A Mistaken Match. Whitney Bailey
laughed bitterly. James didn’t join her. “You aren’t serious?” she asked.
“Those who know I chose an agency to find a bride already think I’m peculiar. It won’t seem odd to them that you decided not to marry me. And with Uncle Mac here, there’s no reason for anyone to think the arrangement improper.”
“And what if you change your mind about me in the meantime?” Her stomach plummeted and her cheeks burned. Why had she asked that? He must think her positively desperate.
James’s feet stopped tapping and his eyes locked with hers. “You aren’t supposed to be here, Ann. We must right this mistake.”
The resolve in his voice broke something inside her. Her body ached with exhaustion. She’d come so very far, only to be turned away. Soon she’d be completely alone in this world. Ann had been so afraid of rejection, but never in her wildest dreams had she believed it would be because of this. She blinked hard, but it didn’t squelch the tears. They spilled over her lashes and spattered the tabletop.
James reached for her hand and squeezed it tight. She allowed him to hold it, though she desired to wrench it away. “Ann, you’re a fine girl. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife. But I’m also certain if you’re here, some heartbroken fool has been sent the homeliest girl in all of England.” She forced a laugh, and he gripped her hand tighter. She wanted to squeeze his hand back until he yelped in pain. “Don’t you see? We must make this right.”
She nodded, but the desire to pinch his fingers between her own remained. Ann dried her tears with a handkerchief from her pocket, and James excused himself to fill her pitcher. The moment the door closed behind him she snatched the papers from the table and turned them over.
Dear Mrs. Turner,
It is with regret I must write to you so soon. Your agency assured me you would deal with any issues should they arise, and I have an urgent and pressing concern. As you must recall, my only request for a match was the girl be plain. The match you have sent to me, Miss Ann Cromwell, is the most beautiful girl I have ever—
The letter ended there and she flipped the pages back over a second before James returned. He handed her the pitcher.
“I should have voiced my concern the moment we met. Please forgive me.”
Ann forced a weak smile. “It was an overwhelming moment for us both.”
His shoulders slackened and he let out a long breath. “I appreciate your understanding.”
Back in her bedroom, Ann splashed her face with cold water and tried to absorb what had happened. Mrs. Turner’s voice echoed in her head, as clear as in her office. This is your match, Ann. You must try to make it work. No dejected and miserable banker had greeted his plain bride today, with only his immense wealth to ease his disappointment. No lonely oil baron. If James didn’t want her, no one did. The agency intended her to be here or nowhere.
As she readied for bed, Ann sorted through her hopelessly tangled thoughts. There had to be something she could do. She’d been faced with a seemingly insurmountable hardship before. She would simply have to work out her next course of action. She stretched out on the bed and stared at a crack in the ceiling. She had to think! She couldn’t return to London. Even if she could somehow pay for the passage, it pained her to even contemplate the life waiting for her there. No, she could not go back.
She had only one choice. Stay in America. Hadn’t she heard someone on the steamship call it “the land of opportunity”? But could a young girl really support herself here, with no family and no references?
Ann couldn’t cook, of that she was certain, but her years of experience as a maid had to be an asset. She hadn’t noticed many fine houses in New Haven, but there must be wealthy people nearby, and the wealthy were always in need of domestic help. She only had to seek them out and offer her services. She’d never imagined working as a scullery maid again, but without references, she would have to start again at the bottom. The wages were sure to be poor, and the tasks backbreaking, but they were backbreaking in England, too, and she’d survived them before. She was still young, strong. At least she would have food in her belly and a roof over her head.
Sleep didn’t come easy that night. The house remained quiet but Ann’s thoughts did not. Each time her eyes closed, she saw herself on the streets. Sometimes in England. Other times, America. No matter the location, the image sent her pulse racing.
When sleep finally overcame her, fear haunted her dreams. Night fell and a destitute Ann lived in a filthy alley overrun by rats. She found a quiet corner and curled into a ball in a desperate attempt at sleep. As she closed her eyes in exhaustion, a ghastly howl pierced the quiet of the night. A moment before she’d been alone. Now a screaming baby in a bundle of rags wailed into Ann’s chest. Its face reddened with each cry, and from its open cave of a mouth spilled forth the most horrible sound she’d ever heard.
Ann awoke with a start and shuddered. The room remained dark and she threw back the sheets now soaked with sweat. It had been over two years since she’d heard that cry. Two years of trying to forget. Now it echoed in her ears as if she’d last heard it yesterday. Ann hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth.
Please, Lord, she prayed. May I never have that horrid dream again.
* * *
James couldn’t get comfortable. He’d slept on the back porch countless nights before, but tonight the hammock sagged more than usual, his pillow lumped beneath his head and the still air drew every mosquito within a mile to his breath. He stretched a tattered quilt over his face but only succeeded in trapping several whining insects beneath it.
Why did she have to be beautiful? Certainly plain girls were everywhere, if the population of New Haven was any indication. Did the British consider Ann homely? James chuckled at the ridiculous thought. An island nation populated entirely by women as exquisitely attractive as Ann Cromwell would be a sight to see.
Hours passed and sleep never came. Soon it would be light and the chance for rest would be gone. A mournful moo echoed through the barn beside him. James flipped from the hammock onto his feet and stretched his arms until they touched the bead board of the porch ceiling. No sense waiting another hour to milk the cow. It might help keep his mind occupied on anything other than the woman asleep upstairs.
When dawn peeked her head over the horizon, James had completed all of his prebreakfast chores, mucked out the horse stall and reorganized his hand tools. He would have repainted the whole house if it meant avoiding Ann for a few more minutes. His stomach grumbled loudly and he sighed in defeat. He would have to go inside eventually.
Lord, please let her hair be up, he prayed as he entered. James didn’t think he could stand the temptation of seeing her blond hair cascading over her shoulders again as it had the night before. When she’d entered the kitchen, it had taken everything he had not to tear up the letter to Mrs. Turner right then and there. But that wouldn’t have been fair to any of them. This wasn’t where she belonged.
Something felt different when he entered the house. The soles of his boots left gray ghosts of dust on the floor as he walked. Odd. They’d never done that before.
Ann stood at the stove. He was thankful to note that her hair was pinned up. He grunted a hello, poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked.
He nodded into his cup.
“Will your uncle be joining us?”
“Uncle Mac takes most meals in his room. If he doesn’t come down shortly, you can take some up to him.”
Ann cracked two eggs into the skillet from the basketful he’d collected early that morning and left in the kitchen long before Ann awoke. They sent up a sizzle and added a homey scent to the new and pleasant odor in the room. When had he smelled it before? Something was definitely different. The white of the baseboards gleamed whiter. The red-checked curtain over the window hung crisp and vibrant. And the floor had been scrubbed! He realized that