A Bride in the Bargain Part 2

Gathering her wits, she prayed for courage. "There's something you should know before we proceed."

He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow.

"There is no question that you can hit me and force me to your will. You are bigger and stronger. But if you do, then you'd better never go to sleep."

He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean it, Hoke. If you do this, you'd better never, ever, not even once, close your eyes for a bit of rest. Because the moment you do, I'm going to slip down into the kitchen, get the meat hammer, come back to your chamber, and break your arm. Your right arm. The one you swing with."

He blinked.

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened. "Anna? Where the devil are you? It's time for the main course and the cutlets are burnt."

"Let me up," Anna whispered.

"Anna?" Helen placed a foot on the bottom step. "Are you up there?"

After a slight hesitation, Hoke rolled off her.

Scrambling to her feet, Anna rushed down the stairs, past Helen's astonished face and straight out into the alley. Ignoring the icy slap of winter, she continued to run until she reached the tiny attic room she let at the Hadley House.

Anna yanked her carpetbag from underneath her bed, unbuckled the latch, and widened its mouth. It wouldn't take long to pack. She'd sold everything of value she owned except her mother's watch pin. All she had left was a spare dress, a second set of underclothes, her seash.e.l.l collection, and her father's letters.

She lifted the false bottom of the bag. The bound stack of correspondence she'd hidden was still in place. Slamming the divider down, she effectively shut the contents from her view, but not from her mind.

Every letter her father had sent was written on her heart. She laid her spare dress on the bed, placed several pouches of seash.e.l.ls in its center, then quickly rolled them up inside it. All the while, the closing line of her father's final letter repeated itself in her mind like a mantra.

"Don't you realize that when you and Leon argue and misbehave, the rebel bullets come closer to me? But if you and Leon are good, then G.o.d will take care of me and bring me home safely."

Her behavior had been particularly reprehensible the day that letter had arrived. The horror she'd felt at its contents still ricocheted through her. She'd immediately promised G.o.d that she would change and had begged Him to bring Papa home.

He'd brought him home all right, in a big pine box. And no one but she and G.o.d knew her actions that day had killed him, just as surely as they had eventually killed her mother and little brother.

Cramming the dress into the bag, she gave no regard to its condition, then swiped up her underclothes. She may think Hoke despicable and without honor, but she didn't wish him dead. And that's exactly what would happen to him or anyone else if they got too close.

So she'd leave. She'd go to the Washington Territory and secure a position as a domestic, a schoolteacher, or a nanny. But she'd never marry and she'd never have children. The risk was simply too great.

Latching the bag, she touched her chest to be sure her watch pin was in place, then grabbed her cape. The stagecoach office was just up the road. She'd secure a ticket to Amherst. From there, she'd catch the Boston & Maine to New York City.

A corner of Anna's cape whipped back, allowing the frigid New York wind to beat against her tattered woolen gown. Clenching the edges of her cape with one hand and her carpetbag with the other, she stopped in front of a modest brick building on West Street.

The markings on a square plaque next to the entrance were worn and difficult to read. The first numeral was either an eight or a nine. She squinted but couldn't make out the second.

A mule-drawn dump cart full of coal crunched past on the snow and ice, pulling Anna's attention to a sign across the street where the American Express Company's deliverymen came and went.

When Ladies Or Children Are About To Cross The Street, As They Are Frequently Uncertain And Confused In Their Movements, TEAMS SHOULD BE BROUGHT TO A FULL STOP UNTIL ALL UNCERTAINTY IS REMOVED.

Anna looked up and down the walkway but saw no evidence of any women, and she certainly couldn't imagine children in this part of town. Gone were the street vendors along with the carriages and sulkies carrying gaily dressed patrons about town. Instead, commercial vehicles, dray carts, and delivery sleds populated the streets, their drivers yelling out curses to both their animals and each other.

She turned her attention to the plaque once again, but with no more luck deciphering it than before. Still, building number 93 was next door. So this should be it. Placing her hand on the oversized doork.n.o.b, she pushed.

A gust of wind jerked the door from her hand and crashed it against the inside wall. Hurrying across the threshold, she dropped her bag and used both hands to close the door. Leaning against it, she pressed a hand against her frozen nose and tried to wiggle her toes.

The dim entryway led to a series of doors and a narrow staircase. The building wasn't much warmer than the outdoors, but at least there was no wind. She blew onto her gloved hands, then rubbed them together.

"h.e.l.lo?" Her breath produced a puff of condensation while her voice bounced off the silent walls. "Is anyone here?"

A m.u.f.fled shuffling from down the hall was followed by the creaking of a poorly oiled door. A swath of light cut across the hall, illuminating the tall, thin man who stepped into it.

"May I help you?" he said.

She straightened, shaking the snow from her skirts and retrieving her bag. "Yes, please. I'm looking for Mr. A.S. Mercer."

"I'm Asa Mercer." He moved toward her.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but this lanky young man with a shock of red hair wasn't it.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Miss Anna Ivey. I saw your ad in the Tribune and am here to inquire about pa.s.sage to the Northwest."

He quickly took in her shabby clothing but gave no visible reaction. "Excellent." He took her bag. "If you would join me in my office?"

His "office" was no larger than the cook's closet at Pitchawam House. After hooking her bag on a peg, he hurriedly gathered numerous papers from a stool.

He looked to the right and left, but there was no clear surface to set them on. His half desk was completely covered, and rolls of paper had been crammed into every pigeonhole above it. Even the floor was covered with his papers.

Giving her an apologetic grin, he set the stack on the floor next to the stool and held out a hand. Taking it, she picked her way across the room and settled on the stool.

"Now," he said. "Tell me where you are from."

"Granby, Ma.s.sachusetts. I've only just arrived, so please forgive my appearance."

His long legs filled the s.p.a.ce beneath his desk. "No need for apologies, Miss Ivey, is it?"

"Yes. Ivey with an E-Y."

Picking up a pen, he wrote her name in lovely script across the top of a fresh piece of parchment. "Tell me, Miss Ivey, why do you wish to emigrate to the Washington Territory?"

"I read your pamphlet, The Great North-West, and found myself caught up with the idea of going to this Eden you've described."

Pleasure touched his rust-colored eyes. "You read my booklet?"

"I did, sir. I have it with me now, though it is quite dog-eared, I'm afraid."

He smiled. "Can you write as well as read?"

"Proficiently."

He made a note on the paper, dipped his pen in an inkwell, then held it poised. "And your family?"

"My ancestors are Scots, though my parents grew up in England. They came to America in fifty-one. I was four at the time."

"Your father's occupation?"

"He stained and embossed wallpaper." She rubbed her arms beneath her cape. "Actually, he invented a machine that made his handiwork unnecessary. His employer claimed and utilized the invention. So the very thing my father placed all his dreams upon proved to be the rock which destroyed his livelihood."

"I see." Mr. Mercer shook his head in sympathy as he continued to write. "What did he do then?"

"He joined the war."

"Ah. He's home, then?"

"No, he was killed at Antietam."

Mercer continued to write. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"How is your family faring without him?"

She lowered her gaze. "Shortly after he died, my brother joined up as a drummer. He didn't last even a year. But it was disease that killed him, not the rebels. My mother . . ." Anna swallowed. "She never recovered."

"You are orphaned, then?"

"Quite. And dest.i.tute as well, I'm afraid."

He paused in his scribblings. "You have money for the pa.s.sage, though?"

She moistened her lips. "I do not." She had spent a fair portion of her funds for the train ticket and needed more still for lodging.

He laid down his pen.

"I could pay you once I arrived and secured employment, though."

Mercer began to shake his head, so she rushed on.

"I saw in your ad that work as a domestic, teacher, or nanny was guaranteed. I'm not a trained teacher, though I am very well-read and believe I could teach. But I'd be better suited as a domestic or nanny. You see, I took charge of our home almost from the moment my father enlisted. After he was gone, I held many jobs, the latest as a cook for a popular inn in Granby."

He'd placed his pen back in its holder and had moved his notes to the side, when her last comment stalled him. "A cook, you say?"

"Yes. I prepared the menu and all courses for the morning, noon, and evening meals, having only Sundays off."

"You can cook for large crowds?"

"I can. And I'm most accomplished at it."

Mercer leaned back in his chair. "Well. We aren't taking any pa.s.sengers on credit, but there is one man who wanted a br-, a woman who could feed the men who work for him."

She straightened. "Well, I daresay he'd be very pleased with me."

Mercer gave her a quick appraisal. "I daresay he would."

"How many men does he employ?"

"He's a lumberjack. I'm not sure how many men are involved in his operation. No more than a dozen, I'd say, if that."

A lumberjack. The word conjured up visions of pine forests, fresh air, and wilderness-something far removed from the bustling city, the aftermath of the war, and Hoke Dantzler.

"Goodness," she said, a flicker of antic.i.p.ation whisking through her. "I could feed a dozen men with one hand tied behind my back."

He rubbed his hands against his legs. "Well, he was very specific with his request. So, if I allowed you pa.s.sage, it would be on the condition that he paid your fare upon arrival and you would then have to work off your debt for him."

"I'm agreeable to those terms, if he is."

Mercer said nothing. Just stared into s.p.a.ce. She could see his inner struggle. Was he worried she wouldn't measure up to her new employer?

Sitting a little straighter, she forced herself not to squirm.

Finally, he turned again to his desk and retrieved his pen. "Very well, Miss Ivey. I will draw up your papers and award you pa.s.sage to the Washington Territory on the S.S. Continental."

CHAPTER THREE.

THE LACROSE DEMOCRAT.

At 3 p.m. the n.o.ble S.S. Continental left her berth at pier 2 N.R. carrying off a petticoat brigade for the benefit of the long-haired miners and miserable old bachelors of the Pacific NorthWest. The cargo of Bay State Virgins sailed off in black stockings, candlewick garters, shirtwaists, spit curls, green specs, false teeth and a thirst for chewing gum.

First Night at Sea January 18, 1866 The more the ship rolled, the more Anna's concern grew. A chopping wind howled against the side of the vessel. Loose hairpins and toothbrushes tumbled to the floor, clattering across it. The greatest noise by far, however, came from the women sharing her cabin. Moans overlaid with anguish filled its narrow confines.

Rising from her bunk, Anna decided if she was going home to meet Jesus, she didn't want to be in her nightdress. Stumbling about, she located her clothes, pulled them on, and stepped from the stateroom.

A jet of icy water impaled her, stealing her breath and soaking her from head to toe.

Pressing a hand against the wall, she gasped for air, salt stinging her eyes. Then panic shot a rush of energy through her.

Good heavens. Had the ship been hit? Sprung a leak? She looked up and down the pa.s.sageway. Should she alert the crew or the women?

The sound of retching across the hall decided it for her. Corralling the women above deck without help would be an exercise in futility. She flew down the saloon, up the stairs, and flung open a door of a cabin on the portside.

The ship gave a roll starboard, throwing her into the arms of Mr. Conant, a reporter for the New York Times she had seen earlier on deck.

Grasping her around the waist, he pulled her into his cabin and slammed the door shut. The shock of their positions held them both speechless for a second or two.