Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection

by Davis, Susan Page; Dietze, Susanne; Franklin, Darlene

  “That’s a good one.” Drayton laughed.

  Not a bad idea, now that they mentioned it. The nondenominational church he attended with Caroline was shepherded by a frail, elderly minister. And the reverend had recently confided that he wished to return back East. “No. I am employed here at the inn.”

  “Here?” Drayton pressed a hand to his chest.

  The younger man, in the corner, glanced their way as Caroline left his table, her shoulders stiff. What had his uncle’s valet told her? Hopefully he maintained the same level of discretion as he did in England. But Barden had changed since leaving. What he used to think of as proper or refined seemed superfluous and a way of avoiding dealing with feelings. On the other hand, the gentleman cowboy he’d read of in his dime novels seemed scarcer than a farthing in these parts.

  “We received some news from your father just before we left.” Drayton steepled his fingers together. “Seems you are to be an uncle soon.”

  “Excellent.” Barden could imagine the delight his brother would have. Granted, the future Lord Cheatham’s happiness would be tenfold if his wife produced an heir.

  “But Peter”—Lord Chesterfield’s pronunciation, like Barden’s own, drew out his brother’s name and omitted the r sound, unlike the Americans did—“has taken ill with a cough.”

  Uncle Drayton waved a hand dismissively, but the tension in his features belied his casual gesture. “Don’t worry yourself. You’re going home. You’ll see him soon.”

  “And Father?” The physician had said it would be only a matter of time before his heart condition worsened.

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “See what you make of the missive he sent.” Chesterfield was as pragmatic as ever.

  “Must have had his valet write it. Cheatham’s handwriting always was atrocious.”

  Barden’s voice stuck in his throat. “Was he too ill to write it himself?” Too weak?

  “Apparently he was too distressed about his missing son to write the letter.” Drayton’s tone held a bite of accusation.

  “Maybe I am the Prodigal Son after all.” Shame brought heat to Barden’s face. He swiped a hand across his cheek.

  “Tut-tut. We’ve sent a transatlantic cable to London to be delivered to him.” Chesterfield tapped his thick fingers atop the table. The last time Barden had seen the man, he’d been dressed for dinner in his finest attire, the table covered with layers of starched linen tablecloths, all the silver on display, the crystal gleaming, and the early eighteenth-century French china shining at his country estate.

  “If it gets through.” Which Barden doubted.

  Chesterfield lifted his double chin. “There have been vast improvements now, and by all reports, this attempt at the telegraph cable is expected to succeed.”

  “Regardless, we’ve also dispatched a letter to him. And we indicated we’d get you home posthaste.” Had Drayton’s long, thin nose always seemed raised so high?

  Barden splayed his hands. “I’m not ready to leave.” He loved his father, but he’d been preparing him for years to be an independent thinker and to always weigh matters. “Did he request my presence at home?”

  “No,” Drayton grudgingly admitted. “He seemed more bent on getting some word from you.”

  Uncle Drayton opened a small leather bag that hung from his neck by rawhide. How incongruous to see this man, the son of a peer, dressed not in silks and ready for the ton, but with skin dark as rawhide, attired in a cotton shirt and dungarees—granted, they were perfectly tailored to his build and he still sported a white cravat at his neck instead of a handkerchief. “Here you go.” He passed Barden the envelope.

  Barden recognized the handwriting immediately, and he exhaled in relief. “This is Mother’s script.”

  “Not in the habit of corresponding with her, I dare say.” His father’s friend raised his bushy eyebrows high.

  Barden jabbed at the bottom of the page. Unlike the rest of her handwriting, Mother’s signature was, as usual, indecipherable, and next to it she’d carefully written Father’s name. “She probably asked Father to write you and when he refused, she took it upon herself to do so. Which means he wasn’t expecting to hear anything from me until I arrived back in England to assume the vicarage.”

  “Mother’s intuition, my boy.” Chesterfield had a half-dozen sons, four of whom had traveled with him to America.

  “Indeed.” Drayton had left his wife across the ocean, as well as his children.

  Chesterfield’s eyes gleamed. “So. Will you rush home to England?”

  Trying not to eavesdrop, Caroline sought to focus on Jonathan, presumably their servant. But she couldn’t help watching the others from the corner. Bits and pieces of her British novels flew at her. An aristocrat often went by the name of his estate but would have a different surname. So perhaps that was Barden’s father’s case. Which meant that Barden was the son of a British nobleman.

  “You all right, miss?” The young man cocked his head at her. “You look like you’ve witnessed something skilamalink.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Sorry, miss. You look like you can’t believe your eyes. I think that’s the expression.” Jonathan was a handsome man, and his grin might have sent flutters through someone else, but in her current state, she simply wanted to collapse out of view and cover her face with her apron.

  But she couldn’t waste this chance to find out more about Barden and these strangers. “I’m fine. I—I forgot to bring the gravy.”

  He laughed as he slathered butter on his biscuit and reached for the strawberry preserves. “Don’t bother yourself, miss. That’d be like butter upon bacon.”

  “So sorry, I don’t have bacon today, simply ham.”

  Again he chuckled. “I meant no need for gravy for me; this is fine.”

  Barden tilted his head toward them and paused in his conversation. Was that her imagination or did his narrowed eyes look jealous? She patted the curl that trailed over her shoulder. She leaned in closer. “What brings you gentlemen out to Turtle Springs?”

  “Bringing money to old Bardy to get him home again.”

  From Barden’s table, she caught the words of the one gentleman asking if Barden would be going there, which reaffirmed this man’s words. Dizziness washed over her, but Caroline forced herself to keep breathing.

  “You sure you’re all right, miss?”

  She positioned her back to Barden, who had not only concealed his background but that he planned only to swoop in here, steal her heart, and then run back to England. All with not so much as a fare-thee-well—just like he’d accused her siblings of doing.

  “What’s that, miss? Fare-thee-well?”

  Now she was even picking up Barden’s recent habit of talking under his breath. She poured a cup of tea for him, her hands trembling. “Oh sorry, I meant he’ll need a fare as well, won’t he? On a ship.”

  Jonathan gave her a sharp look. “I’m not openin’ my sauce-box about all that.”

  “Sauce box?”

  He pointed to his mouth. “Not my place to comment, even if Lord Cheatham is a right old …” He glanced toward the others. “Cheatham ain’t like them at all. They’re what you call real gents.”

  Jonathan shoved half a biscuit in his mouth, and Caroline retreated to the kitchen.

  She grabbed the Freemans’ missive from the counter and then strode out the back and around to the side of the inn, to Mama’s bench. She sank onto it, arranging her skirts around her. Unfolding the light tan paper, she read Mary’s flowing script.

  Caroline, how we miss you, girl! God bless you for all you done for us. And we pray Barden has brought the help your father thought you’d need after he died. I’m sorry we took so long findin someone. We got busy and plum forgot about your father’s request to place the ad for him. But when Barden came to us, we thought God had provided. So we sent him on. We’re sorry he can’t stay too long with you, but we pray he’s been of help this summer.

 
The letter fell into her lap. He can’t stay too long. This was all a misunderstanding. She pressed her fingers to her lips. That kiss was no misunderstanding. Those kisses had been full of passion that had bespoke marital commitment. Heat singed her cheeks at the recollection. He’d just been toying with her affections.

  And soon he’d be gone. Back to his father.

  Chapter 10

  Tears streamed down Caroline’s face, unimpeded, as she strode through the grassy field to the cemetery. If Pa was here, she’d tell him all about it. She would have talked with Mae, but the older woman seemed so taken with Barden. Huffing out a sigh, Caroline wondered how Alvin and Virginia were doing, on their way to Fort Mackinac. Barden had come into their lives and had shaken things up. But Lorraine had been trying to do that for so long that it was as if Barden had simply taken over her job. No—it wasn’t like that. She sniffed. And she knew Lorraine meant well, in her own meddling way.

  Caroline strode to her father’s grave and sank onto her knees. This is so hard. I was just getting used to the notion that I might be able to run the inn by myself.

  “You have never been alone.” That assurance came from God. Her earthly father may be gone, but her heavenly Father still remained.

  God, I don’t know what to do with all these feelings. She let out a sob that grew into a moan. She had not grieved her father, but with the upcoming loss of Barden, who’d not been a husband candidate after all, the dam burst loose inside her. Bending over, she raised her apron to her eyes and caught the tears that should have been shed months ago. You left me. You left us. You, Frank, and Ma are gone. Caroline glanced at her parents’ headstone, and then beyond, several rows, to Frank’s.

  Birdsong carried from nearby willow stands. Their cheerful tweets and warbles seemed so at odds with the painful stuttering of her heart. Why me, God? Why this pain?

  Because she’d finally opened herself up to real love. Not a safe love—one that her friend, her husband, had sought to leave almost as soon as they were wed. He’d confessed as much during his fevered state.

  She sniffed.

  Real love means wanting what was best for the other person.

  Barden was a priest. He’d said so. Which meant he had a flock to tend to in England. She swiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  Caroline fished her handkerchief out of her pocket. Anger burned within her. How dare Barden make her fall in love with him? Tears began anew. Now she was really becoming ridiculous. She hiccupped a laugh at herself as she walked back to the inn.

  How she wished to go back to her room and have a good long rest. Caroline rubbed the side of her aching head. Both Leonard and Deanna had sat in her bedroom with her into the late hours, sharing how they missed Pa, and now Virginia and Alvin. They’d launched into a reverie about Frank and about Ma, too. When they’d begun discussing whether they should reconsider their grandparents’ offer of a train ticket, Caroline had finally sent them off to bed. She’d told them, “If I let you two travel across country you’d both kill each other before you ever arrived.”

  The two, for some reason, could not resist teasing one another, poking one another, and in general bedeviling one another’s lives. Yet they were still grieving, like she was. And they rose each morning to help, instead of running off to the creek or to a friend’s home, or a quilting bee. Tears pricked her eyes. They were a blessing, and she was failing them. If only she could rest. Then she’d think more clearly.

  When she reached the inn, she walked around to the alley and entered through the back door.

  Mae looked up from where she was transferring strawberry jam from a large crock into smaller dishes. “The evening coach should arrive soon.”

  The quilts atop Caroline’s bed seemed to be calling for her to return.

  “What is on the lunch menu today?” Barden joined them and stood at the counter, drying glasses as Mr. Woodson washed and rinsed them.

  “Whatever Deanna and Henry cook,” she retorted. Barden would be leaving soon. The others needed to get used to cooking again.

  Mrs. Reed chuckled. “I’ve yet to see them prepare an entire meal.”

  Eying the pot of leftover beans and the biscuits nearby, Caroline shrugged. “They can throw some ham on the stove and serve that with the beans.”

  Auburn eyebrows inched upward as Barden blinked at her. “Surely you don’t intend to inflict that slop upon your guests.”

  Planting her hands on her navy-calico-covered hips, Caroline stared at him. She was too weary to argue. “You have any better ideas? Because I’m going upstairs for a lie down.”

  “You do that, dear.” Mae nodded at her. “You look worn to the bone.”

  When tears threatened to spill, Caroline swiveled on her heel and headed to the stairs.

  Leonard, stirring the mashed potatoes, chewed on his lower lip and frowned. “Sis never naps this long.”

  A niggling sensation began in Barden’s spirit. “I sent Deanna up several minutes ago to check on her.”

  “Dinner’s gonna get cold.” Henry lifted the cover and peeked into the pan of pork chops Barden had fried.

  Father’s friends and their servant had chosen to rest and had gone up to nap earlier.

  Deanna, face flushed, bounded into the kitchen. “She’s not waking up.”

  “What do you mean?” Barden narrowed his eyes at Deanna. “Couldn’t you rouse her?”

  “Well I wasn’t about to go slapping her awake or anything.”

  “Nor would I wish you to do so.”

  Mrs. Reed removed her checkered apron. “Let me go check. You all go ahead, sit down and eat your supper.”

  “I’m coming, too.” Barden followed her.

  Mrs. Reed grabbed one of the stairway lamps and held it aloft. When they reached the upper level, Barden heard footsteps thundering up. He turned to see pools of lamplight illuminating the stair treads as Henry and Leonard pounded up to the landing.

  Mrs. Reed scowled. “Well if she was asleep and just resting, she’ll certainly be awake now!”

  “Sorry,” the two mumbled.

  The older woman rolled her eyes, slowly swiveled around, and went to Caroline’s door. She held the lamp aloft. Even from this distance, Barden could see that her long hair was damp with fevered perspiration. Mrs. Reed pressed her hand to Caroline’s brow. “Caroline, do you hear me?”

  There was no response.

  The boys elbowed past Barden, whose breath seemed to have been sucked out of him.

  “Get the doctor.” Leonard barked the order at his younger brother, and Barden flinched.

  Henry went to the door. “We ain’t waiting.”

  Leonard wiped a tear from his eye as his younger brother departed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

  “It’s all right. You’ve been through a lot. Too much.” Mae gave the boy a quick hug. “I’ll get some cool water and make up a willow bark tea while you get Doc.”

  “I’ll stay.” Barden pulled the lone chair in the room closer to the bedside as Mae lit another lamp and set it on the side table.

  “I’ll wait with, Sis.” Leonard placed his hand possessively on the chairback.

  “No, it’s my pleasure.” Not quite a pleasure but not a duty either. The only thing Caroline and he had connecting them was a nascent love still burgeoning. But oh how that love was beginning to flame.

  Mrs. Reed paused in the doorway. “This is just how Frank died, poor dear. And there was nothing Caroline could do for him.”

  A sick feeling swelled in his gut as Barden bent over the bed and Leonard slunk into the chair.

  “Water?” Caroline’s raspy voice jarred Barden awake.

  How long ago had he nodded off since he’d displaced Leonard in the chair? He rose, his legs stiff from being bent in place so long. “Coming.”

  He adjusted the lamp’s wick higher, the light illuminating Caroline’s hair, strewn across her pillow like strands of molten gold.

  “Water.”

  Lifting the blue-and-w
hite pitcher, his hands shook. He poured a matching cup half full then set it and the carafe down on the bedside table. “Let me help you sit up first.”

  Gently he lifted Caroline’s head, which still burned with fever. He gathered the pillows, plumped them, and then placed them beneath her shoulders.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was low and strained.

  “You are most welcome.” He grabbed the water and pressed it into her hands. She wrapped both around the cup before raising it to her lips. Sweat glistened on her beautiful face.

  “What time is it?”

  He pulled out his pocket watch, which he still had set at Greenwich Time. Calculating the difference from that and what the locals in this town used, he arrived at a number. “About two in the morning.”

  Caroline handed him the cup and pushed her head back into the pillows. “When will you go?”

  “Go?”

  “Home.”

  He took her hand in his. Hot and limp, she barely squeezed his fingers in return. “I don’t know.”

  She shuddered out a sigh. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I thought …”

  “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize, but I should have.” He’d walked right in upon the auditions of the town women. She’d not participated in the event. “And I should have told you why I’d come to America.”

  “Cowboy?”

  “Yes.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You need to get well, so we can make a proper cowgirl of you.”

  “Indian maiden.”

  “Ah, those are some of my favorite stories, but you are entirely too fair for that.”

  “Cowboy preacher?”

  Not a bad idea.

  In the stupor she fought against, Caroline could barely manage to speak. “Love you.” Barden’s parishioners would love him regardless of whether he showed up in clerical garb or in cowboy clothes with a lasso.

  “I love you, too.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. It felt so good to have him with her.

  “They need you.” Barden had people waiting on his return.

  “I need you more.” His raspy voice seared something inside her.