Accidental Courtship

by Lisa Bingham

  “You and I both know that such an arrangement is unfeasible. At some point, the women will need to take the air.”

  “They can take all the air they want. All they have to do is open a window.”

  She shook her head. “That will never do. These women aren’t prisoners, Mr. Ramsey.”

  “They aren’t exactly invited guests.”

  “So they’re to be punished? From what I can see, the other passengers—the crew, the stranded farmers and businessmen, even the families—aren’t being held to the same constraints.”

  Hoping to avoid a full-fledged argument, Jonah chose his words with care. “Not punished. Consider it...protected.”

  “Protected? From what? Life?”

  “This is a mining community, Dr. Havisham. By definition, that means that it is inhabited by a bunch of men.”

  “Are your employees convicts? Of ill-repute?”

  “No.”

  “Then you hold them in so little esteem that you believe they will...what? Explode? If they get too close to an unattached woman?”

  “Not at all, Miss Havisham.”

  “Doctor.”

  “Look... Sumner—may I call you Sumner?”

  “No.” Her look was obstinate, but she finally relented. “Oh, very well.”

  “All right... Sumner. The men here are tasked with a difficult and dangerous job—”

  “The women have no designs on going into the mine, Mr. Ramsey.”

  “If I’m to call you Sumner, then you must call me Jonah,” he offered impatiently.

  It was clear that she was loath to embrace such informality, but he waited until she finally conceded.

  “Very well. Jonah.” She took another sip of her cocoa. “The women will confine their activities to the town proper.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “As I was saying, the men of Batchwell Bottoms have been chosen with great care. In order to even apply for a job here, they have to prove that they already have a good deal of mining experience. But that’s not the only measure of whether or not they’ll get a position. These miners have to prove that they are God-fearing men of good character—”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.

  “—and then, they have to agree to certain stipulations—”

  “I know, I know. No drinking, cussing, smoking, gambling and no womanizing.”

  Clearly, she’d read the advertisement for employment carefully, even if she’d omitted mentioning that she was a woman applying for a man’s job.

  “If you will remember, the advertisements state ‘no women.’ They do not use the term womanizing.”

  “I simply assumed—”

  “Then you assumed wrong. These men have given up a lot to be here—including tailoring their behavior to a certain code of conduct. But that’s not the most significant sacrifice they’ve made, Sumner. Most of these miners come from back east, the British Isles, Italy and Greece. In order to pay for their passages to the wilds of Utah, the vast majority of them have signed an agreement to work for five years to pay off the debt. Despite the nickname this place has earned, not all of them came to us as bachelors.”

  He pointed to the window where the sky was already beginning to turn to gray. “Out there are fathers, brothers, husbands and sweethearts who have agreed to spend years away from their loved ones in order to make a new future, not just for themselves, but for their families. They’re willing to do the job and live with untold privations so that, one day, they can send for them.”

  “I hardly think that our group would—”

  “They will be a temptation.”

  “One we can rebuff.”

  “But worse,” Jonah continued, “they’ll be a reminder, Sumner. And sometimes, simply seeing a reminder of what you’re missing can be the cruelest form of torture.”

  To her credit, she finally fell silent. For several minutes, she ruminated on his words.

  “Are you missing someone, Jonah?”

  The question was so unexpected—and far too personal for their short acquaintance—that for a moment, Jonah was taken aback.

  Rebecca.

  No.

  She wasn’t his to miss. She hadn’t been for a very long time.

  Jonah could have commented on Sumner’s lack of tact—not to mention her impudence. But he answered honestly.

  “No. I’m here for the long haul.”

  The words held grim finality when spoken aloud, but he couldn’t take them back. It was the truth. Rebecca, his former fiancée, had found a new man to share her life with. One who was free from unsightly scars. One whose body wouldn’t betray him one day, as Jonah’s was bound to do.

  Sumner sighed and said, “Be that as it may, Mr. Ramsey—”

  “Jonah.”

  She grimaced. “Jonah. The women will still need their belongings.”

  He couldn’t prevent a short bark of laughter. “And what’s so important that I should risk the lives of my men on unstable packs of snow less than a day after we’ve already suffered one avalanche?”

  She lowered her mug, and he couldn’t account for the way it pleased him when he found that it was empty.

  “You’ve spoken of the sacrifices of your miners. But what you haven’t yet acknowledged is that your employees aren’t the only ones sacrificing a great deal. Most of those women were on that train as a group of mail-order brides heading west, and they’ve paid just as dearly for their passages. They have no way to notify anyone about the delay they’ve encountered—so, who knows if they will have husbands waiting for them when they finally arrive at their destinations? Furthermore, the women brought all of their belongings with them—some of them valuable heirlooms and household goods needed to start their lives as married women. The longer their trunks lie moldering in the snow, the more the women will have lost precious ties to families and homes they’ve left behind. I think that even you would have to admit that being stranded here could hold untold ramifications.”

  She paused, but it was clear that she wasn’t finished.

  “Therefore, I think that it’s only reasonable for you and your men to provide these women with their belongings. As it is, most of them have little more than the clothes on their backs. Indeed, since you force me to be blunt, they have no extra...undergarments to tide them through until washing day. Very few of them have coats or scarves or mittens. And despite this valley’s fondness for its Miners’ Hall, there is a draft. Especially in the upper rooms. Added to that, these ladies will need combs, brushes and other personal items. The sooner, the better.”

  “Or...”

  “Or the women may find it necessary to protest by marching down Main Street.” She set her cup aside and rose to her feet. “And since many of them now have garments that are completely unwearable, your men may get more of a reminder of what they’re missing than you’d ever anticipated.”

  With that, she sailed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Leaving Jonah wondering what would Miss Havisham be left wearing if she decided to make good on her threat?

  * * *

  “Sumner!”

  Sumner moaned as the voice pierced her consciousness.

  “Miss!”

  She blinked, vainly trying to focus. But since she’d spent hours mulling over her conversation with Jonah Ramsey—reviewing every word the man had said—she’d wound herself tighter than a spring and sleep had become nearly impossible.

  Her eyes drifted shut.

  “Dr. Havisham, please!”

  A hand shook her shoulder and Sumner’s eyes opened again. This time, she came face-to-face with Willow Granger.

  “Willow?” she croaked. “How’s the leg?”

  “Fine, fine. I’ve got a bruise big as a dinner
plate, but most of the swelling has gone down.”

  Willow was one of the reasons why Sumner had felt it necessary to approach Jonah at such an unreasonable hour. After tending to the woman’s leg, Sumner had found the girl crying in one of the rear supply closets. While the other mail-order brides had slipped out of their torn, wet clothing and hung their frocks to dry, Willow had clutched at the shapeless dress she wore. After divining that Willow had spent most of her adolescence in a strict charity school, Sumner had realized that the young woman had been unable to bring herself to strip down to her “shimmies” even if it was only in the presence of other women. Sumner had helped her to fashion a robe of sorts out of a pair of blankets so that Willow could rinse the mud from her hems and allow her dress to dry. For that, Sumner had earned herself a loyal assistant.

  Willow regarded her with glittering blue eyes. In the early-morning glare, her skin was pale and spattered with freckles, and her curly red hair hung around her heart-shaped face like a wild mane.

  Sumner cleared her throat, then rasped, “What is it, Willow?”

  “There’s a man at the door. He says he’ll only talk to you.”

  Jonah?

  She scrambled up from the pallet on the floor. Automatically, her hands flew to her hair, and she squeaked when she realized that it was a mass of tangles.

  “You’d better hurry. He said he didn’t have much time.”

  Sumner glanced down at herself and fought the urge to squeal in protest. Besides being ill-fitting, her borrowed day dress was wrinkled, the print faded from years of wear. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about the way the hem nearly topped her boots.

  She supposed she should be thankful she wasn’t answering the door in her all-togethers.

  Nevertheless, she opened the door only a few inches and peered out, hoping it would prove unnecessary to step into the cold.

  She sagged in relief when she found Creakle grinning at her, his hat in his hands. But she couldn’t help looking past him to see if Jonah was there, as well.

  “Morning, missy!”

  “Mr. Creakle.”

  “This here’s Willoughby Smalls.”

  Creakle pointed to his companion, who had to be at least seven feet tall with a squared-off jaw and a body as big and broad as a mountain.

  “Mr. Smalls.”

  “Willoughby don’t talk none, on account of how he was hit in the throat by a falling beam. But if you ever need some heavy liftin’, he’s your man.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Smalls. I appreciate that kind offer.”

  She thought the man might have blushed as he continued to stare at her, his grin growing wider with each passing moment. But when he didn’t speak, she finally prompted, “Did you men need something?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes!” Creakle stepped back and made a flourishing sweep of his hand to something beyond her range of sight. “I’d ferget my head if’n it weren’t screwed on. Jonah asked me t’ make sure you got this.”

  She slipped through the door and shut it tightly behind her. But when she saw the neat stacks of trunks and valises piled on the boardwalk, she couldn’t help gasping in delight.

  “How on earth did Mr. Ramsey manage to do all this so quickly?”

  Creakle snickered. “He offered the men two bits fer every trunk they managed t’ deliver before noon.” He nudged Smalls in the side with his elbow. “Willoughby an’ me have already made ourselves more’n five bucks a piece.” He glanced down at a watch he pulled from his vest. “I ’spect you’ll have the rest of it delivered by lunchtime.” He nodded and jammed his hat over his head. “Now, I know how you womenfolk like to have things just so, so’s I’m leaving Willoughby here t’ tote them trunks and boxes wherever you want them t’ go. Keep him with you as long as you like. He’s not due down in the mine until this evening.”

  Creakle slid a glance in Smalls’s direction and the man nodded. Then, offering a hefty sigh, Creakle said, “Wish I could stay an’ help, but I’m needed at the office.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Good mornin’ t’ you, ma’am.” Then he began marching in the direction of the mine offices.

  It was only then that Sumner became aware of several men in black wool coats posted near the main door and at either end of the Miners’ Hall.

  “Mr. Creakle!”

  He turned, squinting in her direction. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Sumner couldn’t think of a discreet way of asking, so she decided to be direct. “Who are these other gentlemen?”

  The men in question turned, revealing that they had holsters strapped to their hips and carried rifles in addition to their revolvers.

  “They’re the company Pinkertons, ma’am.”

  Her gaze bounced over the Pinkertons, one by one. In addition to their identical wool coats, they wore dark navy tunics with shiny badges.

  “Pinkertons? But why are they here?”

  “This here’s a silver mine, Dr. Havisham. Y’ gotta have security in a place like this.”

  She shook her head. “No, Mr. Creakle. That’s not what I meant. Why are these men here?”

  She gestured with her finger to the Miners’ Hall.

  Creakle shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Ramsey ordered it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Creakle began backing away from her.

  “He said it was fer y’all’s protection.”

  Protection?

  Sumner stiffened, an old familiar resentment filling her like white-hot steam. Of all the low-down, sneaky, conniving tricks. A trio of armed Pinkertons had been stationed outside a building filled with women who were injured, traumatized and at the complete mercy of their unwilling hosts? And Mr. Ramsey wanted them all to believe that it was for their protection?

  Apparently, she and Mr. Ramsey needed to have another talk.

  Chapter Four

  “Lord, give me strength,” Sumner murmured to herself as she slapped her best bonnet on her head.

  “What are you going to do?” Willow asked, reluctantly holding up a hand mirror so that Sumner could check her reflection.

  Sumner had tried her best to keep the news of the Pinkertons a secret, but she hadn’t been very successful. Although many of the mail-order brides had been diverted with checking the contents of their trunks, changing into fresh frocks and setting up a washing station, a few of them had noticed the armed men posted outside their door. As Sumner shrugged into her coat, she spoke softly to the small knot of women who stood with her.

  Besides Willow Granger, there was Iona Skye, a widow in her sixties who had traveled with them since New York City. Unable to make ends meet on her own, she was destined for her sister’s farm in California. Beside her stood Lydia Tomlinson, an effervescent blonde from Boston, who, along with Iona, were the only women not contracted to become mail-order brides. Lydia was en route to San Francisco, where she would embark on a lecture tour to spread the word about women’s suffrage and temperance. The last few members of the group hovering around Sumner were a trio of brides-to-be, Ruth Hubbard, Stefania Nicos and Marie Rousseau.

  “What are you going to say to the man?” Stefania whispered.

  Lydia scowled. “She’s going to tell Mr. Ramsey that we aren’t convicts, we’re stranded travelers.”

  The conversation washed over Sumner as she checked her hair and gown as much as the small mirror would allow. Thankfully, among the trunks and valises that Mr. Smalls had carried into the hall, she’d managed to find her own things—and therefore, a change of clothing, her brush and a fresh stock of hairpins. Through it all, she’d tried her best to maintain a semblance of calm, but inwardly...

  Inwardly, she’d been seething.

  “Please don’t let me lose my temper,” she whispered under her breath.

  Lydia Tomlinson must have heard her because she cocked her head to the sid
e and offered, “Nonsense. You need to go into the office with guns blazing, Sumner. Don’t hide your emotions behind that unflappable English charm. Otherwise, they’ll be locking us in soon. And I, for one, am already stir-crazy.”

  The other women nodded in agreement.

  “We all know that the arrival of the Pinkertons—and the weak excuse of their being here for our protection—is nothing more than an opening volley in a declaration of war.”

  Sumner supposed the other women were right. After conversing with Jonah Ramsey, she’d deluded herself into thinking that the man could be pragmatic, perhaps even a bit empathetic toward the women’s plight. And for one brief second, when she’d seen their belongings on the boardwalk, she’d believed the man might be persuaded to look at the situation from the women’s point of view.

  She’d obviously been mistaken. Sadly mistaken. Apparently, Jonah Ramsey was cut from the same cloth as her father, her stepbrother, her professors and all of the other opinionated males she’d encountered over the past few years. Clearly, Sumner seemed doomed to butt heads with men who were determined to squash women into what they felt was “their place,” and the superintendent of the Batchwell Bottoms mine was no different.

  But this time, it wasn’t just Sumner who was being repressed. It was all of the women who were in her care. And it was time to set the record straight.

  “How do I look?” she breathed, realizing that she’d already fussed over her preparations long enough.

  Iona reached out to squeeze her hand. “You appear very calm, cool and collected. Every inch a lady.”

  If only that were true.

  “You’ll do fine, Sumner,” Willow offered quietly.

  Sumner nodded, then opened the door and slipped outside while the rest of the brides were distracted with instructing Mr. Smalls where to move their trunks.

  The frigid air against her hot cheeks was welcome as she turned toward the mine offices. But she’d only taken a few steps when she was halted by one of the Pinkertons. He even had the utter gall to brandish his weapon in warning.