear, you know he loves you…” Mother’s words trailed off as her father’s footsteps lumbered down the hall. “He’s going to carry your belongings out for you. See how helpful he can be?”

  Indeed, since he was getting rid of her. But Sonja bit her tongue and forced a smile.

  Louis had read the letter—the response to his proposal to Cora—three times. How could this be? Why would a beautiful woman such as Sonja Hoeke have offered to become his substitute bride for Cora? On the other hand, how had he become so desperate that he would offer marriage to his pen pal, without either of them ever having met? The Louis he’d been, before he’d returned home—and yes, this was his home—seemed a different man.

  He’d not yet mentioned the letter to Sonja although he’d been tempted to on their many evenings spent together that week. He’d savored every dinner, every walk, every discussion, and even the pageant rehearsals.

  That morning, he’d been told by the railroad that his home wouldn’t be constructed until spring—if then, which was why no permits had been sought. And he’d been informed that an investor had already given him a home, hadn’t she? So the wraith in black had some railway connection. Beyond that, he still didn’t know who she was. Neither did anyone in town—only that everything the stranger did was in cash. Just as she’d conducted business in Shepherd—including having his father’s and Cora’s bodies disinterred and reburied in the church cemetery before he’d had a chance to pay the sexton. He’d described the woman as “poorly dressed, red washerwoman’s hands, a mite of a thing—don’t see how she could have afforded the cost.” The banker flat out refused to discuss the physician’s payments as had the lawyer who’d completed the deed’s transaction. Both stated that they would lose their payments should they divulge the woman’s identity. Furthermore, both men hinted she’d used a “go between,” or even several, to conduct her business.

  Was she a long lost Penwell relation? Did it matter? What did count was that he was now to endure at least six months in the tiny, dusty room at the inn. He opened the door to the restaurant below. Sonja should be joining him for lunch, before she drove out to the home. It had taken seven church ladies a week to care for the residents and to bring the house in order, even with Sonja directing them. They’d have to hire additional help. How had Mrs. Geisig managed? Why hadn’t she reached out and requested the county provide more workers? Had she? The matron who’d ruled him with an iron fist had brought in her brother, who’d wasted no time in meting out punishment for any of the inmates who didn’t pull their load around the place. Then, about the time Louis was to depart for college, the two had disappeared—much like Mrs. Geisig had. Louis came back from the fields one day to find a cleaning woman there. She’d given him a letter with his scholarship information in it. A washer woman. A younger version of the woman in his office that Sunday.

  Chills went through him and he blinked back moisture. All those years, after that stranger had led him to believe Mr. Welling had sponsored him for college, he realized that that lowly servant must be the same lady who’d been bringing him these gifts since he’d returned. Why? Did it matter? Thank you Lord, whatever the reason.

  “Mr. Penwell?” Miss Mitchell peered up at him.

  “Hmmm?” He’d gotten lost in his thoughts but forced himself to focus on the young woman.

  “Your spot is taken, but I’ve got a booth right next to it.”

  The private booth, where he’d normally sat, was occupied by a mature couple. They sat deep back in the Inglenook, their voices low as he was seated at the adjoining booth. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll bring your coffee.”

  He nodded and pressed back against the seat.

  A man’s voice rose on the other side. “Can you believe it? We’re finally free.”

  “Oh, Martin, don’t speak so!”

  “It’s true.”

  The couple continued to argue, apparently about their daughter, who was moving out of their house. Wa
s it the Hoekes? He’d yet to meet them.

  “It’s embarrassing having an old maid for a daughter. Now she’ll be where she belongs—out of my home!”

  “Please, Martin, don’t raise your voice.”

  Around them, the tables and booths began to fill as workers took their lunch breaks. Louis wanted to stand and shout at the man behind him, but he held his tongue.

  “Why couldn’t she have been like her sisters?”

  The waitress returned. “Mr. Penwell, um, well, I’m afraid we have a slight problem.” She pointed to the windows, outside which a man stood, holding a massive Labrador retriever mix on a leash.

  Louis clapped his hands together. “Ah, yes, very good—he’s come.”

  Eyebrows raised high, she leaned in. “He can’t stay at the inn, sir, you know that.”

  After he withdrew three bills from his wallet, Louis handed them to the innkeeper’s daughter. “One for your inconvenience, one for the man’s and the dog’s meals out back of the restaurant, and one for the man for holding onto Darren until I can come retrieve him after lunch.”

  Eyes wide at the amount she’d been offered, Miss Mitchell took the money, stuffed it into her apron and ran outside. He viewed the animated exchange between her and the dog handler through the window. Crossing the street, Sonja approached her pet. A huge grin split her pretty face and she threw open her arms as though to hug the townsman Louis had employed. Sonja stopped when Miss Mitchell shook her head and spoke to her. Sonja’s lower lip drooped but then she again grinned and followed the waitress into the restaurant and headed straight for their booth.

  The woman he loved, whom he prayed would be his wife, pressed a hand to her chest. The long, ankle-length, green wool coat he’d sent to her home matched her eyes almost perfectly. He’d learned something from the mysterious stranger who’d gifted him. Those unexpected gifts, as well as the present time, were to be savored.

  In the Inglenook behind them, the irritating man again began to rant. “How many years have I waited for this day? All our daughters gone, except one.”