by Gina Welborn
Books by Gina Welborn and Becca Whitham
The Montana Brides Series
Come Fly With Me (eBook novella)
The Promise Bride
To Catch a Bride (eBook novella)
The Kitchen Marriage
The KITCHEN MARRIAGE
Gina Welborn
and
Becca Whitham
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Author’s Note
Praise
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
About the Author
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Gina Welborn and Becca Whitham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
BOUQUET Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4399-7
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4400-0
eISBN-10: 1-4201-4400-6
Mothers are a force to be reckoned with. Mothers teach,
counsel, and guide. They impart wisdom. They comfort.
They reflect the heart of God. We are blessed to have
mothers who, to this day, still use their compassion, joy,
wounds, wisdom, and skills for the good of others.
This story is for our mothers for leaving a legacy of peace,
patience, kindness, and goodness, of faithfulness, and of
hope. Oh, and for teaching us how to cook.
Our families are most appreciative.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In addition to the same people who helped us with The Promise Bride—our agents, Dr. Ellen Baumler of the Montana Historical Society, everyone at Kensington Publishing, and our families—we also want to thank:
Stephanie Miller who offered Becca, whom she’d only “met” via Facebook, her air-conditioned home and a Wi-Fi connection when Becca’s power went out a week before this story was due.
Valir Physical Therapy and Ferrara Chiropractic for helping Gina recover from the damage she did to her arm and shoulder after falling out of a bed. (It was a really, really small bed.)
Author’s Note
Today’s average American has heard of William Shakespeare. His works have been performed on countless stages, read in countless classrooms, and spawned countless movies and TV shows, including Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, Lion King, Warm Bodies, House of Cards, and Sons of Anarchy. Let’s not fail to mention the Broadway hit Something Rotten! which my (Gina’s) husband took our family to see in Tulsa, OK, while The Kitchen Marriage was being written. Until the early 1700s, the prolific English bard was unknown in France. French playwrights eschewed corpses, bad language, violence, sex, and subplots. In their opinions, his plays had “too many characters, too much variety of speech and action, were morally ambiguous, and (worst of all) were written in blank verse” (“French Hissing,” The Economist, 31 Mar. 2005). Those Shakespearean plays that did reach the French stage were gutted and sanitized of their “lusty Shakespearean vitality—and meaning.” (Harriss, Joseph A., “The Shocking Monsieur Shakespeare,” The American Spectator, 23 May 2014). You can learn more about Shakespeare in France in John Pemble’s book, Shakespeare Goes to Paris and Conquered France.
Throughout our story, we have interspersed real people, places, and events to interact with our characters. One of the real people is Joseph Hendry, whom we introduced in The Promise Bride. We alluded to his death in the epilogue of that story, then elaborated on it more in this story. Per The Livingston Enterprise newspaper, Joseph Hendry died of typhoid fever on December 13, 1887, at the age of twenty-eight. According to the news article, he was “fearless as a Roman gladiator” and was “not afraid of death, but sought to live to continue his manly work.” The writer of the obituary then says: “Death has silenced his pen and his work is done; but his memory will never die in the hearts of those who knew him and his fame will be known in history for all time to come. In this we know his life will be everlasting.”
We brought him into our story to honor him. We hope he will forgive us for exaggerating the cause of his death.
. . . a fact that all women who ever answered a matrimonial advertisement, or ever intend to answer one, should remember: No man who has the ability or means to support a wife in comfort needs to advertise for one.
—CHICAGO DAILY TRIBUNE, 28 December 1884
What strange creatures brothers are!
—JANE AUSTEN
Courtship consists in a number of quiet attentions, not so pointed as to alarm, nor so vague as not to be understood.
—LAURENCE STERNE
Certainly, a good cook will manage to make an agreeable dish of a material a bad one would reject as unpresentable. The most skillful agriculture is not always found in the richest districts.
—MRS. TOOGOOD, Treasury of French Cookery
So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Therefore, whenever we have the opportunity, we should do good to everyone—especially to those in the family of faith.
—GALATIANS 6:9–10 (NLT)
Prologue
Helena, Montana
July 4, 1887
Jakob Gunderson lifted his chin to acknowledge friends as he marched, pie plate in hand, across the lawn in search of a solitary tree. Normally, he loved everything about the Independence Day church picnic: spending hours chatting with friends, the band playing military marches, the children bouncing inside potato sacks racing against one another toward a red streamer, and the patriotic banners draping tables burdened with food. Oh, how he loved ice cream and fruit pies! But this year, nothing he loved could cut the bitter taste in his mouth.
He sat down and leaned against a pine tree, the bark’s ridges gouging into his back.
“Are you over here pouting?” Yancey Palmer strolled up to him, her dress the same color as the vanilla ice cream mounded on her tin pie pl
ate. “Because if you are, I’d like to join you.”
Jakob scooted over despite his grumpy mood. “Hale ignoring you again?”
Yancey sighed. She plopped down on the grass beside him. “One of these days, Mr. Hale Adams is going to regret how much time he wasted ignoring me.” She spooned a bite of ice cream but didn’t eat while staring across the church lawn to where Hale stood. “Do you see how the Watsons are giving me the stink eye?”
“Never mind them.” Jakob focused on eating his second helping of ice cream and pie while she picked at her dessert. Despite both the sheriff’s office and the city marshal’s office confirming Joseph Hendry’s salacious article, Jakob still struggled with believing his friend, Finn Collins, had worked with Madame Lestraude, one of Helena’s richest brothel owners, to lure mail-order brides out West and sell them into prostitution. Word on the street put Yancey on Lestraude’s payroll because she had stood in as a proxy bride for Finn’s first victim, Emilia Stanek Collins. If that was true, Mac—the county sheriff and Emilia’s betrothed—had to be on Madame Lestraude’s payroll, because he was her son.
Jakob would stake his life on that not being true.
The only thing that made sense was Finn alone working for Lestraude. Emilia, Yancey, and Mac were unwitting victims. However, Hendry’s article had stirred up a hornet’s nest in the community. Helena’s citizens weren’t sure who they could trust. Finn had been a faithful church member and helped dozens of local area ranchers recover after the blizzards of ’86. Finding out he’d lied to everyone—even his closest friend, Mac—made people distrust their neighbors and certainly anyone with a connection to Finn.
It would be a while yet before the Watsons and people like them stopped glaring. Jakob looked their way and smiled, which was how he’d handled all the censuring glances and questions over the past month. Soon enough, a new scandal would swing attention somewhere else. In the meantime, let them talk. That wasn’t what was bothering him.
Jakob peeked over at the source of his sour mood. Emilia stood beside Mac. They were well suited, but Jakob had hoped to pursue the lovely Emilia for himself not so long ago. He wasn’t bothered so much by Emilia’s disinterest in him as he was in the general female population of Helena. There were plenty of girls willing to fall in love with him, but they all saw him as Isaak Gunderson’s irresponsible twin brother. Jakob refocused on his ice cream. It’d be nice to find someone who would see him as his own man.
“Mail order worked out pretty well for Mac and Emilia. Maybe I should give it a go.”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Yancey sat up straight and twisted around so fast her spoon fell off her still-full tin plate. “In Luanne’s last letter, she mentioned a lady in her church is—are you ready for this?—a matchmaker.”
Jakob didn’t know whether to laugh or take her seriously. He opted for the latter. “How does her business work?”
“Luanne didn’t say. I could telegram her tomorrow and ask.”
“Let me know what she says.”
“Are you really interested?”
He nodded. Emilia was proof a man could meet a girl through mail correspondence who was kind, intelligent, and pretty.
Yancey’s smile faded. “Maybe I’ll answer an advertisement myself.”
Her woebegone tone of voice told him what she was thinking before he even asked. “Is this about Hale?”
“Unfortunately, it always rolls back around to him.” She fiddled with the fabric of her skirt for a long moment. “Why doesn’t he like me? Everyone likes me.”
“Joseph Hendry certainly does.” Jakob shifted his gaze to where the reporter stood holding a tin plate and looking their way. “Might be time to give another man a chance to see what a gem you are.”
“Maybe you’re right.” She placed her hand over his fingers and squeezed them tight. “Sometimes I wish I could fall in love with you.”
They’d tried once. A few years ago. Before they both realized they were much better suited to a type of brother-sister relationship.
Jakob tilted his head and gave Yancey his most charming grin—the exact one she always teased could make grown women swoon. “But what will my mail-order bride have to say about that?”
Chapter One
Manhattan Island, New York
Wednesday, February 29, 1888
Her future rested upon one flawless meal.
Zoe de Fleur maintained a leisurely pace as she walked home from Central Park. Remains of last week’s snow were still nestled in rooftop crevices and frost blanketed the grass. Birds chirped, on the hunt for food. Smells of roasting chestnuts. White plumes of smoke rose from newly stoked hearths. An icy breeze nipped at her likely reddened cheeks, reminding her that winter—and February—enjoyed an extra day this year.
The perfect leap year day for the perfect dinner.
She exhaled, creating a puff of cloud. How could she capture the morning’s beauty in food? Not for tonight. She had no time to experiment. But for Easter. Meringue certainly.
And what else?
She strolled along the marble wall that encircled Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s Fifth Avenue mansion, pondering future dessert ideas. While construction of new mansions could be seen up and down the avenue, this five-story white marble home on the corner had been for the last decade considered “almost too splendid for comfort.”
Or so Zoe had been told.
Although she had spent her childhood and youth living in numerous European castles, the Crane house surpassed them all, in her estimation, because of its spacious and modern kitchen.
Meringue, marzipan flowers, and . . . cake.
But what kind?
“Hey, Miss de Fleur, you want a paper?” Up ahead, Nico—and his red-tipped nose—stood on the street corner with his daily stock of newspapers in his cart . . . and with that flat beige derby of his cocked jauntily to the side fitting his devil-may-care attitude.
“Not today,” Zoe said as she always did. As she stopped next to him, she eyed the bandage on the fourteen-year-old’s right hand. His knuckles were swollen. His face, though, bespoke no bruises, nor did he stand in pain as he had after last week’s beating. “How are you zis morning?”
He grinned. “All to the merry, I say.”
“Nico,” she said, stretching out the vowels in his name to convey her displeasure.
“What?” came with a big cloud of breath.
“You know I dislike . . .” She paused, trying to think of the right words in English. Façade faces? Emotion masks? “Fake cheer. Be honest with me about”—she pointed to the bandage—“zat.”
His smile fell. He fisted his bandaged hand. “I fought back, all right. You told me I had to stand up for myself.”
That she had.
Her advice had also come with encouragement to be the bigger man and walk away from the argument before it became physical. Or, even better, start a conversation to bring harmony, to understand the other person’s feelings. Become friends. Not fight back. Never fight back, because fighting brought pain. Brought scars. Not all of which were physical.
“When I was a child”—she unwrapped the woolen scarf about her neck—“my papa said embarrassing a bully with words can be as effective as responding with fisticuffs. I did what he told me, and I was horrified because of how my words made ze other girl cry.” She draped the scarf around Nico’s neck. “How did hitting zat boy make you feel?”
“Strong.”
Zoe clasped her gloved hands together. “Were his feelings hurt?”
Nico shrugged. “Don’t care. I wanted him to stop pestering me.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his brown corduroy coat. “I’m not ever going to see him again anyway. I’m never going back to the orphanage. With all I’ve saved, I can buy a train ticket to California and . . .”
Zoe nodded as he rambled on and on about his grand plans to start over out West. Open a saloon. Become a blacksmith or a trapper. Maybe even dig for gold. Or marry some rich old lady about to
die. The poor boy had hopes and dreams enough for a score of orphans. If only half the stories he told about life in the orphanage were true, she would hate living there. In the last three years of Nico trying to sell her a paper, he had vowed at least twice a month that he would never return to the orphanage. And yet he had.
As he would today, too.
“Find me after you have sold your stock,” she said, interrupting Nico’s description of his future house and its six floors.
His blue eyes widened. “Can I taste what you’re cooking for tonight?”
“Some.”
“With wine?”
“No,” she said, and then smiled and patted his shoulder. “Come to ze kitchen around eleven. I will make you hot cocoa, but you must be gone before Chef Henri arrives or he will have both our heads.” She swiped her hand across her throat.
Nico’s upper lip curled, enough of an action to clarify to Zoe what he thought of the renowned and current president of the Société Culinaire Philanthropique, who had an exclusive contract to cater any and all of Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s parties. Unlike Papa and Chef Henri, Zoe could never become a member of the Société because she was female, a rule Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane called “a medieval practice.” It bothered her greatly that Zoe could not claim the respectful title of chef, despite her French blood, despite following European tradition and apprenticing over a decade under her father’s tutelage, and despite taking over Papa’s job as chef for the Gilfoyle-Crane household.
