A Mistaken Match. Whitney Bailey
lives here in town.”
“Shall we be seeing him in town tomorrow, or is he visiting your home?”
“I’m sorry?”
She cocked her head to one side. “He said he would see us tomorrow.”
Creamed spinach caught in his throat and his eyes watered. He took several gulps of water to keep from choking. “He did, didn’t he?” he croaked.
How could he explain this one? He would have to tell her the truth. At least part of it. “The agency said some couples marry almost immediately,” he blurted.
For the first time Ann’s calm demeanor broke. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes widened. Her hand trembled as she reached for her water glass. “Yes, Mrs. Turner said some choose to marry rather quickly.”
“So I’d made an appointment with Judge Vollrath at the courthouse for tomorrow. I’d planned for Frederick to meet us there and act as a witness.”
Ann bobbled her water glass but righted it before any liquid spilled. “You did?”
“But I’ve decided to cancel,” he added quickly. “It seems hasty.” Why hadn’t he started by saying that? Something about Ann Cromwell made it hard for him to put his thoughts in the proper order. He chastised himself as the red in her cheeks faded, returning them to their natural rosy hue.
“Mrs. Turner said many couples like to get to know one another before they marry. Assuming, of course, there is no—” she paused and her cheeks flushed again “—impropriety.”
Something about her embarrassment made James’s heart leap in his chest. It took everything he had not to reach across the table and take her hand in reassurance.
“I’m afraid I can’t afford to put you up anywhere, but my Uncle Mac lives with me. Never leaves the house, in fact. Would you object to him serving as our chaperone?”
She shook her head. “That sounds quite acceptable. I don’t imagine Mrs. Turner would object.”
James speared an impossibly thin potato with his fork and pushed it around the gold-rimmed plate. His next questions required delicacy. He knew nothing of Mrs. Turner and the Transatlantic Agency outside a brief correspondence and their ad in the New Haven Gazette. Fine English Girls Seeking Home and Hearth in America.
“I completed a profile for Mrs. Turner. Did you do the same?” He tried to sound casual.
“We all did. She also conducted extensive interviews before she matched us.”
James feigned immense interest in the pattern on his silverware. “So there were a lot of girls at the agency? And they all matched with someone?”
“Oh yes. Dozens of girls came in every week, and all very eager to live in America. Most were matched with men far west of here. The Great American Frontier, I believe?”
James chuckled. “If you believe the newspaper advertisements.” So the agency teemed with potential brides, and he’d been matched with this one. She hadn’t been sent due to a lack of other options.
Ann leaned forward and cocked her blond head. Her soft blue eyes gazed at him expectantly. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Yes. Why on earth did the agency match me with you when I specifically requested a plain bride?
Ann had hoped her meal with James McCann might break down this peculiar wall between them, but as he guided her to the wagon, she could almost palpate the barrier. She knew things would be awkward at first—the agency had prepared her for that—but she hadn’t expected the bewildered greeting or the clear discomfort.
They were both nervous, she reminded herself. She simply hid her nerves better. If only he knew how her breath had caught in her throat when she first laid eyes on him. She’d been expecting an ugly man, not a handsome one who sent her pulse racing. Perhaps if he knew, he could make eye contact with her for more than mere seconds.
James released her hand the instant she alighted from the wagon, as if her touch burned him. She glanced back at her trunk for the first time. A beautiful quilt lay folded on top. A pattern of intertwining gold circles rested on a background of forest green and sky blue.
“What’s this?” For a moment, she forgot the awkwardness between them and held up the quilt.
James glanced over as he juggled the reins. “It’s a present from Frederick.”
“A present for me?”
His cheeks flushed crimson. “For us. A sort of early wedding present.”
“Who made it?” Ann unfolded the quilt to examine it further. Even from a distance she knew it had been made by an expert hand. Up close the stitching proved exquisite.
“Frederick’s cousin is a seamstress’s apprentice. She works over there.” He pointed to a brick storefront with a bright blue awning squeezed between the tobacco shop and a mercantile.
“From this work she looks to be more than an apprentice.” She made a quick count of the stitches. “Why, there look to be fourteen stitches per inch!”
“You know quilting?” He sounded surprised.
Ann smiled. “Yes, well, embroidery mostly. Though I love any kind of stitching. The more stitches in an inch, the more accomplished the quilter. This work is some of the finest I’ve ever seen.”
“You didn’t mention it in your letter.”
There had been only two short letters exchanged between them before Ann had left. The expanse of the ocean made it difficult to have any kind of courtship. How very much like strangers they were.
“Your letter didn’t say much either.” Four paragraphs. He summed up his life in four short paragraphs.
They left the town behind, and James took off his hat and ran his hand through his thick sandy hair. The wind tousled it and gave him a decidedly boyish appearance. She studied his face. He possessed a straight, strong nose and finely lined lips. James McCann proved as handsome as they come.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
Ann clapped her hands together. Finally! “How much time do we have?”
“The ride back to the farm is around forty-five minutes this time of year.”
Her stomach dropped, but she tried not to show her disappointment. It had been years since she’d lived more than a few blocks from the nearest store. “Isn’t that a rather long time?”
“Quite a short time. In the spring the skies open and this road turns to mud. That’s why it’s called Mud Pike. When the road turns soggy it takes two, maybe three times as long. On those days it’s faster to walk.”
The sticky heat of the summer evening clung to Ann’s back. She tried to push the thought of walking to town as far away as spring felt.
“You’re a farmer, aren’t you?”
James nodded.
“Are you originally from New Haven?”
James only nodded again. Ann sighed. She needed a new line of questioning.
“How old are you?” She tried.
James turned to her. “Didn’t the agency tell you all of this?”
“Yes, but I wanted to hear these things from you.”
“I’m twenty-five. You’re eighteen, right?”
“Nineteen in September.”
Ann waited for him to ask her a question but he remained silent.
“Isn’t