The Matrimony Plan

“I prefer to walk.” She proceeded down the steps and away from the car.

“Now is not the time to show your independence, child.” Mother pressed a handkerchief to her forehead. “If only you could have inherited my good sense.”

“Eugenia,” Daddy warned.

Mother ignored him as always. “Felicity, come here. You are giving me a headache.”

Daddy paused at the driver’s door, walrus mustache bristling and linen jacket unbuttoned. “A walk’ll do her good, Eugenia. Get a little color in her cheeks. Want to make a good impression on the new pastor.”

Forget the pastor. Felicity had set her sights on the engineer.

Daddy started the car and put it into gear before Mother gathered wind for the next protest, but as the Packard lurched forward, she found her voice. “Don’t be late. Sophie Grattan will hold it over my head forever.”

Her plea trailed off as the car rolled down the driveway, leaving Felicity in wondrous calm. The birds chattered. Ms.

Priss crouched beneath a sugar maple, intent on a pair of cardinals who scolded and stayed well out of reach.

She had forty-five minutes until the train arrived, plenty of time to get to the depot before Sally Neidecker and the rest of the girls. The way they’d twittered about Mr. Blevins all week was sickening.

She strolled down the hill through Kensington Estates, passing the Neidecker home with its quaint Victorian gingerbread and the Williams’s squat prairie-style house. At the junction of Elm and Main, motorcars mixed with the occasional horse and buggy, and the wood sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. If Daddy had his way with the city council, the street would be paved by autumn.

Mr. Neidecker’s Pierce-Arrow glided past, and she realized Daddy might drive by and catch her before she reached the train station. She quickened her step and passed the drugstore with scarcely a glance in the windows. The early summer heat dampened her brow and made her feel a bit light-headed, but she had to hurry.

She checked the clock on city hall. Three-ten. Daddy would have left Mother at the church by now and headed for the station. If he spotted her, he’d cart her back to the church, but if he didn’t see her until after the train arrived, it would be too late, and she would have her Mr. Blevins.

“Good aft’noon.” Dennis Allington, the depot manager, crossed the street in front of her.

She nodded slightly and hurried on. She should have taken State Road instead. It was longer and dustier, but Daddy would never have driven the Packard through those potholes.

“Felicity? I’m surprised to see you here.” Mrs. Grattan stepped out of Kensington Mercantile and stopped directly in front of her. Ruddy and heavy-jowled, she epitomized the farm wife. Her thick arms could strangle a goose or birth a calf. “Aren’t you going to the meeting?”

Felicity stalled. She’d never considered what to say if she met a society member, and Mrs. Grattan always managed to terrify her. Lowering her eyelids, she shrank behind the polite facade preached at Highbury.

“Please inform my mother that I may be a little late.”

“Late?” Mrs. Grattan clucked her tongue. “With the new minister coming?”

Felicity gritted her teeth behind an artificial smile. Mrs. Grattan and her husband acted like they held the patent on righteousness, as if owning a dairy farm and a half-dozen delivery trucks made them moral authorities.

“My Eloise can hardly wait to meet him,” Mrs. Grattan stated.

Felicity’s smile faded. “Eloise is attending?” The eldest Grattan girl never went to society meetings.

“Of course.” Mrs. Grattan acted like it was obvious that Eloise, still unwed at twenty-four, would be there.

With a start, Felicity remembered one key fact about the new pastor. Pearlman wasn’t welcoming just one bachelor into town today; it was welcoming two. Well, as far as she was concerned, Eloise Grattan could have weaselly, pock-faced Reverend Meeks.

“Wish her luck.” She giggled at the thought of the bovine Eloise standing beside a miserly Reverend Meeks.

Mrs. Grattan’s eyes narrowed to dots. “No woman can do better than a man of God, Felicity Kensington.”

Felicity cringed. “I didn’t mean…” she began, but Mrs. Grattan turned away with a harrumph and stalked toward the church.

Discombobulated, Felicity took a few steps in the wrong direction. Then to her horror, she spied Daddy’s Packard coming down Main Street. Oh, no. He couldn’t see her. Not yet. She looked for an escape and, seeing as she was nearly out of time, slipped into Kensington Mercantile.

The little bell above the door tinkled as she entered, and the clerk, one of the younger Billingsley brothers, nodded at her before returning his attention to Mrs. Evans. Felicity walked just far enough inside so Daddy wouldn’t spy her and pretended to examine the contents of the display case.

Since her brother, Blake, had taken over managing Daddy’s store, they stocked plain, useful goods that anyone in Pearlman could afford. The few luxuries on hand were displayed in the locked glass display case atop the long oaken counter. A cloisonné jewelry box, scrimshaw ivory pipe, sterling vanity box, pocket watches, assorted pendants and rings and a red leather satchel nestled on royal blue satin. A small sign noted that the satchel was perfect for the university student.

“May I help you decide?” The warm, masculine voice flowed over her like melted chocolate.

Felicity sought the source of that rich baritone and was surprised to find a man perhaps three years older than her, certainly no more than twenty-five. She’d never seen him in town before. Unruly brown curls went unchecked by comb or hat, and his shirtsleeves had been rolled up like a common worker’s. His eyes sparkled in a most unnerving way, and his smile suggested mischief.

That smile could disarm the most hardened woman, and Felicity was no exception. She stared at the merchandise as she struggled to regain her composure. “Do you work here?” She didn’t recall Blake saying he’d hired anyone new.

“No, but I thought I might help.” His reflection in the mirrored back of the case proved just as potent as the real thing, and she prayed he didn’t notice the pink hue creeping up her cheeks.

“I don’t require any assistance.”

He took the hint and stepped away, but she couldn’t help watching him in the mirror. First he scanned the nearby bookshelf and then perused the dress goods. A man buying fabric? She couldn’t resist a peek. The man strolled back to the books and picked up the volume of Coleridge that had been on the shelf for years. What common worker read poetry?

He looked up, and his eyes met hers. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“No.” She jerked her gaze back to the display case. “No, thank you.” If she stood in just the right place, she could see him in the mirror. One curl fell across his forehead as he studied the volume. She caught her breath. He was handsome.

Oh, dear. He closed the book and headed her way.

“I don’t think anything here will do.” She darted a panicked glance out the window. Daddy must have driven past by now.

“There are a lot of fine things here.” The man stood so close that her skin tingled.

“Are you certain you don’t work here?” Her voice squeaked like a schoolgirl asked to her first dance. She swallowed and tried again. “You sound like a salesman.”

“I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking.” His lips quirked into a semi-smile, and a tremor shook her. What was wrong with her?

“I—I should be going.” She stepped into the welcome breeze from an electric fan. The train would be arriving at any moment. “I need to leave.”

“But we haven’t even met.” He extended a hand.

She stared. If she shook his hand, she’d lose all control. Leave, and everyone would know he’d affected her. She chose the lesser of the two evils and dashed for the door. Unfortunately, her hip caught the corner of a table and jostled the display of canned rhubarb.

“Excuse me,” she said too loudly as she stilled the wobbling jars.

Mrs. Evans stared. Josh Billingsley snickered. She didn’t even want to know what the stranger thought.

Without a glance back, she yanked open the door and rushed out into the heat of the afternoon, glad to hear the soft shwooft of the door settling shut behind her. After looking up and down Main Street, she spotted Daddy’s Packard parked in front of the bank. She’d never had to go into the mercantile at all. If only she’d walked on. If only she’d kept her composure.

A lady always remembers her station and acts accordingly. Mother had drilled the rules for ladylike behavior into her from childhood. Yet she’d forgotten every single one when she needed them most. She should have politely excused herself. She should never have engaged in such personal conversation, but he flustered her so that she couldn’t think straight.