Mail Order Bride: Winter (Bride For All Seasons 4)

Chapter Thirteen

“YOU, MY FRIEND, ARE on what one calls the horns of a dilemma,” opined Abigail that evening.

Here it was, Monday night, and Hannah had had no intention of letting an outsider know what was—due to her own demented scheme—creating such havoc in her existence. It was shameful, in a way, and she was embarrassed that she had gotten herself into such a fix. But the sky was dark, with but a few lonely stars peeking through cloud cover, and the air was chill but edged with a promise of warmth, and she was feeling overwhelmed.

Her route to Mrs. McKnight’s boarding house led conveniently right past the Table. Mellow candle flame and lamp light, set upon tables and hanging from an overhead chandelier, beckoned to the weary passerby, “Come inside”; someone was strumming softly on a guitar, and the spicy scents of ginger and cinnamon issued forth as an extra draw. Almost involuntarily, she found her feet taking her up the two steps and through the oak and beveled glass door into the rooms that never failed to enchant.

Enough customers / guests were milling about, here and there, for Abigail to consider any purchases as a success day of selling. One woman was sorting through the hand-milled French soaps; another had decided to try on bracelets, in all their sparkling glory; tw

o others, seated in the parlor, were sipping tea from the shop’s finest cups and enjoying a few minutes of gossip.

“Well, did someone important die and no one told me about the funeral?” came Abigail’s quizzical greeting. She was, as usual, dressed in one of her most expensive outfits, a prim and proper black velvet overlaid by intricate pure white lace.

Hannah snorted. She was tired. She was dejected. She was ready, for no reason that could be ascertained, to drag herself home for a good cry.

Her hostess looked her up and down. “M’h’m. Come with me, my dear. I have just the thing.”

“Just the thing” turned out to be a retreat set up in Abigail’s private office, with a half-cup of steaming oolong finished off by a good helping of rich brown Cognac.

“Oh,” said Hannah after a sip. Her eyes widened.

“Tasty, yes? Here, have a bit more.”

By the time her cup had been emptied, Hannah’s eyes were not only still widened but slightly glazed, and both cheeks wore a brilliant patch of pink. “My goodness.” She was wielding her napkin as fan, to bring forth a cooling current of air. “I feel better already.”

“I thought you might,” said Abigail with a knowing smile. “Just don’t let this sort of thing become a habit. I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for your making nightly rounds of all the saloons in town. Now. Want to talk about it?”

The liquor loosened her tongue. It was a good thing, Hannah thought, much later, coming so belatedly to herself, that she had had no family secrets or political scandals to reveal. She opened her mouth, and, unrestrained, the words simply flowed out like a freshet.

After she had finally emptied herself of the whole sordid story, Abigail merely sat and digested what she had been told. Then had come the comment about horns of a dilemma.

“Have you made a decision as to what you’ll do with this unwelcome suitor when he arrives on—well, it’s to be any day now, isn’t it?”

“Yes. No,” confessed Hannah miserably. “I mean, no decision. I suppose I could leave town.”

“Uh-huh. And you can afford that, can you?”

Her posture slumped. “Not at all. Nor would I have any idea where to go. May I have some more tea, please?”

Abigail shrewdly eyed her guest. “Certainly. Without the addition this time, I’m thinking. I”ve no wish to have gossip bruited about as to why one of my lady friends needed transport home after visiting here. Bad for business, you know. Not to mention your reputation. So, you’ll just hide in your room until this wonderful inamorato gets tired of waiting for you to appear?”

“Nor that. I am in a quandary.”

“You certainly are. H’mmm.” Another long, slow sip of her own oolong, aided by congenial Cognac’s spirits, helped her consider possibilities. “Are you afraid of meeting him, Hannah?”

“Afraid? Noooo... Embarrassed, more than anything.”

“How so?”

Squirming in her plush upholstered chair like a child due for verbal discipline, Hannah struggled to answer. “I suppose because—well, I was the one who initiated our—um—mail order courtship. I was the one who answered Ualraig’s advertisement. I was the first to write. I was the one who kept probing for information.”

“Speaking as one who has been through your experience, I can certainly sympathize.”

“I wanted—I wanted courtship, to have a gentleman pursue me, instead of the other way around. Now—well, I simply want this to be over and done with!”

“Oh, Hannah, honey.” Abigail looked stricken. “But this Ualraig fellow could hardly court you, or pursue you, until he’s actually here, could he?”

“No.” A small voice, a sad, regretful voice. “No.”