by Kit Morgan
But it didn’t matter now, Miss Mitchell was here, and by this time tomorrow they’d be married. In fact, he didn’t wonder if Brother Wingate wasn’t at Mrs. Pleet’s boarding house already. It would be just like Mark – he still felt funny calling his old mentor by his Christian name – to show up a few hours early. But no, he didn’t expect the good pastor and his wife to arrive until the six o’clock train.
He stole quick glances at the woman next to him and hoped she wasn’t as nervous as she looked. She fidgeted now and then, and he could tell something was making her uncomfortable. Then again, if he was a mail-order bride he’d probably be fidgety too. She had to have guts to do it, her and her sister.
He would commend her on her courage later. Mrs. Pleet’s boarding house was fast approaching.
He parked the wagon in front, set the brake, then climbed down and helped his bride. She leaned toward him, hesitant at first as he put his hands on her waist, then shocked as he swung her out of the wagon and set her on her feet. “Oh my!”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, not at all. I just wasn’t expecting such a … flight.”
Theron laughed, unable to help himself. “Hasn’t anyone ever helped you out of a wagon before?”
“Yes, of course … when I was a little girl. I’m embarrassed to say it, but I haven’t ridden in a wagon in a very long time.”
“Around here you get use to it. There are no horse-drawn trolleys or railcars like in some big cities. If you don’t have a horse and wagon, you use your feet.”
“Back in Lawrence, that’s all I used. Lottie and I never went anywhere that required a wagon, except of course when she got married. But we took a train for that.”
“Where did she get married?”
“In Dover, Delaware – that’s where we’re from originally. Her new husband was very generous to allow it.”
“She didn’t go west to marry him?”
“No, he came east on business. He married her there and took her home with him.”
“Well now, that’s handy,” he said, then realized his hands were still on her waist and let go. “I’d … best get your satchel.” He went to the back of the wagon, retrieved it and returned to her. “Let’s go inside and see what Mrs. Pleet has made for lunch.”
Leora’s stomach growled. “Oh dear me, I’m terribly sorry. That was embarrassing.”
“Think nothing of it. Mine growls all the time.”
She gave him a weak smile and he wanted to kick himself. “Does it?” she asked.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he quickly said. “It’s not like I don’t have food in the parsonage.”
She smiled again, broader now. “Well, that’s a relief.”
He escorted her inside and closed the door behind them. “Mrs. Pleet?” he called.
A short, plump, gray-haired woman waddled out of the parlor. “Pastor Drake, are you here already?”
“Yes, we made good time. Mrs. Pleet, may I introduce you to my mail-order bride, Miss Leora Mitchell.”
Mrs. Pleet offered her hand and gave Miss Mitchell’s a healthy shake. “So nice to meet you – and how lovely you are, my dear.” She turned to Theron. “Won’t Mrs. Stevens be jealous?” She turned back to Leora. “She was hoping to marry off her daughter Prudence to the pastor here, but it would’ve been a poor match if you ask me.”
“Mrs. Pleet likes to keep everyone informed,” Theron said dryly, then smiled. He knew she meant no harm, but didn’t want to cause his new bride any worry. He’d heard too many tales of prospective grooms running off with some other woman, leaving many a mail-order bride high and dry at the train station – or worse, the altar.
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Pastor Drake,” Mrs. Pleet said as she placed her hands on her ample hips. “Now are you hungry? I’ve just set the table for lunch.”
“Famished,” he said. “And no harm done.”
“The only harm to be done is your future bride not getting anything in her stomach,” she said, looking Miss Mitchell over. “My, but you do look pale, dear! When was the last time you took any nourishment?”
Theron watched as Miss Mitchell glanced between them. “I seem to have forgotten to eat breakfast,” she said. “I could do with a bite.”
“You come right into this dining room and sit yourself down, then – I’ll take care of everything.” Mrs. Pleet waddled toward the kitchen.
“She asked to attend our wedding,” Theron informed her as Mrs. Pleet disappeared into the other room. “I hope you don’t mind. She’s a dear friend.”
“Not at all – she’s very sweet.” Miss Mitchell swallowed hard and looked at the table.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Fine,” she said without looking at him.
Theron studied her and sent up a silent prayer that it was true. Good grief, what if she was having second thoughts? What if she didn’t want to get married? What if she planned on leaving him high and dry and hadn’t come across the chance to do it? He’d best marry her quick, before she up and changed her mind.
Mrs. Pleet returned with a tureen and set it on the table. “I made a nice batch of chicken soup. Nothing like hot soup with a thick slice of fresh bread.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pleet,” Theron said. “Smells great.”
“Of course it’s great,” she said. “It’s my mother’s recipe. She was famous for it.”
He watched Miss Mitchell lean toward the tureen and take a sniff. “Mmm, it does smell good.”
Mrs. Pleet smiled and quickly served them, then sat. “Would you do the honors, Pastor Drake?”
Theron bowed his head, said a quick blessing, then offered Miss Mitchell the plate of bread. “You’d better take two pieces. You look like you need it.”
She blushed. “Thank you.”
He offered it to Mrs. Pleet next, then took two slices for himself. He watched his mail-order bride attack her meal, catch herself and slow to a more ladylike pace. The poor woman must be half-starved, he thought to himself. The way she was eating told him she’d missed more than just her breakfast. Had he not sent her enough money to cover traveling expenses? He made a mental note to ask her when they had a private moment.
The rest of their meal was eaten in relative silence. He didn’t want to distract Miss Mitchell from her food, and as soon as she finished one bowl, he dished her up another. There was only one subject he wished to bring up and he did so after she devoured her second helping. “May I call you Leora?”
She jumped at the question. “My goodness, I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Perfectly all right. May I?” he repeated.
“Yes, of course. And I’ll call you Theron.”
“We’ll be married by this time tomorrow, so I thought it only right that we start calling each other by our first names.”
“Yes, I think so too,” she said with a smile.
He smiled back. This was going well …
“Reverend Drake!”
Theron’s expression went flat. Then again, maybe not.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone you picked up your bride up from the train station?” a woman huffed as she entered the dining room. “We would have been happy to come with you. Now look what you’ve done!”
Theron sucked in a quick breath to brace himself, then turned in his chair. Mrs. J.B. Rutherford stood a few feet away, two of her cronies just behind her. He swore the woman never went anywhere without a couple of them, though they seemed to be interchangeable. He wasn’t sure who was with her today. Maybe she was the one that had caused the ruckus over his single status.
Well, at least he didn’t go through what his mentor Brother Wingate had. The California Annual Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church had ordered him a mail-order bride and didn’t tell him until the day before she arrived! There was more to the story than that, of course, and it had come out all right in the end, but he still shuddered at the thought as he fixed his gaze on Mrs. Rutherford and her ent
ourage.
“Well, Pastor Drake, aren’t you going to introduce us?” Mrs. Rutherford asked as she clasped her hands at her waist.
“Certainly,” he said, his voice pleasant. He hoped it stayed that way. “Mrs. Rutherford, may I introduce my mail-order bride, Miss Leora Mitchell.”
“Mail-order bride!” one of the women behind her cried out in shock. “Whatever possessed him to get one of those?”
Leora stiffened in her chair as he met her gaze. Best to cut this short. “I thought it a reasonable solution. And now here she is.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Rutherford, “when a ready solution has been staring you in the face since you’ve been here?”
“If you're referring to Prudence Stevens, then I can assure you, she was no solution.”
“Why, I never!” remarked the other woman that, at this point, seemed to be hiding behind Mrs. Rutherford.
“Sorry, Mrs. Stevens, but Prudence and I would never suit,” he said firmly. “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing to the poor girl.”
Leora sat up at that, a flicker of worry in her eyes.
“Do what?” Mrs. Stevens asked before Miss Mitchell could and shoved past Mrs. Rutherford. “My Prudence thinks you’re a fine gentleman.
“With all due respect, Mrs. Stevens, she’s far too young.”
Leora relaxed – good. He didn’t want anything giving her second thoughts about marrying him.
“She’s seventeen!” Mrs. Stevens argued.
“Precisely. And I’m afraid the rigors of being a pastor’s wife would be too much for her. I’ll not subject the girl to a life she’d soon grow to hate.”
“That’s very commendable of you, Pastor,” Mrs. Pleet commented.
“No one asked for your opinion,” Mrs. Rutherford snapped.
“But I’ll give it just the same,” Mrs. Pleet said. “Let the poor man choose who he wants for a bride. Being as how you and your friends insisted he have one, it’s the least you can do.”
Theron watched Mrs. Rutherford’s face contort before settling on a pinched expression. “Very well, I suppose he deserves that. At least he listens to us, unlike the last preacher we had in this town.”
Theron’s eyebrows rose at that. “What happened to him? I thought he simply took another position.”
“None of your concern,” Mrs. Rutherford huffed. She walked over to the table, turned and stared at Leora. “Stand up, girl.”
Leora stared at her in shock, and not a little indignation. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you hard of hearing? I said, stand up.”
Theron rolled his eyes. “Perhaps if you said ‘please’?”
Mrs. Rutherford turned to him, lips pressed into a firm line. But before she could say anything, Leora stood. She turned back to her. “Now, let’s have a look at you.” She grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the table. The other two women joined her and the three walked a circle around Leora as if inspecting a horse.
Theron stood. “Enough of this nonsense. Mrs. Rutherford, is this really necessary? Who I choose as a bride is my business.”
“And who we wind up with as a pastor’s wife is ours. She’ll be involved in the workings of this town and I want to make sure she’s up to the task. Especially since you think poor Prudence isn’t.”
“And what if she’s not?” he asked, his voice laced with challenge. “Are you going to insist I sent her back after we’re married?”
“Of course not!” Mrs. Rutherford snapped. “If I had my way, we’d test her before you got married!
“Oh, for the love of…” Lord, help me keep my tongue, he silently prayed. “Miss Mitchell will be fine. Now if you’ll excuse us, she's had a long journey and is very tired. And hungry.”
“But we wish to speak to you on another matter,” she declared, as if another’s basic needs were expected to bow to her agenda.
“What other matter?”
“We’ll tell you after that woman has gone upstairs.”
“That woman, as you call her, is my betrothed and she has a name. Leora Mitchell. Kindly use it.” It was all he could do to be civil at this point.
Leora watched in fascination as Mrs. Pleet got up from the table and hurried to where she stood. “Come along now, dear, let’s get you upstairs so you can rest up. You do look tired. And I’ll bring you up dessert – I have a lovely cherry pie …” She grabbed Leora’s hand and ushered her from the room as fast as her chubby legs could go.
Theron’s hands balled into fists and he had to force himself to sit. “Now, Mrs. Rutherford, what’s this so-called matter that needs to be discussed?”
* * *
“Good grief!” Leora said as Mrs. Pleet unlocked the door to her room. “What was all that about?”
“That was about one Mrs. J. B. Rutherford, that’s what. The woman thinks she owns this town and tries to run everyone in it. Most folks are too afraid to say anything because Mr. J. B. Rutherford owns the bank.”
“What about the two women with her?”
“Mrs. Farber and Mrs. Stevens? They only follow Mrs. Rutherford because their husbands owe the bank money. It’s their way of staying in the bank’s good graces. I would think paying their loans would do as well.”
“I hate to admit this,” Leora said, “but she was rather frightening.”
“ ‘Rather’? Go ahead and say it, dear – the woman scares the wadding out of most folks! I’ve learned to deal with her over the years, but she’s a pistol to handle, especially if you’re new in town.”
“A pistol, eh? Has anyone pulled her trigger?”
Mrs. Pleet laughed at her joke. “No, but I’m sure a few wanted to pull the triggers of their own guns.” She started to fluff a pillow. “Pointed at her, of course.”
Leora did her best not to laugh. But a snort escaped any way. “Mrs. Pleet, what was all that talk about the Reverend Drake having to marry?”
Mrs. Pleet ceased her fluffing and turned to her. “Oh, that. Well, you see, Mrs. Rutherford runs the church board and several important committees. She prides herself on being oh so proper,” she said with a flick of her wrist. “Anyway, some of the women on these committees and the church board decided our pastor wasn’t respectable enough, him being a single man and all, so they started to petition that he get a wife.”
“What? Are you serious?” Leora asked as she stood on the other side of the bed. “So am I to understand that I’m here because of a … a committee?”
“Well, that’s what started it, but I think Pastor Drake’s been thinking about getting himself a wife for quite a while. Maybe it just helped give him a little push.”
Leora sat on the bed. “A committee …”
“Now don’t go worrying yourself over it, it’s nothing. You’ll be good for Pastor Drake and you’re certainly not hard to look at. Tell me, dear, how do you do with public speaking?”
“Public speaking?! Why do you want to know that?”
“Because as soon as you’re married, Mrs. Rutherford and her friends downstairs are going to have you up in front of every committee in town.”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” Leora said as she rubbed one temple. “I never knew being a pastor’s wife was so … social.”
“Maybe not in other towns, but in this one … well, this town has a few quirks and we’d best leave it at that.”
“Mrs. Rutherford being one of them?”
Mrs. Pleet puckered her brow. “No, her type can be found in any town. But your future husband, on the other hand, is another matter.”
Three
Leora stood before a mirror and stared at her reflection. The pale-colored dress she wore had once been a beautiful pink, though now it was worn to a slightly rosy gray. One of her neighbors in Lawrence had given it to her several years before, and she used it for her Sunday frock. Today it would be her wedding dress.
Theron hadn’t asked if she had a wedding dress, possibly because she hadn’t seen him since lunch. After Mrs. Pleet left, she’d
laid down for a while and before she knew it, was fast asleep. The kindly proprietress had brought her supper tray, along with the promised slice of cherry pie, then left her to her rest.
In the morning she brought Leora coffee and toast, explaining that a bride shouldn’t eat too much before her wedding, then offered to help her dress. But Leora didn’t need any help. This wasn’t some fancy gown she was wearing, far from it. She wondered what Theron would think. Would he like it? Probably not – she didn’t.
And neither did Mrs. Pleet, viewing it from the doorway. “Is that what you’re wearing for your wedding?”
“Come in, and yes, I’m afraid so. It’s all I have.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, dear. Maybe Pastor Drake will make up for it and buy you a pretty new dress as a wedding present.”
“If he can afford it. I’d be happy if he bought me the fabric to make one. Of course it wouldn’t look as nice as some of the ready-made dresses, or one from a dressmaker shop. I’m not the most handy with a needle and thread.”
“There’s a sewing machine in the parsonage,” Mrs. Pleet informed her. “I’m sure you could learn to use it. The pastor we had before Pastor Drake, well, he didn’t have a wife either. And the one before that, she passed away, poor thing. It belonged to her, and her husband left it when he moved on.”
“Are you sure Mrs. Rutherford didn’t run him off?” Leora asked. She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but it was hard to do.
Mrs. Pleet ignored her remark and held up a comb and brush. “I thought I might help you with your hair. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No – when it comes to my hair, I can use all the help I can get.” She glanced at her dress again. “I could probably use some help learning how to sew too.”
“Don’t you worry none, dear. I’ll help you with cooking too if you’d like. Folks come from all over and stay at my place just for my cooking, they say. After my poor Matthias passed on … good heavens, it’ll be six years come Tuesday. Anyway, I started cooking up a storm and haven’t stopped since. The old codger didn’t leave me much, so I rented out a few rooms, and with that and the cooking, I get by. Cooking, sewing, cleaning – all good skills to have. I’ll teach you everything I know.”
