A Mistaken Match

“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 his boots always left prints, only now he could see them as they contrasted against the gleaming wood.

She set breakfast before him. Two eggs and a thick slice of leftover bread she must have found in the pantry. His stomach rumbled and he shoveled in several bites. Raw egg white mingled with burned yolk. A large shard of eggshell crunched between his teeth. James stifled a gag and sipped his coffee. Coffee grounds mixed with the mess of egg in his mouth and he swallowed hard. His stomach churned. Thank You, Lord. He needed a reminder of why he’d requested a plain bride.

“You said you used to be a maid?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve never been a cook.”

“No, the house always had its own cook. I worked only as a maid.”

James sighed. “Come here.”

She stepped closer.

“Did you use lard?” She shook her head no. “Had you ever cracked an egg before?” Her cheeks colored and she shook her blond head again. “Why did you scramble them?”

“The yolks broke.”

He sighed again and pushed away from the table. Ann stood stock-still until he grasped her by the elbow, and guided her to the stove. James retrieved an egg from the basket on the sideboard and cradled it in his palm.

“Think of this egg as money. If you hadn’t gone and ruined those—” he cocked his head toward the table “—I could have sold them for almost two cents apiece. You wouldn’t throw two cents out into the field would you?”

As the words came out, he was vaguely aware he was speaking to her as though she were a child. She cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “No, I would not throw two cents out into the field,” she replied coolly.

“What you do is this. Make sure the skillet is nice and hot and drop in some lard. Roll it around until it sizzles. If it smokes, move it off the fire.” He could make eggs in his sleep. Once the lard had melted into a shimmering puddle, he deftly cracked the egg with one hand. It hit the pan with a hiss and bubbled along its edges.

“I don’t like my eggs scrambled. I like them over easy. It takes some practice and a soft touch.” He took her hand and placed it on the handle of the spatula and covered her hand with his own. Together they turned over the egg. It sizzled again.

“The yolk didn’t break,” she half whispered.

James chuckled. “Not if you do it right. Fetch that plate,” he directed.

She retrieved his dish from the table and scraped the offending eggs into the slop bucket. He took the plate and held it near the skillet.

“Can you do this yourself? You still need to be gentle.”

“I think so.” She slid the spatula under the egg and James held his breath as it crossed the short distance from skillet to plate. They smiled at each other as it came to rest.

“Perfect,” he breathed. James raised the plate to his nose and inhaled. “Now, do the next one by yourself.”

Ann yelped and jumped back from the stove. She’d grasped the blisteringly hot handle of the cast-iron skillet.

James’s heart jumped to this throat and he snatched up her hand. The flesh on her thumb and first three fingers pulsed red and angry. Several white blisters appeared before his eyes. He plunged her hand into a pitcher of water on the kitchen table. “You must always cover the handle of the skillet with a towel,” he gently scolded. He withdrew her hand and blew a cool stream of air on it. “Does it still hurt?” he murmured between breaths.

She bit her lip. “Yes,” she gasped.

Without a word he slipped an arm around her waist and led her out the back door. The water pump stood a few yards away. He pumped the handle with one hand and plunged her fingers beneath the icy stream that bubbled forth with the other. Every few moments he removed her hand from the water, examined it and blew a new stream of air across the wet skin to ease the pain.

Each time he drew a breath he also took in the scent of her. Lavender soap and rose petals. Focus! He had to focus on her hand. If he broke the blisters, she risked infection. A curl of her golden hair escaped its pins and brushed his cheek. She turned her face to him and smiled weakly. He shivered.

The shudder of movement cleared his head. He’d let her entrance him again. “We need to get some salve on this,” he said gruffly.