The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson

by Laine Ferndale

  “Oh. Of course. I only thought that since you don’t have any ailments that need treating ...”

  “This would be a sort of holiday from the strains of being such a celebrated and wealthy author.” Her little smile surfaced again, then was gone once more. It suddenly seemed powerfully important that he make Jo Wilson laugh again. “I won’t waste any more of your time on curing my nervous conditions, and you needn’t bother with posting that refund cheque. I only have one condition. No, two conditions.”

  She looked wary but nodded for him to continue. “I’d like to at least keep up the appearance of being a client here. Too much explaining, otherwise.”

  “We could arrange that, certainly,” she replied. “And the second condition, Mr. Sterling?”

  “It’s really more in the nature of a request than a condition. I would appreciate it if we could be more at ease with each other. For a start, you could call me Owen.” He held out his hand again.

  Regardless of the outcome, the honesty felt good. Maybe he would never be a journalist. Maybe he would be stuck writing children’s books forever. But right now, with his hand outstretched towards Jo Wilson, none of that seemed to matter. He would stay, but for purely journalistic reasons. He owed it to himself to see if the rogue brick thrower could be some kind of story. Not front page material, but all journalists had to start somewhere.

  Chapter 11

  Jo stared at his proffered hand. He looked so earnest and relieved. The confession seemed to have done him more good than even her best massage. Then again, he had also just admitted to targeting her with a campaign of lies and deceit. She kept her own hand firmly on the doorknob.

  At her hesitation, he ran his hand through his hair and stepped a little closer. “I know we’ve made a bad start.” He grimaced. “Twice, actually.”

  “I almost shot you night before last,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, but you didn’t pull the trigger, did you?” he asked cheerfully. “You also haven’t told me to leave and never come back. In fact, you’ve been rather pleasant to me since then.”

  “Another instance of poor judgment, clearly.”

  Lord, he had such an easy smile. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re a smart woman. And I think you believe me when I tell you that while I may be a fool, I have only the best intentions.”

  Jo sighed. That was true. She’d been trying hard to be suspicious of Mr. Wister ... Mr. Sterling ... Owen—whoever he was. But her gut wouldn’t stop telling her that there was something decent about the man. It was not clear, however, whether her woman’s intuition was confusing goodness of character with firmness of muscles. “As I said before,” she said, “you are welcome to stay.”

  Owen clapped his hands together, as if they’d just decided to host a party. “Then it’s settled. Excellent. I’ll stay, and we’ll be on good terms. Which means I can address you as ...?” The man was impossible. It was like trying to be formal with a Labrador retriever.

  “Jo,” she said, and she smiled. “But only in private.”

  “Agreed. Shake on it, Jo?” He was treating her with the same easy openness he’d used with the crowd in her dining room yesterday morning. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d spat in his open palm before extending it to her. It was improbably charming.

  “As you like, Owen.” She clasped his hand for the second time that afternoon.

  “There,” he said quietly. “That’s better.”

  He was staring at her just the way he had in those dreams. Jo flinched and pulled her hand back.

  “Oh, are you all right?” He looked genuinely concerned.

  “No, it’s nothing. It’s not—” She could not suppress the dream. What was the matter with her? “It’s not—” she tried again.

  She backed out of the room, bumping into the doorframe in her haste, and headed down the hallway. Her skin prickled, and she felt a flush spread down straight towards her chest. If she could just collect her thoughts. Good Lord, what must he think of her?

  Jo suspected that she had stunned Mr. Wister—no, Owen— with her sudden exit, but he must have recovered himself more quickly than she was able to regain her own composure. He was only one or two steps behind her as she reached the door to her office.

  “Wait! Are you okay?” he asked. “I’m so sorry if I’ve offended you somehow.”

  “No, I’m quite well, thank you,” she tossed over her shoulder as she rushed through the doorway. She turned to close the door, but he’d already pushed halfway inside.

  “All the same, shaking my hand doesn’t normally make people physically ill. You’ll excuse me for being a bit concerned about that.”

  He did seem concerned. Of course he did. He likely thought she was a madwoman.

  The office was her sanctuary. The reassuringly solid presence of the oak desk and the Persian rug—worn now, but still one of the most colourful things in Fraser Springs—and the gooseneck brass lamp slowed her pulse. She breathed.

  “I’m simply a bit overwarm, that’s all. Please, don’t trouble yourself.”

  She seated herself at her desk, partly to signal her eagerness to return to her work and partly to have an excuse to look anywhere other than at him. Her husband had towed the desk up to Fraser Springs by barge, paying enormous sums of money for the privilege of sitting behind it and staring at the springs as he worked. She tried to stare at the springs herself, to signal the end of the conversation. It was no use. Owen crossed the room to stand directly across from her.

  “It’s no trouble at all. Would you like me to fetch Miss Pedersen?” It took her a moment to realize that he meant Ilsa. She didn’t think anyone had ever addressed Ilsa as “Miss Pedersen.”

  She sighed. “Mr. ... Owen, I don’t need coddling, either from you or my employees. And this is my private office, so I would appreciate it if you’d return to one of the common areas until dinner.” She picked up her best pen, tapped its nib against the side of the ink bottle, and nodded her head in the direction of the door.

  He glanced around, as if only just realizing where they were. From inside their frames, four paintings of long-dead Wilson generations stared back at them. They all had Albert’s kind eyes. And then Owen’s eyebrows rose slightly. She followed his gaze. Damn. He had noticed the brick currently serving as a paperweight for the “love letters” she’d left spread out on the desk last night.

  “Is that the brick that found its way through your front window?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t very well leave it on the floor.” She pulled the big ledger closer, hoping to surreptitiously shuffle the letters out of sight.

  The movement only served to draw his attention to the ragged stacks of clippings and creased letters. Before she could stop him, he reached across the desk and snatched one. She overcame the urge to slap his hand away as if he were a little boy stealing cake, and settled for directing her most suppressive scowl at him.

  His focus, however, was firmly fixed on the paper.

  “‘How is the faithful city become a harlot! It was full of judgment; righteousness lodged in it; but now murderers,’” he read aloud, and looked up. “I assume that you are the ‘now murderers’?”

  “That”—she rose and snatched back the letter—“is none of your business. I know we’ve agreed to be more ... collegial, but that does not mean you may read my correspondence.”

  “If this is your correspondence, I think you should get some new pen pals,” he replied as he plucked up another piece of paper, this time a clipping of cheap newsprint. “‘This woman has ignored the warnings of good and decent people and flaunted her spiteful degeneracy,’” he read. “‘Shall right-thinking citizens not drive out wickedness from their midst and cleanse the earth behind it?’”

  Jo looked back at the portraits, reading disapproval in their painted eyes for the first time. Wickedness. Spiteful degeneracy. Harlots. This is what the name Wilson had come to mean.

  “It’s all talk,” she said, a
s lightly as she could. “It’s a small town with nothing better to do. They’ll exhaust their vocabularies, get bored, and move on to the next crusade. This will all come to nothing.”

  “These aren’t ‘nothing’! These are attacks against your character. Death threats. Libel at the very least.” He tossed down the scrap of paper on the pile. “How many of these are there?”

  “Very few are death threats.” She knew she was evading his question, but who did this man think he was? The cavalry riding in to rescue her from her tormentors? Truthfully, though, Jo felt relief mixed in with the ruffled feathers. He wasn’t an employee who needed to be reassured by a facade of calm professionalism. He wasn’t even really a client any longer. Whatever else he might be, he was at least an impartial witness, and someone for whom she had no reason to play the stoic. She sighed and sank back into her chair, rubbing her hands along the smooth armrests. The old leather absorbed the oil from her salved palms.

  “Thirty-two. Thirty-three, counting the one from yesterday.”

  “The one that was delivered by way of a brick through your window.” His words were blunt, but his tone was gentle.

  Jo shook her head. It was hard to look at him but harder to look at the disapproving Wilsons on the walls. She sighed. “I don’t know how it’s gotten to this point. It started with the whispering after Albert passed. I thought it would blow over if I kept my head down and stayed committed to this place. But it didn’t, and then all our employees left, and the St. Alice went up and took almost all of our tourist trade.”

  “So you brought in the girls. Which was rather savvy, by the way.”

  She nodded. “I don’t regret it. It more than likely saved us. But it also gave the Society Ladies something to really sink their talons into. They want the old Fraser Springs whitewashed over and gone. Cultivating the wilderness! Filling the gambling dens with tea and hymns! And I gave them a perfect opening.”

  “Ladies wrote all of this?” He came around the desk to rifle through the papers again. She smiled ruefully at his baffled response to all the copperplate swoops and curlicues spelling out the foulest threats.

  “The men know better,” she explained. “They’ve been here, and they know there’s nothing scandalous going on. Obviously, a few of them tried to take liberties when I first brought the girls on, but now they know we have rules here.” She touched the curve of her eyebrow, trying to will away the headache forming there. She was tired. For the past two years, she’d been so incredibly, deeply tired.

  “I’m doing my best. No, I’m doing good work here, and they refuse to see it. All these miners and loggers—their bodies are destroyed by their work. They’re in pain. And I’m not a miracle worker, but we do untangle them, soothe their aches. We get them through another season at least.” She paused. Had she ever said any of this out loud before? And when had Owen moved around to her side of the desk? She should go. This was becoming entirely too intimate.

  She stood abruptly. The chair creaked behind her. Owen backed up a half step but no farther. “Those men are cowards. Someone should stand up for you.”

  His well-meaning condescension straightened her spine. “I’ve managed my own affairs for years now. I stand up perfectly well for myself.” She stared him down, daring him to pity her.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “You certainly do.” And he leaned across the space between them, placed his hand on her cheek, and kissed her.

  Chapter 12

  It was a ridiculous impulse. He had just expended every drop of his personal charm to convince her to let down her guard, only to immediately throw it away by acting like a mooning farm boy. But what had started as a reasonable admiration for her pluck and courage had been transformed the moment she’d risen, bringing those strange, bright eyes and flushed cheeks so close.

  She inhaled sharply as his lips brushed hers. Idiot, a small rational voice shouted over the clamor of the rest of him. She ran away from you for shaking her hand. She may not have shot you last night, but she certainly will now. Too late.

  She was fascinating. He liked her. He wanted her to like him. It was as simple and as complicated as that. Add to this the fact that she had spent the past two days touching him, thoroughly and systematically, and it was no wonder he was turned around. He would make this as chaste and quick a peck on the lips as he could, apologize profusely, and escape in whatever direction took him farthest from Jo Wilson until his head cooled.

  He began to pull away, but then, miraculously, she stepped toward him, curling one of those sweet, work-roughened hands against his neck. Her lips parted, slightly but unmistakably, beneath his. He captured her other hand and pulled her the rest of the way against his body, which was suddenly alive with a thousand little vibrations at every point of their contact. He felt her sigh against his skin more than he heard it, and the last vestige of that small rational voice fell away.

  Her fingers slid down his neck just as they had done only half an hour earlier in very different circumstances. Now, however, they grasped the fold of his unbuttoned collar, seeking to deepen the kiss, to bring her mouth closer to his. Her lips, firm and sure beneath his own, were even smoother than he’d imagined the night before. He brushed his thumb along her wrist and felt the smoothness there, too. She was softness and warmth. He breathed in her mint-and-talc smell. Even the faint fragrance of her perspiration was arousingly intimate. He tasted her lips, and the answering touch of her tongue against his sent a shiver through him.

  The knock on the door seemed to be happening miles away. He ran his hand up her back to that glorious auburn hair, tangling his fingers in her curls, pulling at the pins there and ... the sound of a cough came from somewhere nearby. Startled, he released Jo and spun around to see Ilsa Pedersen doing a very poor imitation of sweet innocence.

  “I’m so sorry; am I interrupting something?” She did not look one bit sorry. She looked, in fact, quite pleased.

  Jo was flushed right down to her throat: from mortification or something more complimentary, he couldn’t tell. Her hair had come loose—no, he had pulled it loose—and hung in soft wisps around her neck. The embarrassment he should have been feeling was tempered by his desire to plunge his fingers back into that hair, sweep it from her throat, kiss her again and again until she was back in his arms.

  “Oh my goodness, Ilsa. I’m sorry. You’re not interrupting. I was ...” She ran a hand over her hair, as if she could read his thoughts. “We need to get started in the kitchen. For supper.”

  Ilsa grinned. “Take your time. The potatoes will keep.”

  Owen searched Jo’s face for a hint of her emotions. Her eyes darted around the room. He knew he should try to smooth this over, but he couldn’t force the apology out of his mouth. He wasn’t sorry. He didn’t regret a single thing.

  • • •

  Jo looked at Owen. At Ilsa. At the framed Wilsons, the hate mail, the old wooden chair with the leather arms that her husband had so often sat back in. She was caught in the middle of a campaign to run her out of town for her lax morals, and she had allowed herself to be compromised in her own office.

  She had to get out of the room. If she looked at Owen Sterling—at his mouth, at his eyes—she would be tempted all over again. What was wrong with her? With the door wide open and Ilsa or anybody else liable to walk in?

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, more firmly. “Ilsa, I’ll be right down.” She shifted her attention back to Owen. “And you can show yourself out.” She barely registered the expression on his face as she took off upstairs to her bedroom, locking it behind her. Her heart was beating so loudly that she could hear it, could feel it pulsing in her neck and in her fingertips, and in her lips, which not five minutes ago had been so thoroughly kissed.

  She poured water in the basin and splashed it on her face, but the coolness did not relieve the flush that thrummed through her skin. She touched her lips.

  Stupid. It was stupid. She’d let her guard down, and this was exactly the wrong time for anyt
hing but steely resolve. The meeting was happening in just a few days, and she’d have to stand in front of the whole town and try to convince them that she was a chaste and virtuous widow who wasn’t plotting to corrupt their community.

  She was losing her mind. She breathed. She could set this right. She breathed again. She willed the flush in her cheeks to die down, willed slowness into her breath. She could do this. She could walk downstairs, smile at the patrons, chop onions, fry potatoes, add salt. She could grind the pepper, shine the cutlery, polish the residue from the water glasses, set the table. Running down these simple lists began to slow her pounding heart. She would light the stove, heft the cast-iron pans, check on the meatloaf. There, that was better.

  She rearranged her hair for what felt like the millionth time that day, then touched a bottle of scent to her fingers and rubbed it to the back of her ears. Hadn’t she just said to Owen—to Mr. Sterling—that people make mistakes? That they did the best they could? So she had made a mistake. It was a confusing, difficult time. She wouldn’t let this ... whatever it was distract her.

  Downstairs, she focused very intently on asking Susan about her day and Elsbeth about her mother, who was sick, and reminding Lucy to not slice the onions so thick, and tending the roux for the gravy. Jo enjoyed cooking: the way the lumps of flour dissolved into a glossy paste with the cream and butter, how the cheap cuts of meat became tender after hours of simmering. It was alchemy.

  When the dinner service started, she was mostly relieved that Owen was absent. Hopefully, she hadn’t made him think badly of her. Well, in truth, she didn’t know what she wanted him to think or not think. A brief flash of panic came over her. What if he were simply using her to add colour to his article? A rakish tale of a gentleman traveler enjoying the favours of the bawdy local widow. Oh, God, her name could be in the papers!