The Other Bride. Lisa Bingham
the gentleman who had come to her aid on the deck of the ship. He had been so kind….
And yet there was far more to the encounter than a chance meeting with an unfamiliar man who had offered her comfort. His nearness had thrilled her in a way she had never experienced before. From the moment he had spoken to her, she had been tuned to his nearness, his height, his strength. His muffled voice had been deep and warm, yet had retained a harder edge—like velvet over steel.
If only there had been more time.
If only she’d seen his face.
“Here you are, miss.”
The cabby pulled to a halt so abruptly that Phoebe was nearly jolted from her seat.
Her face grew hot. The time had long since come for her to gain control of her wayward thoughts. She was engaged to a farmer in Oregon. She had no business mooning over a stranger she’d encountered during her journey.
Straightening her bonnet, Phoebe jabbed the hatpin through the brim with a bit more force than necessary, then dug into her reticule for the amount she owed the cabby. She would do well to remember who she was. Phoebe Gray, a mild, hardworking Christian woman with a long journey still ahead of her.
Reminded of her new persona, Phoebe thanked the cabby for his efforts, adding a penny tip from her neat stash of coins. Hefting her satchel, she marched up the sidewalk and twisted the gleaming brass doorknob.
“Come in,” a distant voice called from within.
Stepping into the dim interior, she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but even before they did, she absorbed the smells of lemon-scented furniture polish and baking bread.
A plump woman wearing a brown wool day dress, an oversize apron and a lace cap bustled into the room. “Hello, dear. May I help you?”
“Yes. My name is L—” Phoebe’s face flamed. Here was her first encounter with a stranger and she’d nearly made the mistake of using her real name. Never, never, never, she chided herself. You are Phoebe now. Phoebe Gray.
Clearing her throat, she began again. “My name is Phoebe Gray. I was told to meet with—”
Phoebe didn’t have a chance to finish. The woman began clucking in concern. Taking the satchel from Phoebe’s fingers, she looped her arm through her elbow and drew her irresistibly toward a narrow staircase.
“I’m Mrs. Cates, the proprietor.” She clucked again. “My dear, my poor, poor dear. You’ve arrived at last and just in time to discover that your journey is over before it’s begun.”
A moment passed before Phoebe caught the full meaning of what the woman was saying.
“Over? What do you mean, over? Did the Overland group leave earlier than planned? Did I miss the train?”
Mrs. Cates wagged her head and her many chins trembled. “No, dear. It’s worse than that. Far worse.”
Mrs. Cates steadfastly ushered her to the top of the staircase, but once there, Phoebe planted her feet and refused to budge. “Mrs. Cates, please. Tell me what’s happened.”
The proprietress sighed. “The other girls are in here,” she said, gesturing to a small sitting room visible through a pair of double doors. “I’ll let them explain everything, poor darlings.”
With that, she urged Phoebe forward and into the parlor.
Upon stepping across the threshold, Phoebe found the room cluttered with luggage and women. Like her, some of the girls were still dressed in dusty traveling suits, while others must have been in residence at the boardinghouse long enough to grow comfortable with their surroundings.
A quick count assured Phoebe that there were eight women present. The youngest, a delicate blonde who stared wistfully out the window, looked to be barely more than fifteen. From there, the average age of the women seemed to range from Phoebe’s twenty-one to a tall statuesque woman of at least fifty.
“Ladies, here’s the last of your group. Miss Phoebe Gray.”
The women turned to greet her. But even as they smiled or nodded, it was clear the mood of the group was glum.
“Miss Gray, may I introduce Twila Getts.” Mrs. Cates referred to the statuesque older woman with silver-blond hair combed sternly away from a center part. “She’ll be marrying a minister in Oregon.”
Twila extended a hand and gripped Phoebe’s firmly.
Mrs. Cates continued. “These lovely ladies, as you can tell, are twins. Maude and Mable Wilde.”
The twins appeared to be in their mid-thirties, with mud-brown hair drawn into identical swirling knots at their napes.
“We were teachers at a private school in London before deciding the educator’s life wasn’t nearly as keen as we’d hoped it would be.”
The sisters grinned as if sharing a private joke.
“They’ll be marrying a pair of twin brothers in the Willamette valley,” Mrs. Cates offered. She then turned to another pair of women. “This is Greta Schmidt, from Germany, and Heidi Van Peltzer, from Austria.”
Greta had white-blond hair arranged in two round rolls over her ears. Heidi’s hair was only slightly darker and had been wound in plaits around the crown of her head.
“They don’t speak English,” Mrs. Cates whispered—as if by lowering her voice, the announcement would be less shocking. “They’re bound for a dairy farm run by a pair of Scandinavians.”
Mrs. Cates tugged Phoebe in the direction of a swooning couch. A beautiful dark-haired beauty reclined against the tufted velvet. Despite the introductions, she continued to read a book.
“This is Doreen Llewelyn-Bowes.”
Doreen briefly glanced up from her novel. She offered a smile that was somehow lacking in warmth, then returned to the volume of poetry.
Mrs. Cates seemed relieved to be so summarily dismissed. “This is Edith Diggery,” she said, her tone bright again. She drew Phoebe toward a delicate blond girl at the window.
“She’s an orphan, poor lass,” Mrs. Cates said under her breath. “Her father made provisions for her to marry the son of a friend.”
Edith offered Phoebe a nervous half smile, and Phoebe’s heart ached for the girl. Surely this youngster wasn’t ready for the demands of marriage, especially to a stranger.
“And this is Betty Brown.”
Betty jumped from her spot on the settee and bounded toward them.
“I’m from Long Island, so I haven’t come very far at all, but I’m destined to marry a schoolteacher in Oregon whose name is Harry. Isn’t that a rather funny name? Harry? I wrote to him and asked if it was short for something, Harold or Horace, but he wrote back to say, no, it’s just Harry. Plain old Harry.”
Phoebe immediately warmed to the gregarious girl with the snapping blue eyes.
“It doesn’t matter what his name is,” Doreen drawled from the swooning couch. “You won’t be seeing him anytime soon.”
The joy dimmed from Betty’s eyes as quickly as it had come. “Oh,” she offered forlornly. “That’s right.”
“What’s happened?” Phoebe breathed, almost afraid to discover what calamity could be preventing their journey.
“It’s that blasted Overland Settlers Company,” Betty said with a sniff. “They’ve absolutely forbidden us to accompany them on their trip West.”
Phoebe felt her stomach lurch. A fuzzy blackness swam in front of her eyes, but with a great strength of will she managed to push it away.
“Help her to the couch, ladies, or she’ll swoon!” Mrs. Cates sang out. Several helping hands moved her to an overstuffed settee near the window.