Sheriff Thorn had already talked Mack into going to the classes on the nights the sheriff or Preacher Doan couldn’t to serve as an unpaid, unofficial protector and—there was no other word for it—spy for the women. Just in case they proved double dealing. But the sheriff asked him to keep quiet about watching for evidence of a scam. So he chuckled nervously and shrugged. “You never know.”
Mrs. Bingham smiled and glanced around. “You have a very neatly organized store, Mr. Cleveland. I see a great deal of pride of ownership. Don’t you agree, Abigail?”
Miss Grant loosened her bonnet strings and let the oversized bonnet slide back. He tried not to stare, but it was hard not to. The skin on her nose and cheeks was bubbled like the surface of boiling water. No wonder she’d hidden behind the brim. Her wary gaze moved across the rows of shelves and lineup of barrels. “Yes. It’s quite nice.”
Quite nice? She couldn’t have any idea how much work it took to keep everything clean and orderly. But he shouldn’t pat himself on the back. Ma always said the satisfaction of a job well done was reward enough. He suddenly realized she was holding out a square of paper. He took it. “Another chart?”
She picked at her chapped lip. “A thank-you note.”
He frowned. “What for?”
She turned her face aside, almost touching her chin to her shoulder. “The aloe.”
From the looks of things, it hadn’t done her much good. Unsure what to say, he slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket and brushed his palms together. “Let’s get those charts hung, huh?”
On his way across the floor, he snagged a hammer—one of the new ones he’d taken down to make room for the schedule charts—and a handful of tacks. “The only place I could put ’em was on the back wall. I hope folks won’t mind walking all the way through the store to sign up.”
“I’m sure the location will be fine.” Mrs. Bingham matched him stride for stride, but Miss Grant trailed behind, her head low. She hung back while Mrs. Bingham unrolled the pages and held the first one flat against the wall.
Mack tapped the tacks into place over all four corners. Then he stepped back and looked it over. “You made this?”
Mrs. Bingham nodded toward Miss Grant. “Abigail did, using Mrs. Doan’s suggestions. She possesses a very neat hand, yes?”
“As neat as anything a printer could do.” Every line was straight, the letters evenly spaced. If he got a ruler and checked, he’d probably find they were all the exact same height, too.
A slight flush darkened Miss Grant’s red cheeks. “Both penmanship and elocution were stressed at the school I attended in Boston. Father always said even a girl should be able to express herself and make herself understood whether in spoken word or on paper.” Her face crumpled, like someone had stabbed her.
Mack thought he understood. “No need to talk if it makes your face hurt, Miss Grant. That sunburn’ll heal up soon enough.”
She turned her back on him. “I’ll wait for you by the door, Mrs. Bingham.” She scurried off, slipping her bonnet into place as she went.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything about her face, but he’d only meant to comfort her.
Mrs. Bingham touched his sleeve. “Shall we hang the rest of the charts? I’m sure you have other work to do.”
He always had work to do. He and Mrs. Bingham finished putting up the charts. By crunching them together and making two rows of three each, he didn’t need to clear any more merchandise from the pegboards. When they finished, he glanced toward the front of the store, then leaned close to Mrs. Bingham.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass Miss Grant. She’s probably pretty self-conscious about her face right now.”
Mrs. Bingham gazed at Miss Grant and sighed. “I doubt it’s her face that’s paining her at the moment, but it’s very kind of you to be concerned.” She held out her gloved hand and he took it. “Let me thank you again for your assistance with the classes, for transporting Abigail and me to Spiveyville, and for coming to our rescue yesterday morning when we had need of a protector. If you change your mind and decide to make use of my services to match you with a wife, I shall happily waive half the fee.”
Only half? Maybe she didn’t appreciate him as much as she said. He swallowed a laugh. “No, thank you, ma’am. I’m content to let things happen the old-fashioned way.”
“And what way is that?”
He shifted her hand to the bend of his elbow and escorted her to the door. “Well, like you said in the meeting last night, God’s the one who planned for man and woman to come together. I figure that means He’s the best one to bring whoever’s supposed to be my wife across my path.”
Her smile turned impish. “But what’s to say God can’t use a matchmaker to aid Him in His work? After all, did He not use a fleece to speak to Gideon and a donkey to speak to Balaam?”
Oh, this one was wily. Sheriff Thorn was smart to keep watch on her. He stepped away from her and opened the door. “I’ll take down the sign-up charts at the end of the day Saturday and bring ’em over to you, ma’am. You and Miss Grant”—the younger woman still stood with her back to him—“have a good day now.”
Twelve
Abigail
Abigail braced her palms against the restaurant’s swinging door, eager to get in out of the cold. To return to her room. To work on lesson plans and scrub her mind of reminders of her father.
Mrs. Bingham caught her elbow. “I’d like to visit the telegraph office and send a quick message to Marietta. Come with me.”
A rush of cold air whooshed along the boardwalk and lifted the tails of Abigail’s wool shawl. She shivered. “Wouldn’t you rather wait until later in the day, when the sun has climbed a little higher? Surely the temperature will rise as the day progresses.”
“Once I’m in, I’ll wish to stay in. I’d rather see to all errands now.” She gave a little tug. “Come, Abigail. It’s only next door. We won’t be in the cold for long.”
Swallowing another protest, mostly because Mrs. Bingham was her boss and partly because the preacher had advised them not to venture out alone, she allowed herself to be drawn along.
A few other townspeople were already waiting for a turn at the counter. Abigail and Mrs. Bingham moved to the end of the short line. Mr. Ackley huffed like a train engine as he hustled from one end of the little post office to the other, retrieving mail from cubbies or pasting stamps on envelopes. As others turned to leave, they offered smiles and simple greetings to Mrs. Bingham and Abigail. Mrs. Bingham responded to each, but Abigail angled her head and feigned great interest in the “Wanted” posters on the wall. Mr. Cleveland’s comment about her sunburn rang in her memory. She shouldn’t subject anyone else to the unpleasant sight.
Finally Mrs. Bingham took her place at the counter. “I’d like to send a telegram, please, to Newton, Massachusetts.”
Mr. Ackley’s round face lit with eagerness. “To our brides?”
“Mr. Ackley…” Abigail didn’t have to look to know the woman wore a disapproving frown. “I am aware I must tell you the contents of my message in order for it to be sent along the wires, but communication between two parties should at least be given the pretense of confidentiality.”
The man scratched his furry cheek. “What’s that you said?”
Mrs. Bingham sighed. “Never mind. May I have a piece of paper and pencil, please?”
Abigail paced in front of the window while Mrs. Bingham scratched words on a paper. “There you are.”
“All right, lemme make sure I can read it all okay.”
If he was unable to make it out, the blame would lie on his eyesight, not Mrs. Bingham’s penmanship. The woman wrote almost as neatly as Abigail.
“ ‘Marietta,’ ” Mr. Ackley recited in a monotone, “ ‘date for brides’ arrival estimated for November 26.’ ”
The twenty-sixth of November, if Abig
ail remembered correctly, was a few days before Thanksgiving Day. A time when families and friends gathered and counted their blessings. A perfect occasion for the men of Spiveyville to meet their intended brides for the first time. A deep ache built in the center of her chest, recalling the past lonely Thanksgivings without a home and family of her own. Future ones held no promise of happiness either. A tear slid down her cheek, stinging her sunburned skin. She sniffed and dried the trail with her gloved fingertip, hoping the bonnet hid the evidence of her heartache.
“ ‘Letter for…fort…’ ”
“Forthcoming.” Mrs. Bingham cleared her throat. “The word is forthcoming.”
“ ‘…forthcoming. Love, Helena.’ ” A huge sigh wheezed from the man’s mouth. “Twelve words’ll be ten cents.”
Abigail, ready to make her departure, inched toward the door while Mrs. Bingham retrieved her little coin purse from her reticule. The wood door swung inward, and a stocky man with coal-black hair and a matching mustache burst into the post office. His gaze landed on Abigail, and he drew back as if someone had jabbed him with a sword.
“Howdy, Otto,” Mr. Ackley called out.
The man eased past Abigail, keeping a wide berth, and scuttled to the counter.
“Ladies, you remember Otto Hildreth, don’tcha? He keeps us fellas all patched up an’ lookin’ dandy. O’ course”—the postman barked a short laugh—“soon as we all have wives, we’ll be lettin’ them do our stitchin’. Save a few pennies.” He thumped his fist on the counter. “Guess what, Otto? Miz Bingham’s set the arrival date for our brides. They’ll be here by Thanksgivin’, just in time to cook us a big celebration dinner.”
Abigail gasped. The audacity of the man to not only announce the contents of Mrs. Bingham’s telegram but also expect the newly arrived women to immediately step into a role of servitude.
“Misssster Ackley.” Mrs. Bingham’s tone echoed Abigail’s shock. “It is most unseemly to share a private telegram with everyone who comes through the door.”
“I didn’t share with everyone. Just Otto here.”
Abigail aimed a disbelieving look at the postman, viewing the scene through the tube-shaped opening of her bonnet.
Mrs. Bingham pursed her lips. “Not to mention it is an estimated date. There is no guarantee the men will have completed the classes to my satisfaction by then. I merely need my sister to be prepared, just in case.”
Mr. Ackley’s jaw dropped. “But they gotta—”
The tailor leaned halfway across the counter. “What was that you said about lettin’ the women do your stitchin’?”
Mr. Ackley shrugged and shifted his attention to Mr. Hildreth. “Makes sense, don’t it? Stitchin’ is part of a wife’s duties.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is you an’ the other fellas is gonna stop comin’ to my shop? Gonna put me out o’ business? Is that what you plan?”
Mrs. Bingham hurried across the floor and took hold of Abigail’s elbow. The women departed the post office and pulled the door tightly closed behind them, but the men’s angry voices carried past the brick walls to the boardwalk. Mrs. Bingham flung a glance over her shoulder and shuddered. “You will have quite the challenge, taming these hotheads into gracious gentlemen. We may still be here well into the beginning of the new year.”
Abigail swallowed a moan. Useless…Trying to tame these men was completely useless. “Wouldn’t it be easier to simply return to Newton? There will be other requests for brides.”
“It’s too late for that. The men paid their fees, and a sufficient number of women are ready to leave the crowded cities for a new start in the West. I have every faith that with you as their instructor, they—”
A crash sounded in the post office.
Mrs. Bingham cringed. “—will change.” She linked arms with Abigail and scurried up the boardwalk.
In the privacy of her room, Abigail removed the bonnet and laid it on the dresser top. She glanced at her reflection in the round mirror hanging above the dresser and quickly turned aside, repulsed. Oh, such a sight. As much as she missed her genteel mother, gratitude eased through her that Mother needn’t witness the ugly blisters. Gathering her courage, she faced the mirror again and gingerly picked at the loosest pieces of skin. She gritted her teeth against the prickling sting and continued pinching away every tissue-like bit.
When she’d removed all the pieces that had bubbled up, she leaned close to the mirror and examined her cheeks and nose. Now her face bore patches as pink as boiled shrimp, each dotted with light speckles. Not what she would call an improvement. Maybe she shouldn’t have picked at it after all.
Moving away from the mirror, she scooped up the notes she’d begun jotting last night. Mrs. Bingham had suggested focusing on one subject at a time and giving it her full attention, but she wanted to have a firm outline in place for each of the five weeks. After all, Father always said early planning was the key to success. Mother took the advice to heart, beginning preparations for dinner parties nearly a month ahead of the dates. Everyone praised Mother for her well-organized and orchestrated gatherings. The last one before Father’s arrest was particularly successful, making it a bittersweet memory. If Abigail expected to earn her employer’s praise, and perhaps a recommendation for a position when they returned to Newton, she should plan well, too.
She sat on the edge of the bed and spread the notes out beside her. She chose the page titled “Commonsense Etiquette” and read down the list of topics, adding further explanation behind some, rewording a few definitions, and clarifying the importance of others. She drew an arrow from “Physical altercations are singularly abhorrent,” which was in the middle of the list, to the top of the page so she’d remember to cover it first. Apparently the men in this town needed the reminder.
Shortly after noon, someone tapped on her door and then cracked it open. Abigail jolted to her feet, apprehension striking hard, but only Mrs. Bingham peeked in. She dropped back on the edge of the bed with a sigh.
“Are you ready to go down for lunch?”
Abigail touched her mottled cheek. “Couldn’t you bring a tray up here? I…I’m quite busy.” She gestured to the pages.
The woman stepped into the room and glanced across the scattered papers. “I’m glad you’re taking this assignment so seriously, but you do have several days to prepare. You don’t intend to stay sequestered up here the entire time, do you?”
She wanted to stay sequestered until her face healed, but that could take longer than a few days. “I might.”
Mrs. Bingham folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you want people to feel comfortable taking these classes, they need to have the chance to get to know you. You can’t hide the way you did in the post office this morning.”
Heat flooded Abigail’s face, making the raw patches burn. “I…I wasn’t hiding.”
“Please don’t tell falsehoods.” Mrs. Bingham crossed to the bed, shifted the pages aside, and sat. “I realize it’s uncomfortable for you to be in a strange town, surrounded by unfamiliar people.”
Warmed by her kind understanding, Abigail nodded. “Yes, ma’am. It is.”
“But you only succeed in making others uncomfortable when you refuse to acknowledge their presence. You really must set aside these self-important airs, Abigail. They benefit you not a bit, and now is not the time to be off putting.”
Could the woman not see the source of Abigail’s angst? She crossed to the mirror and peered at herself, willing the awful pink patches to magically disappear.
Mrs. Bingham shifted, and the bed springs twanged. “You know, if you put some effort into making friends, you’ll be much happier with yourself.”
Abigail spun to face the matchmaker. “And with whom do you suggest I pursue a friendship? Mrs. Doan? She’s a very nice lady, but she’s at least fifteen years older than I, married, and the mother of thr
ee. We have nothing in common. I have nothing in common with any of the women in this town because they—”
“Are poor?”
Abigail bit her lower lip to hold back a groan. Yes, they were poor. And uneducated. And probably nearly as uncouth as their husbands. She didn’t belong in this town with these people. But she didn’t belong in Boston anymore either. Oh, if only Father hadn’t resorted to thievery. If only Linus Hartford hadn’t proved to be unfaithful. If only she’d had the chance to become a wife before Mother died and the house was sold and the foundation of her carefully ordered world crumbled. If only…
Mrs. Bingham stood and crossed to Abigail. She placed her hands on Abigail’s shoulders and fixed her unsmiling gaze on her face. “I am well aware of your privileged upbringing. I am also well versed in the kind of instruction you received concerning mixing with other social classes. I heard it thrown at me when I fell in love with a man whose name was not on the social registers. Later, when my Howard had established himself as a trustworthy lawyer and we were an accepted part of the upper crust, I heard the disparaging mutters aimed at other people. Not all the instruction was bad. Manners, morals—they are fine attributes. But being mannerly doesn’t make you better than others, Abigail, merely better behaved.”
Abigail frowned, puzzled by the woman’s comment. “Isn’t better behaved…better?”
“As long as ‘better’ is not perceived as ‘superior.’ ”
Abigail hung her head. “I’m not superior to anyone. Not anymore.” Father’s tumble had taken his entire family with him, and there was no climbing out of the pit. She met her boss’s gaze. “But at least I can honor my mother and my upbringing by modeling the manners I was taught.”
Mrs. Bingham sighed, squeezed Abigail’s shoulders, then lowered her arms. “It’s lunchtime. Let’s go see what Mr. Patterson has prepared for today’s menu. Given the change in temperature, hot soup would be a welcome choice today.”
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 10
