The Secret Admirer Romance Collection

by Barratt, Amanda; Beatty, Lorraine; Bull, Molly Noble

  “I’m only the harbinger of bad news, not the instigator of it. The proceeds from this property will support you in a boardinghouse.” She bristled. He saw it and smiled. “I found a charming one with a lakeside view.”

  “I need time to consider it.” Oh, how could she bear it, to lose Downy Lane, to live in a boardinghouse!

  “My dear Miss Davis, I don’t see that you have a choice.”

  Emilia was sure Papa was rolling in his grave this very instant, and as he had been buried with his Colt Paterson revolver, she imagined he was pointing it at Preston Langley this very instant. She shut her eyes in a censoring gesture for allowing such an unchristian thought.

  “I already have”—he hesitated—“several offers for the estate. I took the liberty of drawing up the papers—”

  “What?” Her head swung around, her eyes targeting his, and it was probably a good thing the Colt Paterson had been buried with her father.

  Mr. Langley threw his hands up. “I don’t want to see you deposed from your home but feel duty-bound to ensure your future, Emilia.”

  It was not only the fact that he used her Christian name but how he used it that incensed her. “Mr. Langley—”

  “Preston, please.”

  “Mr. Langley,” she continued, “I will consider your advice. Good day.” She marched toward the screen door until he said:

  “Perhaps you would join me at a lecture tonight? It’s being given at the Methodist Church by a Mr. Isaac Goodnow from Kansas.”

  “Kansas?” She turned. “Did you say Kansas?” The words from Asa’s last letter jumped before her eyes.

  Encouraged, Mr. Langley continued: “Yes, he founded the town of Manhattan to help create a Free State.” He had placed his words well, knowing how Emilia detested slavery. “He will be giving updates on the settlement, and because he is a former Rhode Island teacher, it promises to be a very stimulating oration.” Who but Preston Langley would propose a speech for a first date? Yet it worked, because of Asa.

  “Indeed,” Emilia said, “I would be greatly interested in attending this lecture.”

  Chapter 4

  Mr. Goodnow’s lecture was more powerful than most sermons Emilia had heard. He was the leader of a group who’d left in 1855 under the auspices of the New England Emigrant Aid Company to populate the antislavery vote in Kansas.

  Isaac Goodnow’s purpose for traveling back to the eastern states was to raise money for the improvement of their Blue Mont College, the second in the country that would admit women. So they weren’t just lobbying for equal rights for the blacks but also for women?

  The more Emilia heard, the more her heart burned. Her face also burned when she saw that same officer sitting in the congregation. She almost didn’t recognize him out of uniform, in a simple cotton shirt and brown wool pants and a nearly clean-shaven face. He now donned a close-trimmed chin-strap beard and a mustache. He listened to the lecture with that same sober, intense expression in his eyes.

  To every soul there comes a defining moment, an instant when one decision can change the rest of one’s life. For Emilia, such a moment was imminent, and she could feel its approach as Mr. Goodnow continued: “Kansas is a place where the elements can beat against you like the devil himself. But it is also a place where the stars shine out in their golden splendor. It has become a promised land for those of us who have left our homes here to establish a new life out on the frontier. We have not only built a town but a college that admits students regardless of race or gender. Any who would like to support our school, your donations will be consecrated to a magnificent cause. To any present who feel the call to join us, you will find that a promised land awaits you, too.

  “I would like to take this moment to announce that one of our citizens built our general store ten years ago.”

  Now Emilia’s ears began to burn, straining on every syllable as he continued. “However, family matters are calling him back to Rhode Island. He will be selling his mercantile to—” Before he could utter another word that fire shot down Emilia’s legs, and she bolted up onto her feet with her palm flashing high in the air.

  “I’ll buy it!” Her voice boomed louder than it ever had in her nineteen years.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Goodnow politely inquired, unruffled at the interruption.

  “I said, I’ll buy it,” Emilia replied as her hand sank down to her side. What was she doing? This was madness, but it wasn’t hers. It was Asa’s. This was what he wanted, and what did she have to lose? A future in a boardinghouse?

  She raised her hand back up, acutely aware of the officer’s stricken expression, as if this was a personal affront to his male ego. That put her hand up even higher. “Mr. Goodnow, I want to buy that mercantile. I’ve lost my father, my brother, my mother, and my fiancé to this war.” This fact was painfully emphasized by the black dress that still donned her small frame. “If anyone needs a promised land, it’s me. I helped my father run his textile business, so I am qualified to run that store. If your college admits women, why not your town? If Manhattan has a female shop owner, then it will stand as an example, a testament, of a truly Free State. And it would serve as a boon to your school. I pledge to donate five percent of the store’s profits to Blue Mont College, making me both a donor and a settler.”

  “What are you doing?” Preston gasped under his breath, grabbing Emilia’s elbow. He stood up, and she knew it was to make a public excuse for her wild behavior, but before he was fully erect she saw Mr. Goodnow look down from the pulpit at the officer, as if to get his opinion. They knew each other? Emilia jerked her arm away from Preston’s grip and looked directly at the officer, saw him discreetly put up his hands and shake his head no.

  How dare he? But Mr. Goodnow shocked the forming protest right out of her mouth when he looked over at her and said, “I see no reason why you can’t purchase the mercantile, Miss—?”

  “Davis, sir, Emilia Davis.”

  “If you have the means and the gumption, if you also pledge to be a Free-Stater, we welcome you to Manhattan!”

  Emilia gulped then said, “I do, to both,” and with her hand up in the air, it felt as if she had just been sworn in—but to what? She was both surprised and relieved at the power in her otherwise quivering voice. She promptly sat back down, stunned by her actions, ignoring Mr. Langley’s censoring whispers. The closing song was “Rock of Ages.” Every time those words were sung, she could have sworn the congregation sang, “shock of ages.” What had she done?

  At the close of the meeting, Emilia’s tension doubled when that officer approached. Unlike most men, the closer he got, the more handsome he became. Now she was being foolish, and she shook her head as if to reset her wits.

  “Miss Davis,” he said in a deep voice. She was glad he spoke softly; with a voice like that he could easily sound formidable. “My name is Cyrus Holden. We met briefly at the post office this morning.”

  Her face flushed. “A pleasure to meet you properly this time. I hope I caused you no inconvenience.”

  “I was glad to help and am encouraged to see you looking so well. I hope I’m not being intrusive if I offer some advice?”

  “That what? Women have no right owning property? That we are incapable of taking the reins of our own lives? May I lay your need to advise to rest, Mr. Holden. My acquaintance, Mr. Langley,” she gestured to him by way of introduction, “has been informing me on the horrors of such for the past ten minutes.”

  “Begging your pardon,” Mr. Cyrus Holden tipped his head as if in an unconscious gesture to show deference, “but a single woman of legal age can own property. However, the law states that once a woman marries she must relinquish all wages and property to her husband.”

  “Well, then, I will be sure not to marry the first prairie dog that comes along.” What was meant as sarcasm was taken with humor as his slight grin proved that he was enjoying her wit.

  “I’ve heard it said that a dog is a man’s best friend,” he retorted, “but I haven�
�t heard that said of a woman. Yet. Perhaps you enjoy breaking all conventions?”

  His ease unsettled her. “Am I to understand that you are encouraging me to purchase the store?”

  “The law is on your side in that respect, but not in another.”

  “And what, pray tell, is that?”

  “Even in Kansas, the law allows a woman to purchase property but not own a trade license. In effect, you can own the store, but you cannot do business out of it.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “I didn’t write the laws. If I did, many of them would read differently, including this one.”

  “Why would the law allow me to own a store but not sell from it? How preposterous!”

  “Yes, it is!” Mr. Langley broke in. “All of this is preposterous, Miss Davis! Tell me you are seeing reason at last?” But Emilia ignored him, keeping her eyes leveled on Mr. Holden.

  “To ensure your new endeavor,” Mr. Holden continued, “may I suggest you find a man you trust to take out that business license for you?”

  “Ah,” she said, “and you propose to be that man? I own the store and you bank the profits?”

  “No, Miss Davis, I was merely,” he shot a look at Langley, “suggesting you find a man you can trust.” With that he mimed tipping a hat and walked out of the church.

  Oddly, Mr. Langley was silent on the matter of the store as he drove her home. Not a censoring word passed his lips, only a farewell kiss, which he presumptuously placed on the back of her hand.

  Chapter 5

  The irony of life redoubled: on the day that the world turned black, Emilia wore color.

  One week after the church meeting, Preston Langley had sold Downy Lane and the textile mill and on Monday had the documents for the purchase of the Kansas store ready for signing. The first thing Emilia did upon rising on this, her final Canandaigua morning, was to fold her mourning dress in tissue paper and lay it to rest in the trunk. Next, over corset and petticoat, Emilia slipped on a flowery chemise dress. It felt like a baptism from depression and loss. Even as the fabric flowed over her shoulders, hips, and legs, like cool spring water, it also felt like a smug insult to the memory of President Lincoln.

  Only days after Lee had surrendered, the president had been assassinated. Now the entire Union had come under a mourning pall. Fireworks were doused while victory speeches were burned. Buildings were covered in black crepe, and grown men openly wept in the streets. Once again church bells rang out, but now they tolled with the ominous tones of a dirge.

  And this was the day Emilia cast aside black for a cheery floral dress! But she couldn’t bear another hour, another second, of that mourning dress; not now that she had the hope of a new life. It was as if she had regained her youth, and upon arriving at the bank, her hand couldn’t sign the purchase documents to her new store fast enough. The instant her foot left the shadow of the bank, she was on a carriage to New York City.

  But once at the train station platform, life wove an unexpected thread around her ankle. It stopped her dead in her tracks when she nearly ran into a boy clinging to a pole. No more than seven years old, his eyes were pitiful, filled with the same desperation she felt pounding in her chest. His hair was almost blond—was it the natural color, or was it coated with dirt? His clothes were ragged; frayed twine held his shoes together.

  “Pardon me! I didn’t see you there,” she said. No response, just a doleful stare from his large eyes. “Are you lost?” Emilia knelt beside him and brushed a finger down his cheek. “Shall we find your parents?” When she reached out to take his hand, he jumped up and grabbed her in a neck lock. The unexpected force of his body threw her backward. It was then she felt his small body trembling: he was terrified.

  She stood, holding him, and he clung to her with a fervor she had never known. Scanning for potential parents, when she turned full around, she saw a train being loaded with children of every age. The only adults were the few who stood at the loading steps, ticking off names on a piece of paper as each child boarded.

  “What is this train?” she asked one of the women in charge.

  “Hello,” the woman smiled, and it was a welcome relief for Emilia hadn’t seen one of those in days. “My name is Margaret DeHaven. Is this one of our boys?”

  Now the boy wrapped his legs around her, as if holding on for dear life. Never had she seen, much less felt, a child in such a state, and she found her own arms wind as tightly around his waist, as if she, too, were clinging to him for dear life.

  “Why are only children boarding?” Emilia asked.

  “My dear,” the middle-aged woman replied, her salt-and-pepper hair thin but comely, and the early lines on her face indicating a woman worn with work. “This is one of many orphan trains. We are the Children’s Aid Society, dedicated to finding homes for the tens of thousands of abandoned children in New York City. This train will travel to the Missouri border. Flyers will announce its arrival at stops along the way, and farmers and homesteaders can come to the stations to adopt a child. They need help, and the children need homes.” Peering around to the boy’s face, she said, “Oh, yes, this is one of ours.”

  “He’s frightened,” Emilia said.

  “Madam, I assure you, the children are given much care, and it is a far better place they go to than these filthy streets of hunger.”

  Another one of those defining moments came, and again Emilia seized it. “What if someone wants to adopt a child right now? Save you the expense and time? Save him the trauma?”

  “We are eager to place them in a Christian home wherever it can be found. The children must be loved and well cared for, and we follow up to ensure both giver and receiver are happy with their situation. Is your husband in agreement with this?”

  The last of the children were being boarded. Emilia knew she was out of time, that the boy would soon be pulled out of her arms, and how he clung to her! Never in her life had she felt needed, and certainly not with such ardor.

  “Miss DeHaven, I am not married, but I am the owner of the mercantile in Manhattan, Kansas. If anyone needs another pair of hands, it is me, and he will grow to be a great help and strength, I am sure. I promise I will care and provide for him, and take him to church every week.”

  Though Miss DeHaven’s eyes were sympathetic, she shook her head. “I’m afraid a single woman doesn’t constitute a family, Miss Davis.”

  Why did tears sting along her lashes? What had come over her? All she knew was she couldn’t bear to be parted from this boy. “This war has taken my family. I am alone in this world, but I have ample inheritance, and I’m joining the New England Emigrant Company, leaving upon the hour to Kansas to support their noble cause. There can’t be a finer place to raise a boy.”

  “And if I were to tell you that this boy is deaf?” Miss DeHaven arched a brow. “That he hasn’t spoken a word since we found him on the Lower East Side?”

  That only caused Emilia to hold him even tighter. “I wouldn’t say anything. I would ask a question.”

  “And what is that?”

  “What farmer or settler will adopt a deaf boy?”

  Miss DeHaven drew a breath, the same concern evident in the tightening expression crossing her face. “It isn’t my decision, Miss Davis. This is wholly unorthodox.”

  The boy must have understood the look on the agent’s face for he burrowed his face into Emilia’s neck. “I’ve learned that when God opens a door, sometimes we have to act swiftly before it closes again. What if I am this boy’s open door, Miss DeHaven?”

  The woman paused, and it was strategic, her eyes conveying an unspoken message. “It will have to come up before the committee, and as you can see, there is no time for that. He is slotted to board a train today.”

  Emilia thought the agent would pull the boy from her arms, but instead she withdrew to the orphan train, where she boarded with the last child. Emilia wondered if this was her chance to run or if she should wait and hope the agent returned with permission? But the train
doors closed, and she realized that Miss DeHaven was turning a “deaf ear.”

  Seizing the chance, Emilia darted through the station as fast as she could while carrying a boy, purchased another ticket, boarded her train, and dropped into the seat with the boy still clinging to her. For the second time in less than two weeks, she sat stunned in the aftermath of a rash decision. What had she done? But instead of being awash in regret as realization and sagacity set in, she was overwhelmed with relief as she held him even tighter.

  Chapter 6

  After two days of mindless rain, the train at last stopped in Chicago. Emilia purchased clothes and shoes for the nameless boy. Dipping a handkerchief in the clear water of a rain barrel, she washed his face to reveal adorable features and starred eyelashes. He looked at her then, really looked, as if studying his choice, and she wondered if perhaps he would have a fit of regret and run off. To the contrary, he raised a cleaned finger and traced her face, as if learning the features of this newfound friend. She smiled, and he smiled back. The fear seemed to wash from his eyes like sheets of rain down a train window, and in its place were clear, fresh eyes filled with wonder.

  “My name is Emilia,” she said, pointing to herself. He didn’t respond, just watched the movement of her lips. “What is your name?” He made no effort to speak or make a sound. “Well,” she concluded, “how about Josiah? He was a boy king of Israel who did great things. What do you think? Josiah? Jo-si-ah,” she pronounced as she pointed at his chest, repeating it several times. He smiled, whether in agreement or amusement she couldn’t tell.

  At the Missouri-Kansas border, they took a Wells Fargo stagecoach to Fort Riley then a wagon to Manhattan. The more the coach jostled and bumped over the unfamiliar terrain, the more Emilia felt afraid, and the more Josiah seemed to come alive with excitement. She may have been a stranger in a strange land, but he appeared to be born to this environment.

  Manhattan proper was nothing more than a wide dirt street that dipped into the Old Blue River at one end and disappeared into a copse of trees at the other. The short stretch in between was all that constituted the town, comprised of clapboard or white rock buildings.