Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson

       Chapter Five

      Louise had dressed and gone downstairs by the time Fiona awoke. She’d stayed up late making sure each survivor had enough to eat and a place to sleep. None of them could tell her if Sawyer lived. Guilt gnawed at the back of her mind even while she helped with blankets, nightgowns and hot tea.

      Only when Mrs. Calloway returned in the wee hours of the morning did she get her answer.

      “Chilled to the bone,” the boardinghouse proprietress had said. “Won’t surprise me if he catches a cold.”

      “But he’s alive.” Fiona had leaned against the wall, exhausted.

      “That he is.” Mrs. Calloway had said that with a twinkle in her eye. “No doubt he’ll come a callin’ soon as he can.”

      Fiona had made a flippant comment, trying to allay the woman’s matchmaking efforts, but deep inside she was truly grateful. At least she hadn’t caused his death by insisting he rescue her niece, who wasn’t even on the ship.

      “But they did manage to rescue everyone,” she’d commented.

      “That they did. My Ernie was right there at the forefront, bringin’ them up the dune to safety.”

      That must be why she was so relieved. Everyone was safe. Not just Sawyer. Then why did his face keep popping into her mind? Why recall the grace of his fingers moving across the piano keyboard? He never hit a sour note and never touched a piece of music. The first time she’d hummed a tune, and he then played it with harmony and bass notes included, she’d called him a modern-day Mozart. His face had actually gotten red.

      She smiled at the memory, but that’s all it was—a pleasant memory between two friends. Nothing more than that.

      Reassured, she had retired to the comfort of her stiff and somewhat lumpy mattress. It didn’t even bother her that Louise was already asleep and snoring softly.

      This morning, Fiona stretched her arms with a big yawn. Once she’d dressed and completed her toilette—all without seeing a soul—she headed downstairs. Just how long had she slept? The six ladies, who had received the upstairs rooms, were either still sleeping, or they’d been awake for some time.

      She got her answer the moment she set foot on the main floor. Giggling and excited exclamations came from the direction of the parlor. They were definitely awake.

      “Good morning, Miss Fiona.” Mrs. Calloway breezed from the kitchen with a platter of cinnamon rolls drizzled with sugar icing.

      Fiona’s stomach rumbled. “You’re serving breakfast?”

      “More like morning tea at this hour, but everyone woke at different hours. You’re the last.”

      The last. With a sigh, Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway into the dining room. An older gentleman—perhaps forty or so—and his wife sat across from each other at the table. Otherwise the room was empty.

      The man rose. “Good morning, Miss O’Keefe. You look lovely this morning.”

      Fiona accepted the compliment with a smile, though she scrambled to recall their names. They had arrived at the boardinghouse not long after she’d settled the young women in rooms.

      “I’m sorry I didn’t save a room for you,” she said as she took a seat. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

      “Understandable.” The gentleman settled back in his chair. “The situation was soon rectified. Miss Eaton and Miss Geneva agreed to share.”

      So he had taken care of matters himself. Fiona had never excelled as a hostess. Her talents lay elsewhere. Her mother would have realized the need from the start and doubled up everyone. Pearl and Amanda would likewise have assessed the situation correctly, but Pearl was helping the passengers clean up while Amanda manned the kitchen. Fiona assigned sleeping accommodations and distributed nightshirts and nightgowns, but her mind had gotten stuck wondering if Sawyer was alive.

      Fiona lifted a roll from the platter with the serving knife and set it on the plate in front of her before passing the platter to the husband and wife. If only she could recall their names!

      She forced a smile. “Are you familiar with the young women, then?”

      The wife chuckled, but her husband answered. “We are their escorts.”

      “Is one of them your daughter?”

      “No.” The woman laughed, but again she let her husband explain.

      He set down his cup of coffee. “We are escorting them to our community on Low Island.”

      Fiona had to admit ignorance. “Where is Low Island?”

      The man smiled graciously. “In northern Lake Michigan.”

      “I see. Forgive me, but I’m not from this area. I was born and raised in New York City.”

      “Is that so?” the man said while his wife made a surprised sound. “I have never been to that great city. How does it compare to Chicago?”

      Fiona had no answer for him. “I spent little time in Chicago before taking passage on a steamboat similar to the one you took here.”

      The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You were stranded here also?”

      “No. Not at all.” She didn’t feel like explaining the mail-order advertisement that had brought her here. “This is...a promising town.” The words stuck in her throat. It might have been if Roland Decker’s glassworks or Carson Blakeney’s new mill had gotten off the ground, but both ventures failed—though for entirely different reasons. Roland could not be blamed. A fire had destroyed his building before it was finished. Carson, on the other hand, was a coward and a liar. She suspected he had little intention of starting a new mill in a town that already boasted two sawmills.

      “I was hoping another ship would call here soon,” the gentleman was saying.

      She’d gone and let her mind drift again.

      “I’m sure one will.” She took a sip of her tea, which was piping hot. Mrs. Calloway always brought scalding hot tea to table this time of year since it cooled rapidly in the colder-than-normal dining room. “What is the name of the community, Mr...?”

      The man wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me. I should have realized you couldn’t possibly remember everyone’s name given the frantic nature of matters last night. I am Mr. George Adamson, and this is my wife, Bettina.”

      Even while completing introductions, a shriek of joy came from the parlor, followed by exclamations of “mine” and “no, mine.”

      Mr. Adamson frowned and set aside his napkin. “My apologies for their unseemly behavior. It will be put to a stop at once.”

      Mrs. Calloway, who could hear across town even when standing next to a running saw, breezed into the room with some of her apple chutney. “Never you mind, Mr. Adamson. It’s a pure delight to hear young ladies’ high spirits.”

      His frown didn’t ease.