Accidental Courtship. Lisa Bingham
Nevertheless, she opened the door only a few inches and peered out, hoping it would prove unnecessary to step into the cold.
She sagged in relief when she found Creakle grinning at her, his hat in his hands. But she couldn’t help looking past him to see if Jonah was there, as well.
“Morning, missy!”
“Mr. Creakle.”
“This here’s Willoughby Smalls.”
Creakle pointed to his companion, who had to be at least seven feet tall with a squared-off jaw and a body as big and broad as a mountain.
“Mr. Smalls.”
“Willoughby don’t talk none, on account of how he was hit in the throat by a falling beam. But if you ever need some heavy liftin’, he’s your man.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smalls. I appreciate that kind offer.”
She thought the man might have blushed as he continued to stare at her, his grin growing wider with each passing moment. But when he didn’t speak, she finally prompted, “Did you men need something?”
“Oh. Oh, yes!” Creakle stepped back and made a flourishing sweep of his hand to something beyond her range of sight. “I’d ferget my head if’n it weren’t screwed on. Jonah asked me t’ make sure you got this.”
She slipped through the door and shut it tightly behind her. But when she saw the neat stacks of trunks and valises piled on the boardwalk, she couldn’t help gasping in delight.
“How on earth did Mr. Ramsey manage to do all this so quickly?”
Creakle snickered. “He offered the men two bits fer every trunk they managed t’ deliver before noon.” He nudged Smalls in the side with his elbow. “Willoughby an’ me have already made ourselves more’n five bucks a piece.” He glanced down at a watch he pulled from his vest. “I ’spect you’ll have the rest of it delivered by lunchtime.” He nodded and jammed his hat over his head. “Now, I know how you womenfolk like to have things just so, so’s I’m leaving Willoughby here t’ tote them trunks and boxes wherever you want them t’ go. Keep him with you as long as you like. He’s not due down in the mine until this evening.”
Creakle slid a glance in Smalls’s direction and the man nodded. Then, offering a hefty sigh, Creakle said, “Wish I could stay an’ help, but I’m needed at the office.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Good mornin’ t’ you, ma’am.” Then he began marching in the direction of the mine offices.
It was only then that Sumner became aware of several men in black wool coats posted near the main door and at either end of the Miners’ Hall.
“Mr. Creakle!”
He turned, squinting in her direction. “Yes, ma’am?”
Sumner couldn’t think of a discreet way of asking, so she decided to be direct. “Who are these other gentlemen?”
The men in question turned, revealing that they had holsters strapped to their hips and carried rifles in addition to their revolvers.
“They’re the company Pinkertons, ma’am.”
Her gaze bounced over the Pinkertons, one by one. In addition to their identical wool coats, they wore dark navy tunics with shiny badges.
“Pinkertons? But why are they here?”
“This here’s a silver mine, Dr. Havisham. Y’ gotta have security in a place like this.”
She shook her head. “No, Mr. Creakle. That’s not what I meant. Why are these men here?”
She gestured with her finger to the Miners’ Hall.
Creakle shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Ramsey ordered it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Creakle began backing away from her.
“He said it was fer y’all’s protection.”
Protection?
Sumner stiffened, an old familiar resentment filling her like white-hot steam. Of all the low-down, sneaky, conniving tricks. A trio of armed Pinkertons had been stationed outside a building filled with women who were injured, traumatized and at the complete mercy of their unwilling hosts? And Mr. Ramsey wanted them all to believe that it was for their protection?
Apparently, she and Mr. Ramsey needed to have another talk.
“Lord, give me strength,” Sumner murmured to herself as she slapped her best bonnet on her head.
“What are you going to do?” Willow asked, reluctantly holding up a hand mirror so that Sumner could check her reflection.
Sumner had tried her best to keep the news of the Pinkertons a secret, but she hadn’t been very successful. Although many of the mail-order brides had been diverted with checking the contents of their trunks, changing into fresh frocks and setting up a washing station, a few of them had noticed the armed men posted outside their door. As Sumner shrugged into her coat, she spoke softly to the small knot of women who stood with her.
Besides Willow Granger, there was Iona Skye, a widow in her sixties who had traveled with them since New York City. Unable to make ends meet on her own, she was destined for her sister’s farm in California. Beside her stood Lydia Tomlinson, an effervescent blonde from Boston, who, along with Iona, were the only women not contracted to become mail-order brides. Lydia was en route to San Francisco, where she would embark on a lecture tour to spread the word about women’s suffrage and temperance. The last few members of the group hovering around Sumner were a trio of brides-to-be, Ruth Hubbard, Stefania Nicos and Marie Rousseau.
“What are you going to say to the man?” Stefania whispered.
Lydia scowled. “She’s going to tell Mr. Ramsey that we aren’t convicts, we’re stranded travelers.”
The conversation washed over Sumner as she checked her hair and gown as much as the small mirror would allow. Thankfully, among the trunks and valises that Mr. Smalls had carried into the hall, she’d managed to find her own things—and therefore, a change of clothing, her brush and a fresh stock of hairpins. Through it all, she’d tried her best to maintain a semblance of calm, but inwardly...
Inwardly, she’d been seething.
“Please don’t let me lose my temper,” she whispered under her breath.
Lydia Tomlinson must have heard her because she cocked her head to the side and offered, “Nonsense. You need to go into the office with guns blazing, Sumner. Don’t hide your emotions behind that unflappable English charm. Otherwise, they’ll be locking us in soon. And I, for one, am already stir-crazy.”
The other women nodded in agreement.
“We all know that the arrival of the Pinkertons—and the weak excuse of their being here for our protection—is nothing more than an opening volley in a declaration of war.”
Sumner supposed the other women were right. After conversing with Jonah Ramsey, she’d deluded herself into thinking that the man could be pragmatic, perhaps even a bit empathetic toward the women’s plight. And for one brief second, when she’d seen their belongings on the boardwalk, she’d believed the man might be persuaded to look at the situation from the women’s point of view.
She’d obviously been mistaken. Sadly mistaken. Apparently, Jonah Ramsey was cut from the same cloth as her father, her stepbrother, her professors and all of the other opinionated males she’d encountered over the past few years. Clearly, Sumner seemed doomed to butt heads with men who were determined to squash women into what they felt was “their place,” and the superintendent of the Batchwell Bottoms mine was no different.