Chapter 9
Sunday, February 1, 1891
St. Margaret’s Church
Noah craned his neck to look over the sea of men’s heads and ladies’ hats. Although most of the hats were small in scale, there were a few wide brims near to where the Porters sat at the front of the church, making it hard for him to sneak glances at his bride-to-be.
His plan was to steal out of the church just as Mass ended, so the formidable Mrs. Porter wouldn’t be cross with him. But how could she be? How could any man help himself? Curiosity had kept him awake all night, and now all morning long he had feared he’d be so tired, he’d say something foolish at their supper meeting. At last, temptation had gotten the best of him, and he’d dressed at dawn, and timed his arrival at the church so he’d be the last one to enter.
All he cared about was catching a glimpse of the woman he intended to marry. Why do all the women with the most ostentatious millinery have to sit up front? It seemed most of the modest women—the one wearing simple veils to cover their hair, or tiny hats—sat at the back. Perhaps the women with the overbearing headwear felt that if no one could stare at their bedecked hats, then they weren’t getting their money’s worth out of them. He forced back the uncharitable thoughts about such obnoxious displays of vanity, and tried to focus on the sermon.
Instead, he found himself craning his neck again. The parishioners behind me must be ready to throttle me, he thought. But at last, he tilted his head to the right, and caught a glimpse of the beguiling Miss Quinn. She sat to Mrs. Porter’s right, on the aisle. Both Miss Quinn and Mrs. Porter sported modestly-sized hats, thought Mrs. Porter’s appeared more finely-trimmed than the simple design of Miss Quinn’s.
It gave him a thrill to see the real color of her hair—he could only guess at it before, from her own description and the shades of grey in the photograph she sent. The rich auburn tresses were pinned artfully into a cluster of curls at the back of her head, with her small hat perched atop her head, just above them. Her skin was approximately the same shade of cream that he had supposed it would be, but her neck was slimmer and more elegant than he had expected. That was all he could surmise about her appearance from his vantage point, and he chastised himself for choosing a seat at the very back.
When Miss Quinn turned her head, for a terrifying moment he thought she would turn about and catch him staring…but instead, she looked to her left, casting a glance up at the stained glass window nearest her, which depicted a lamb with its foreleg hooked around a banner bearing a Latin phrase. It gave him the opportunity to study her face in profile. Though he couldn’t see her features well at such a distance, he could see the same rounded cheeks that narrowed to her chin, which had given her face a heart-shaped appearance in the photograph she’d sent. Even at that distance, he could see how enticing her full lips were, and a horrifying thought occurred to him—could other men be admiring his bride at that moment, just as he was?
He cast a worried glance about the church but didn’t see anyone who appeared to be craning their necks as much as he. Noah settled back against the hard oak pew. He couldn’t give any other Helena bachelor the chance to catch the eye of his betrothed. He’d have to see that Madeline Porter didn’t delay his marriage to Miss Quinn any longer than necessary. Given the Catholic practice of announcing “the banns” at Mass for three weeks in a row prior to a wedding—to give any parishioners time to notify the priest if they knew of any reason why the couple should not wed—he knew that a talk with the pastor might be in order.
At last the organ played a brisk melody, accompanied by the assembly of men and boys up in the choir loft, who belted out their polyphonic tune. The lantern-bearing acolytes proceeded in form down the aisle, followed by the altar servers, the Master of Ceremony, and at last the priest, dressed in his full “high Mass” regalia. As soon as the priest passed through the open double door into the narthex at the back of the church, the parishioners all stood, gathering their missals, reticules, and other belongings, and began to filter out into the aisle.
Noah stepped out into the aisle, genuflecting briefly toward the tabernacle and crossing himself before standing again and walking quickly out of the church. He was disappointed that the priest and all his servers were already gone, disappeared into thin air as if from a magician’s trick. He glanced around, wondering where they might have gone. Then he remembered—many years ago, when his family still went to Mass, he remembered being an acolyte himself at high Masses. They’re back in the sacristy already, putting away all the accoutrements of the high Mass, and shedding their vestments.
He debated a moment, then decided not to wait. He walked back into the church, up the aisle, and let himself through the gate in the communion rail. After genuflecting again, he crossed over to the door to the right, which he knew must lead into the sacristy.
Noah stepped inside, where young boys bustled about, securing their torches—the lantern-topped staffs which contained lit candles during the Mass. Behind them, older boys pulled off their vestments, revealing their street clothes beneath, and hanging them in a cabinet with care. A few of the boys glanced up at him, then went back about their business. It wasn’t unusual to see a man come back to the sacristy after Mass to ask a priest a question, or request an off-hours confession.
At the far end of the narrow little room, Noah saw the priest hanging his embroidered chasuble in another cabinet. He waited and watched the man remove the embroidered stole from his neck, laying it gently in a wide, shallow drawer. Then he removed the white cord from about his waist, followed by the white lace-trimmed alb.
When the last of the priest’s vestments were put away but for the long black cassock and white collar he wore, Noah stepped forward. “Father? May I have a word with you?”
The priest turned. “Yes, of course. Have we met before? If we have, I apologize, for I don’t remember.”
“No. I…” Noah looked away, chagrined. He wanted to blame the priest for making him feel guilty, but he knew it was the prodding of his own conscience over not observing Sundays that made him feel uncomfortable. “I’m not much of a regular Mass-goer. My name is Noah Jamison. I own a watch and clock shop in town.”
“Oh! Yes, I think I’ve seen it. I’ve only been in Helena a year, but I do remember seeing it. Jamison and Son, right?”
He nodded. “But it’s just the ‘son’, now. My father passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Thank you. I really should have seen you about this much sooner, but I have something important I need your help with…”
***
Five minutes later, Noah emerged from the sacristy and left the same way he’d come in, walking out of the church and into the narthex, heading for the main church door.
“Mr. Jamison?”
He turned to meet the raised eyebrow of Madeline Porter, and realized he’d been caught. He had assumed they’d be gone already.
Mrs. Porter turned her penetrating gaze on Noah. “Well, Mr. Jamison. It seems you just couldn’t wait until this afternoon, hmm?”
She was the picture of motherly affection with her infant in her arms, sleeping…yet somehow she managed to be no less intimidating.
“Uh…yes…I mean…no…I mean…I’m a Catholic, too, you know.” He stammered like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. I can’t believe this is the first impression I’m giving to my future wife. Will she even marry me, after this display?
Mrs. Porter raised both eyebrows now. “I was under the impression that you haven’t attended Mass, other than for your Easter duty, for at least three years.”
Noah felt his face heat, and was glad that he wasn’t the blushing type…or he’d be red as a tomato. He glanced at Miss Quinn, who wore an amused expression, but kept her eyes on Mrs. Porter, other than a flickering glance his way.
“Well,” he hemmed, “I know Miss Quinn is a faithful Catholic, and I did promise in my letters that I would raise our children
Catholic. That means we’ll have to attend Mass regularly, I assume, so I thought I might as well get myself accustomed to it.”
“Really?” Clay Porter chimed in. He stood behind his wife, holding their daughter Grace in his arms, and grinning. “That’s the only reason, eh?”
Noah ignored Porter’s teasing. “It’s so nice to see you in person, Miss Quinn.” He tipped his hat in her direction.
She smiled. “Likewise, Mr. Jamison. I’m very pleased to meet you. I must admit, it all feels quite surreal—meeting someone in person for the first time, yet knowing so much about him.”
He relaxed a bit, relieved to hear that she felt the same way. “I suppose that’s a normal reaction for both of us. I’m really looking forward to our supper tonight, and getting to know you.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Yes, it will be delightful for us all, when it’s time,” Mrs. Porter interrupted. “Right now, I think we should take Miss Quinn back to her hotel so she can rest. It was a very long trip. I’m sure I can trust you not to arrive earlier than five o’clock, Mr. Jamison?”
“Of course, Mrs. Porter. Five o’clock on the dot. It was a delight to meet you, Miss Quinn.” He tipped his hat again.
“For me, as well, Mr. Jamison.”
He watched Miss Quinn as she followed the Porters out the church door and down the steps. She cast one quick glance over her shoulder before she disappeared from view.
She’s perfect! he thought. She was well-mannered and soft-spoken, with the smallest hint of the Irish accent that she probably heard every day of her life in the home of her immigrant parents. Her clothing was simple, but well cared for. He looked forward to seeing her in finer clothes—though it was hard to imagine improving much on her natural beauty.
The intricate hairstyle she wore complemented her fair skin and lovely features, and served to highlight her beauty. He knew she’d been a kitchen maid for a large house in Boston, which meant she’d be a fine cook with excellent kitchen skills, and an eagerness to please. She was everything he had wanted in a wife. The only thing that more time together could tell him was whether or not she would be an amiable companion, and his instincts told him she would.
There’s no reason to wait. He was eager to start his new life, and determined that he wouldn’t have to delay that life more than a day or two. He imagined that in less than a week, he’d have a wife at home seeing to the cooking and cleaning and other duties, and most importantly, he would never have to come home to an empty house again.
Chapter 10
Mollie checked her hair in the mirror, hands trembling from nerves. What if he doesn’t like me?
She’d spent the afternoon pacing the hotel room, like a lion in a cage. She gone out earlier, in hopes of searching for the Demings, but between the cold winds and the fact that almost every establishment in town was shut down for Sunday observance, there were few people to inquire with, and she had returned to her room, disappointed.
How hard can it be to find a rich couple in their thirties, with an eleven-month-old child? she thought as she pulled a brush through her thick hair with vigor. She had been so sure it would be easy to find a rich young couple in a frontier town. But having learned how many miners had struck it rich in the area, she realized her job would be much harder than she expected. She’d been told the couple were faithful Catholics, so she had scanned the parishioners closely as she had come in and gone out of the church that morning, but she had spotted no one matching the description of the Demings in attendance with a baby.
She set the brush down, staring at her pallid face in the large mirror over the dresser. What if I don’t find her? What if they’ve already gone back to Boston? Or settled in some other metropolitan area, anywhere in the country? What if I never see my Nell again?
She blinked back tears. No! No crying. I must show Noah Jamison a fresh and happy face. He was crucial to her plans to reunite with her daughter. Without him, she had no hope of convincing the Demings that she could care for a child, and that Nell belonged with her.
She quickly twisted her hair up on her head, slipping in pins with nimble fingers. I will be the picture of loveliness. I will laugh and smile, no matter how much I am dying inside. I will be the perfect woman for him—keep his home, cook his meals, tend to his every need.
And in every spare moment, I will search for my daughter.
***
Twenty minutes later Mollie was seated in a quiet corner of the hotel’s restaurant with Mr. Jamison and Mrs. Porter. Everyone’s order was already placed, and they had come to the “getting to know each other” questions and conversation.
Her strict mother had raised her to observe proper manners, so she managed to avoid staring at Mr. Jamison—but she watched him closely whenever he spoke, and the rest of the time, she stole glances at him when she could.
He was handsome—tall and trim, with a tidy appearance. His brown suit was cut well, and of good quality, yet practical, fabric. His medium brown hair was trimmed very close at the sides and back, but longer on top and swept back with just a trace of hair oil. He wore no mustache or beard, which Mollie had often observed was fashionable among storekeepers. But she was glad—she was not fond of facial hair on such a young man.
It had not escaped her notice that his shoes were well-shined and his tie in a neat knot at his throat. He would have seemed fastidious, had she not observed a lock of hair slightly out of place, and that his tie was imperceptibly off-center. She liked that about him—she saw his attention to neatness, but noticed no sense of rigidity in him. She imagined that as a shop owner, he must need to keep up a good appearance in public.
Then what will he think of you, when he finds out you’re a fallen woman, with a child? the thought intruded, and the goblet of water jittered in her hand as she set it on the white tablecloth, nearly spilling.
She tried to keep the smile pasted on her face as Mr. Jamison told her about his watch shop, and how much he loved working with his customers. His business—which he’d inherited from his father when he passed away—was obviously very important to him.
“H-how did your father learn the watch business, Mr. Jamison?” Mollie could only hope her smile didn’t look as tight and put-on to him as it felt to her.
“His father taught him…and his grandfather before him was a watchmaker, as well. Father and I haven’t focused as much on watchmaking, since it seems most people want a known brand of watch these days. But we do a lot of repair work.”
“It must require great attention to detail,” Mrs. Porter added.
“It does. But I find it rather relaxing. It’s my favorite part of the job. Mother enjoys the selling aspects—especially the pocket watches. I enjoy it as well, but mostly when I’m helping a real timepiece aficionado—then I could spend all day with the customer, and love every minute of it.”
“How long have you been in Helena?” Mrs. Porter asked. “I know it was long before I arrived.”
“Ten years. My father had a watch shop in Cincinnati, Ohio before that. I helped him run the shop ever since we made the move here, when I was sixteen. I worked in the shop in Ohio, of course, but mostly as an apprentice. When we moved here, Father felt I was ready to become a partner, and that’s when he changed the name from Jamison’s Watch and Clock Repair to Jamison and Son. And of course, I’ve been running the business since he passed.”
“How long has it been since he passed?” Mollie asked.
He appreciated her sympathetic tone as she asked the question.
“It’s been…uh…three years.” He cleared his throat. “It’s been hard on Mother. She doted on him. She was devastated when he passed. His heart…it was quite unexpected. He hung on for a few days though, so at least she was able to say goodbye. But she hasn’t been the same since. That’s when I started asking her to help out mornings in the shop. She always helped out here and there throughout the years, but I knew she needed me after Father died, and she needed something to keep her bus
y.”
Mollie listened to Mr. Jamison’s words, but had difficulty concentrating on them. Though she was eager to learn more about the man who would be her husband, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from returning to the idea that a shopkeeper must need to keep up public appearances.
What have I done? she thought. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I chose this man. He’s wonderful—so very wonderful—but what a selfish wretch I’ve been! When she’d chosen from the selection of available Helena bachelors that Mrs. Gardner had presented her, she had been so consumed with worry for Nell, she didn’t think about the men’s occupations, or how her secret might affect them. She’d thought primarily of how each man’s life would suit her objective—having the time and freedom to search for Nell.
Mollie had passed up on the farmer, since he was too far away from town. She had been sure that a wealthy family like the Demings would live in town—therefore sneaking away from a farm to search for them would be difficult to do, undetected. Likewise, she passed over the widower with two children—how would she find the time to look for Nell when she had two little ones to look after? There had been another shopkeeper she could have chosen, but he wanted a wife to help out in the store.
Noah Jamison, however, had mentioned in his first letter that his widowed mother helped out in the store, and that she needed something to keep her busy. So he wanted a wife who would concentrate only on keeping the house, and raising children. In addition to that, unlike the other shopkeeper who lived above his shop, Noah lived in a home several blocks from his shop, which he shared with his mother. He planned to buy a similar home for he and Mollie after they wed. That meant that she’d have more freedom to come and go as she pleased, unnoticed, while Noah was working at the shop. It appeared to be the ideal situation!
Mail Order Devastation (Montana Mail Order Brides, Book 4) Page 6
