Would-Be Mistletoe Wife

by Christine Johnson

  “So that woman says.” Cecelia Bennington didn’t so much as look at Louise. “It’s her word against my daughter’s.”

  Louise lifted the full teapot and poured into the first cup, but her shaking hand caused the liquid to slosh onto the saucer. After setting down the pot, she took a deep breath. Best give this one to Mr. Bennington. His wife would criticize her pouring. Now, what had he wanted? Milk and sugar? She hoped so.

  “Mr. Hammond concurred with Mrs. Smythe’s account,” Fiona said calmly.

  Louise poured the second cup, spilling even more of the liquid on the saucer. Perhaps Louise should have had her friend serve the tea after all.

  “Of course he did,” Cecilia Bennington said. “They are in this together, after all.”

  Louise gritted her teeth. “For your information, we did not like each other at the time.”

  Cecilia stared at her as if she’d just realized Louise was still in the room. “Which is as good as admitting that you are enamored by the man now. I understand you are a widow, Mrs. Smythe. As such, you must take extra care with your reputation, even if you weren’t instructing young ladies. My daughter informed me that you have been walking with him alone after dark.”

  Fiona let out a dramatic sigh and closed her eyes, followed by a shake of the head. This was not heading in a good direction, but Louise would not allow this woman to destroy her. She had kept quiet about Warren’s drinking and violent temper to preserve his reputation. She had given excuses, taking the blame onto herself. No more, especially since nothing improper had occurred.

  “Mr. Hammond was escorting me home for my safety. Perhaps your daughter also told you that I kept a respectable distance from him while he watched only to ensure I did not lose my footing. Mr. Hammond should be praised, not accused.”

  “Now, now, no one said they were accusing the man of anything,” Mr. Bennington said. “Come, Cecilia. Have a seat.” He stood and repositioned the other chair nearer to his.

  Mrs. Bennington ignored her husband in favor of continuing the attack. “That is your version of events, Mrs. Smythe.” Her attention shifted to Fiona. “It wouldn’t do your fledgling school any good to have news of these incidents reach the ears of prospective students.”

  Louise shut her eyes. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth closed? If the hotel truly was suffering, this only added to Fiona’s woes.

  “Come, dear.” Mr. Bennington shoved the chair nearly to the back of his wife’s knees. “Do sit.”

  Mrs. Bennington at last sank into the chair. After adjusting her skirts, she returned her attention to Louise. “Are you going to wait until the tea is cold to serve it?”

  In the past, a comment like that would have unnerved Louise and sent her to her books, where she could retreat from the harshness of reality. Today Louise carried the cups to the Benningtons without spilling a single drop.

  Wouldn’t Elizabeth Bennett, the heroine of Pride and Prejudice, be proud? That character would have known how to handle such a woman. At the very least she would roll her eyes and whisper her observations to her dear sister, Jane, or her friend, Charlotte Lucas. Louise would have to wait for such comfort from her friend, though given the way events were unfurling, Louise might have to give the comfort.

  Fiona and her husband could well be standing on the precipice of ruin if Fiona’s strained expression was any indication. Louise’s defense of her actions had done nothing to help the situation. If anything, it had harmed the school.

  The choice was simple. Only one thing would appease the Benningtons. It was a difficult gift to give, but one Louise owed the dear friend who had given her a new lease on life.

  She stepped before the Benningtons. “I will resign my position.”

  Fiona rose. Cecilia Bennington smiled in triumph.

  “A sensible solution,” the woman said before sipping the tea.

  “A hasty one.” Fiona frowned at Louise but shifted to a placating tone for the Benningtons. “There is no reason to rush to a decision. You are welcome to stay at the hotel as my guests. If you have not yet eaten, I will ask the cook to make a light supper for you.” Even as she spoke, she ushered the Benningtons from her office.

  Mr. Bennington voiced no objection. In fact, he seemed to take the entire matter with a bit of humor. He even gave Louise a wink when passing and his wife wasn’t looking, as if to say that Louise shouldn’t take his wife’s complaints to heart.

  Louise couldn’t muster any confidence in Mr. Bennington’s ability to change his wife’s mind. With Priscilla’s goading, Cecilia Bennington would have Louise out the door before sunrise.

  * * *

  Jesse flung off the bedclothes and rolled onto his right side. His toes smashed into the wall, waking him further. He growled to himself. This bed was too small and the room far too hot. The assistant keeper should have his own quarters, not the smallest bedroom in the peak of the roof. It wasn’t large enough for a child, not to mention a full-grown man.

  He groaned and rolled onto his back. Silvery light from the three-quarter moon streamed through the tiny window, landing right in his face. He turned toward the wall. A breath of air fluttered the curtains and raced across his prone body, raising a few goose pimples. He reached for the bedclothes and thought better of it. Perspiration drenched his nightshirt. The momentary chill was a relief.

  Much like the icy water that had enveloped him in the dream.

  Jesse sat up with a start. The dream. It had returned.

  This time the chill went to the bone. Memory was stronger than any dream. The cries and screams got louder and louder until he pressed his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. The people were dying, and he could do nothing about it. His heart pounded. His lungs screamed for air, but there was only water. It dulled the cries but not the thrashing, the desperate clawing for life. The orange light flickered and died, plunging them into darkness. That’s when he knew all was lost.

  Panic raced like a steam locomotive, growing stronger and stronger until he couldn’t fight it. Nothing could stop the cries for help. Nothing could wash away the guilt. Nothing could ease the pain in the center of his chest, feeling like a sharp stake driven clear through him.

  “Take me, Lord,” he whispered. “Why didn’t You take me?”

  As always, no answer came. Only the pain remained. He knew what to do, what the kindly druggist advised after refusing to give him the dulling laudanum he had sought. Breathe slowly and deeply, counting to four. Then hold that breath an equal time before slowly letting it out. Repeat until the heart calms. Think of something pleasant. Louise. Her gray eyes could soothe any tempest.

  Gradually the pounding slowed and the panic went away, leaving him exhausted but too awake to sleep. Jesse’s hand trembled as he fumbled to light a match and then the candle at his bedside. It took more than slowing his breathing to calm the panic. He had to do something with his hands.

  Soon the warm glow of the candle filled the room, vanquishing the shadows of the past to the corners. Then he took up his penknife and one of the bits of wood he’d scavenged from the shoreline. The sharp blade cut through the wood easily. He glanced at the small table that served as a desk where all manner of whittled creatures waited in a long line. By morning’s first light, he would have another. Judging from the shape of this bit of wood, a seagull waited inside, ready to be freed.

  * * *

  Louise packed her carpetbag that night. Unlike her years as Mrs. Warren Smythe, she didn’t own enough to fill a trunk, nor did she have a trunk to fill. Warren’s family had seen fit to disinherit her of everything but the clothes on her back, a Sunday gown, her Bible, her journal and three books. They’d taken the jewelry, except the wedding ring, which would no longer slide off her finger.

  Oh, the bitter irony! That unadorned band of gold brought nothing but painful memories and, when the weather
was hot, uncomfortable swelling of her finger. For a long time, she’d seen it as a symbol of Warren’s grip, but now she viewed it as a reminder of what she would never endure again.

  If only a paying position was that tenacious. Instead, each had disappeared due to circumstance. Her first, working for Captain and Mrs. Elder as a companion to the ailing lady, had been a delight. Both enjoyed literature, science and debating the latest discoveries. She and the captain had disagreed on Mr. Darwin’s theory on the origin of the species, with her arguing for God’s infallible Word and Captain Elder eager to grasp the new theory. Many a debate lasted until the wee hours of the morning, and they’d ended up agreeing to disagree for the sake of Mrs. Elder, who put a stop to the discord by stating that only God knew the truth.

  Alas, Mrs. Elder’s health took a turn for the worse this past winter, and the captain packed their belongings, closed the house and sailed for Chicago, where she would be under the care of knowledgeable physicians.

  Until Fiona gave her this teaching position at the beginning of September, Louise had worked at the boardinghouse for her room and board. There she learned to change bed linens and cook meals. Mrs. Calloway had guided her through those tasks, and Louise had thanked God for placing the kindly woman in her path. For with every bit of instruction came a sense of accomplishment and worth.

  The teaching position had been a gift from God, bestowing independence, but for the sake of her friend, Fiona, she must relinquish it.

  Louise fought back a tear as she shut her carpetbag. With a final look around her room, the bed linens neatly stripped and ready for laundering, she left.

  Each step of the staircase creaked under her feet. The scent of the oil used to polish the wood would always remain with her. Mrs. Calloway used a different preparation at the boardinghouse. Louise hoped the woman would take her back under the old arrangement of room and board in exchange for labor. She had only a few coins to her name, not enough to let a room, least of all pay passage to the closest port.

  The parlor carpet was new, part of the refurbishing that had been generously provided for by Sawyer Evans’s mother. Its thick nap cushioned her feet, sore inside the shoes whose soles had worn through under the ball of each foot. Layers of newspaper kept out the largest stones but would be of no use once the snow fell.

  Louise sighed. She couldn’t afford new shoes, and the town hadn’t a cobbler. She turned toward Fiona’s office.

  Her friend stood in the hallway. “Where are you going?”

  Louise had worked out her speech. “The students’ welfare must come before everything else.”

  Fiona propped her hands on her hips. “And that welfare includes getting a good education. How are they supposed to do that without a teacher?”

  “There are others who are qualified. Pearl, for instance.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “Pearl is plenty busy teaching the children at the one-room schoolhouse and helping out her husband at the general store.”

  “You could teach literature and mathematics until you can hire another teacher.”

  “I don’t know anything about literature or mathematics. If you’ll recall, I grew up in the tenements.”

  Louise had forgotten this sore point of Fiona’s past. “You know far more than you think.”

  “And how am I supposed to help with the hotel and raise Mary Clare while teaching full-time? Moreover, who will stay with the girls and ensure they are safe throughout the day and night?”

  Louise blanched. She’d been so focused on sparing the school’s reputation that she’d neglected to consider the repercussions of leaving. “But Mrs. Bennington—”

  “—has changed her mind.”

  “She has?” Louise found that difficult to believe.

  Fiona grinned. “A few butter rolls can go a long way toward smoothing ruffled feathers.”

  “You made your rolls?”

  Fiona was famed for her baking, but she seldom had the time or inclination to do it since marrying and opening the school. While still seeking a husband, she had used those rolls to encourage prospects to give her a second look.

  “That and a little persuasion,” Fiona said.

  “What sort of persuasion?” Louise was half afraid to hear the answer.

  “I merely pointed out that you had saved her daughter’s life when she lay ill with fever.”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything.” In fact, Louise had felt terribly helpless. “I had to run to the hotel to get help.”

  “If you hadn’t done that, she might have died.”

  “But the doctor said—”

  “She might have died,” Fiona repeated. “I will not hear any more of your attempts to discount what you have done. The girls need you. I need you. Please stay.”

  Louise’s spirits buoyed. She wouldn’t have to find work elsewhere or even move away. She would see Jesse again.

  That shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

  Chapter Eight

  News spreads quickly in small towns, even more so in a company town like Singapore. By the midday meal, Jesse learned what had happened at Mrs. Evans’s school last night.

  “Jimmy says Mrs. Smythe quit,” Joe, the youngest Blackthorn boy, said at the dinner table.

  Jesse steeled his expression so the family didn’t see how much this news affected him.

  “What does he know? He only works at the store,” the daughter chimed in. “But I heard that Mrs. Evans wouldn’t let Mrs. Smythe go. They’re friends, you see.” Her smug look was meant to inform her brothers that she had access to information they could never get, since they were boys.

  Jesse let out a silent breath of relief. He shouldn’t care, not since he had advertised for a wife, but Louise had become a friend.

  “Isn’t that something,” Mrs. Blackthorn mused, forgoing a forkful of her chicken pie to join the conversation. “I wonder why Mrs. Smythe would do a thing like that.”

  “Jimmy says she’s jealous of Priscilla Bennington,” Joe said.

  “Not so,” Isabel countered. “Who would ever be jealous of that snob? No one can stand her.”

  “Then why does she always have those two friends of hers with her?”

  Jesse tuned out the childish argument. The hotel and school must be in decent financial condition if Mrs. Evans insisted Louise remain in her position. The woman didn’t strike Jesse as one who hired a person and then didn’t pay.

  The news elevated his spirits enough to shake off the ill effects of poor sleep and Blackthorn’s relegating him to whitewashing duty. While he brushed the white paint on the slats of the fence, his mind drifted to the pleasures of the small town below. Though it boasted very few businesses, there was a closeness between the people living here that he hadn’t experienced since the army.

  That recollection brought both pleasure and pain.

  His unit had been close. They joked, sang songs, told stories. He knew the names of each man’s sisters, brothers and sweethearts. They’d become brothers. Then came the ambush. The men scattered. More than half lost their lives. Jesse and a handful of others had escaped into the swamp and sank so deep in the muck that the Confederate soldiers either refused to go after them or figured they’d die. Most of the rest were captured and probably ended up in a prisoner camp. Of course, none of them knew how bad things were in the camps at that time. Jesse hadn’t known until the soldiers came through Vicksburg on their way home.

  He escaped the swamp but nearly died. The subsequent illness left him weak and unfit for any service but working under the quartermaster. That job kept him out of harm’s way and opened the door for guilt. He should have died. He should have gone to the prisoner camps. He should have come back a mere skeleton of his former self. He should have spoken up when the steamboat captains overloaded their boats with veterans.


  Not one bit of it could be taken back.

  He slapped a brush full of paint on the next slat.

  “Oh!” cried a female voice. “You nearly splattered paint all over my skirt.”

  Jesse looked up to see Louise standing on the other side of the fence. He stood, paintbrush in hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.”

  “I called out to you. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “My thoughts were elsewhere.” But he wasn’t about to explain where. “What brings you here?”

  “Next Monday’s lecture. Or do you prefer a different day of the week?”

  “No, no. That will be fine.” He turned the conversation. “I understand your fears about the school’s future were unwarranted.”

  Her brow furrowed. “For the time being, but I’m not certain how long that will last.” She heaved a sigh. “Fiona admitted that the hotel is not doing as well as they’d hoped.”

  “And thus the school. Were the well-dressed couple parents of a prospective student? I saw them leaving the school this afternoon.”

  Her expression made it clear she did not care for the couple. “The Benningtons wanted to make sure their daughter is fully recovered.”

  “The young lady who hurt her ankle?”

  “Yes. Though Priscilla is still a bit weak, she is back to her old self.” The accompanying sigh meant that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  Jesse could calculate the potential repercussions. “The loss of even one student could be a problem.”

  “Precipitous.” Again the sigh. Then a little smile. “Nearly the same word as precipitation. Isn’t that fascinating? What with you giving a lecture on the subject.”

  Jesse could see she was trying to divert attention from the situation at school, which apparently wasn’t as settled as the Blackthorn daughter had made it sound. He needed to lift her spirits.

  “Even if something should happen to the school, you will do well. I’ve never met a woman who knows as much about botany as you do.”

  She blushed. “Thank you, but there isn’t much need for botany instruction here.”