Want Ad Wife. Katy Madison
chin high.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Olsen.
Yeah, John rather suspected he’d not gotten off to the best start with his new wife.
My name is Selina Montgomery. I am the oldest of five. After my father passed I began working in a cotton mill, as my mother couldn’t afford to take care of all of us.
I live in a boardinghouse with my two close friends and fellow mill girls, Anna and Olivia.
I am a hard worker, frugal and of a generally cheerful nature. I get along with most everyone and make friends easily. My closest friends would describe me as determined and practical.
Selina scrubbed the brush across the cold stove surface and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her bun. She had no idea when John might be finished in the store, but she didn’t dare go ask him. If he wanted her to clean and take care of their home, then that was what she’d do. She would have, anyway. But she’d thought if she showed him how much she was willing to help in every way, he’d be glad of it—of her.
But he’d been gritting his teeth, likely to hold back anger, when he’d told her to go unpack. That she’d angered him so soon after becoming his wife had her heart twisting and her stomach churning. Granted, it was mostly her fault the flour had spilled. But surely he had to recognize it was an accident.
She hadn’t realized she would bump him when she bent over. She’d known he was behind her, but she’d been trying very hard to sort the mail as quickly and efficiently as possible. She didn’t want him thinking he’d married a lazybones. She intended to become so invaluable to him that he’d never regret marrying her.
Since she’d been banished to their living quarters, she’d cleaned every surface in his—now their—stifling hot apartment. The place had been neat and swept, but since he kept insisting her place was taking care of the house, she presumed he wanted her not to merely unpack, but to start in on housekeeping.
She heard a steady thump, thump, which could be John walking up the stairs or a hammer working in the distance. All day long she’d heard the sounds of new construction, the clicking of the myriad windmills, the creak and clop of wagons passing in the street. Too many times already she’d thought it was John ascending the stairs to call her back, but it never was.
In spite of her dismissal of the noise, her heart raced. Still, she wouldn’t run to the door and peer down the stairs to see if he was coming. She’d done that once, to see him stacking crates in the storeroom. He’d looked up at her, but hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t taken a step toward her. She’d simply left the door open and returned to scrubbing the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asked from the doorway.
“Settling in,” she said flatly.
He stood in his white shirt, the sleeves folded back, exposing sinewy forearms. Her eyes were drawn to the long length of his legs under his black trousers. Her breath caught and her knees threatened to buckle if she left the support of the stove.
His head turned, but his eyes stayed on her for a second before he looked around the room. The space was large, probably three times the size of the room she, Anna and Olivia had shared in the boardinghouse back in Connecticut. A bed was in the back, a small sofa and an overstuffed chair in the middle, then the table she’d covered with an embroidered cloth stood nearest the stairs.
“Everything is sparkling.” His brows drew together. “You didn’t have to spend all afternoon cleaning.”
Was he displeased with her efforts? Just what had he expected her to do, twiddle her thumbs all afternoon? “I am in the habit of working, not sitting idle.”
His eyes came back to her, but he’d yet to step into the room.
Suddenly unable to stand still, she swiped a towel across the stove surface, wiping the suds away. A good wife would cross the room and welcome her husband home with a kiss.
“I didn’t want you to work on your wedding day,” he said.
“You did.” Had he expected her to laze about, waiting for him to finish for the day? She couldn’t stand to do nothing, because then she would think of the son she’d left behind.
John’s shoulders lifted. “I would have lost too much custom if I closed the store. Tomorrow will be the same until the packet ship leaves for San Francisco. In the afternoon, I can show you the ropes.”
“Did I do so badly sorting the mail?” she asked, drying her hands.
Was he waiting for her to greet him in the doorway? He’d yet to step inside. She just couldn’t bring herself to close the space and offer up a kiss. She’d wanted a different start, too. She’d expected to be carried over the threshold the first time she entered her new home as a new bride, but that hadn’t happened, either.
“It, uh, no.” His face darkened. “You’re a great distraction.”
She had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry?”
“I couldn’t concentrate on orders with you so close. You’re—you’re so...such a beauty.”
It took her a second to realize he’d complimented her. In an odd way it almost felt like an accusation of intentional disruption, but then the very awkwardness of it convinced her that he was sincere. Warmth crept under her breastbone.
His face screwed up. “I knew you were pretty from your picture, but I didn’t realize how pretty until you were standing beside me in the church.”
The corners of her mouth curled. “Took you that long?”
He smiled back and the tightness in her neck eased away. If only being pretty was enough to keep a man around. Her mother had been pretty, but that hadn’t kept her father from abandoning them and leaving them destitute.
“I think we’ve gotten off to a bit of a bad start,” she offered. “Perhaps we should begin anew.” Men weren’t always clear in their speech. She knew that. Otherwise she never would have been in the predicament she’d been in, where she’d had no choice but to do horrible things to survive. So it was up to her to try and bridge the gap. She took a step toward him. “You said you’d arranged for our supper?”
He nodded and stepped into the room. “Let me wash up and then we can go to the hotel.”
That was the crux of it. Marrying someone you knew only from letters was awkward, and they were both feeling their way.
* * *
After a short walk through the streets, John led Selina into a large white building with marble floors and flocked wallpaper. The hotel was barely a year old, he told her as she looked around with wide eyes. He wondered if she’d expected Stockton to be as uncivilized as the rest of the West. There were still differences between California and back East, but Stockton was quickly becoming just as modern as any city in the world, maybe even more modern, because there weren’t any old buildings, and only a handful built more than a dozen years earlier.
Before he could say boo, they were being shown into a large dining room with a few men—properly dressed men—sitting at various tables. Most of them watched Selina, although she didn’t seem to notice as she commented on how elegant the dining room looked in a hushed, reverent voice.
The maître d’hôtel showed them to a linen-covered table in an alcove. He lit a candle in the center of the table next to a spray of flowers, congratulated them on their marriage and promised their waiter would arrive shortly.
In short order a plate of bread and butter was on the table, bowls of tomato soup were in front of them and wine filled their glasses.
Selina pulled her napkin into her lap.
The first course conversation was little more than a polite exchange