The Bride Next Door

“You’ll find one extra paper in your stack,” he told Jack. “Mr. Cummings over on Second Street started subscribing this week.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll add him to the list.”

As they loaded the last of the papers, Everett reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Here’s this week’s pay.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. “Thanks!”

Ira placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We’d best be on our way if you want to get these deliveries done before school starts.”

As soon as they departed, Everett grabbed the other three bundles of papers waiting by the door. In addition to the copies he printed for his subscribers, he always printed a number of extras. Those who chose not to subscribe often purchased copies when they were out running errands.

He kept some of those copies here at his office, of course, but he’d also made arrangements with the proprietors at the mercantile, hotel and railroad depot to sell copies in exchange for a small portion of the purchase price.

He stepped out on the sidewalk and exchanged greetings with Tim Hill, the town’s lamplighter. Tim was in the process of turning off the streetlight outside the newspaper office, which meant Everett was right on schedule. Punctuality was a virtue he considered an indication of character.

As he walked through town delivering the bundles of papers to the appropriate locations, he took time to visit the merchants where Daisy would need to make purchases for her role as his cook. As he’d promised her, he instructed them to bill her purchases to him.

That request raised questions, naturally, but he offered up only the bare information that he had hired her to cook for him. Anything else they wanted to know about her, they’d have to ask her.

By the time he returned to his office, a light was shining in Daisy’s downstairs window. So she was already up and about. Was she looking forward to her first day working for him? Or dreading it?

At precisely ten minutes after nine, Daisy walked into his office. He supposed that was as close to punctual as he should expect from her.

“Good morning, Mr. Fulton,” she said by way of greeting.

Everett stood and moved around the desk as he returned her greeting. She carried a heavily laden basket on her arm, but didn’t seem unduly burdened by it.

“I enjoyed doing the marketing today. There are some fine shops here, and most of the shopkeepers seem willing to negotiate a bit. And don’t worry, I was very frugal with your money, but I think you’ll be pleased with the results.”

The woman did like to chatter. “As long as you stay within the budget we discussed, I won’t have any complaints on that score.”

She patted the basket. “I got a good deal on a couple of rabbits at the butcher shop. I hope you like rabbit stew. It’s one of my specialties.”

Was she looking for some kind of approval or praise? That wasn’t really his way of doing business. “As I said, the meal planning is in your hands. I’m sure whatever you cook will be an improvement over what I’ve been preparing for myself.”

She grinned. “Not the most enthusiastic response, but I hope to win you over with my cooking.”

Surely no one could be this cheerful all the time? “I look forward to your attempts.”

She spotted the small stack of newspapers near the door. “Are those your papers?”

“Of course.” What else would they be? “It’s this morning’s edition of the Turnabout Gazette.”

She eyed them as if not sure she wanted to get any closer. “Is that interview of me in there?”

Was she worried about how he’d portrayed her? “Yes, it is.” He crossed over and picked one up. “Would you like to have one so you can read it?”

Her cheeks reddened slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any extra money to—”

“Consider a copy of the paper part of your pay.” He always had a few copies left over at the end of the day.

“Why, thank you.”

This talk of extra funds brought something else to mind. He cleared his throat. “I daresay there are other things you might need to get settled in properly, so when you are done for the day I will give you your first week’s pay in advance.”

Her cheeks reddened. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I—”

He held up a hand. “No argument. I won’t have my cook distracted by thoughts of how she’ll make it through the week. And use this money wisely, because I’ll do this only for the first week.”

She smiled. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

He brushed that aside. “Now, let me show you to the kitchen.” Everett took the basket from her, then waved her ahead of him up the stairs.

She stepped aside when she topped the stairs, pausing to look around. The stairway emptied into an open space that served multiple functions. To the left was the kitchen and dining area, and to the right was what passed for a sitting room or visitor area. Not that he ever had visitors up here. Beyond the sitting room were the two bedchambers, one of which currently served as more of a storage room. It did have a small bed—more of a cot, really—but he didn’t expect to be hosting overnight guests anytime soon.

Everett placed her basket on the table and she moved past him, her gaze sweeping the room.

“This kitchen is nice,” she said. “A bit spare but clean and neat. It gives me hope for what my place might look like once I get it fixed up.”

How bad was it over there? If what he’d seen of the ground floor was any indication, she really had her work cut out for her.

Daisy ran a hand lightly over the edge of the stove. “Yes, sir, a fine kitchen, indeed. This is a good stove. And you already have the fire stoked. Thanks!”

Everett waved his hand in an inclusive gesture. “The dishes are in the top cupboard, the pots and pans are over there, and the cooking implements are in that drawer. This door opens to the pantry. Feel free to use anything you find there.”

She nodded as she peered inside.

He straightened. “I should warn you, the stove is a bit temperamental.” Something he knew from his own less-than-successful attempts at making biscuits.

She closed the pantry door and smiled. “Most stoves take some getting used to. I’m just happy to have a real stove to cook on instead of a campfire.”

That statement gave him pause. “But you do have experience with a household stove, don’t you?”

“Of course. When I lived with my grandmother I spent a lot of my time in the kitchen, and I pestered the cook until she gave in and taught me all about cooking.”

“So you haven’t used one since you were twelve years old?”

“Not so. During the worst of winter each year, my father would find a town where we could rent rooms for about six weeks, rather than live in the wagon. To help pay for our lodging, and replenish our wares, he would find odd jobs and I’d find work in a kitchen somewhere.”

That admission caught him by surprise. “So this isn’t your first time to hire on as a cook?”

“Goodness, no. I told you, I know what I’m doing.”

That remained to be seen. But he’d had enough of idle talk—time to return to his work. “I’ll leave you to it, then. There’s extra kindling and firewood for the stove in that corner. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

He descended the stairs, accompanied by the sound of her cheerful humming. Was he going to have to put up with that all morning?

He supposed there were worse distractions he could be presented with.

Still, it didn’t seem quite normal for someone to be so relentlessly cheerful all the time, especially someone with her less-than-ideal circumstances.

Before he’d made it back to his desk, his door opened and Alma Franklin walked in, looking for a paper. She glanced toward the stairway at the sound of Daisy’s humming, and mentioned that she’d heard he’d hired a cook and asked how that was working out for him. Right on her heels, Stanley Landers came in, also looking for a paper, and he also commented on his new cook.

It was that way for the next hour—a steady stream of people either wanting to buy a paper or checking on notices that were already scheduled or purchasing advertisements. And all of them found a way to work Daisy’s presence into the conversation. At least the townsfolk’s curiosity had generated a few new sales. At this rate, he’d be sold out by noon.

Around ten-thirty, he caught the whiff of a mouthwatering aroma drifting down from his kitchen. Thirty minutes later, the aromas began to tease and tantalize his senses in earnest. Perhaps she really was as good a cook as she claimed to be.

When Everett finally got a break, just before noon, he considered heading upstairs to check on Daisy. She hadn’t left the kitchen all morning, and he wanted to assure himself she was handling things appropriately.

But his door opened once more and Hazel Andrews, the very prim woman who owned the dress shop, marched in with her usual brisk, no-nonsense air. “Good morning, Mr. Fulton.”

“Miss Andrews.” He waved her into a seat, then took his own. “What can I do for you?”

She sat poker straight in her chair, but her smile, while small, seemed genuine enough. “I was at the train station dropping off a package to ship to my sister,” she said, “when Lionel told me he had a letter for you. I offered to deliver it since I had business with you, anyway.”

Everett accepted the letter and placed it on his desk with barely a glance. “What kind of business?”

The seamstress looked pointedly at the letter. “I don’t mind waiting if you’d like to read your letter first.”

“I’ll read it later.” He could tell it was from his sister, and he’d prefer to save it for a time when he could read it alone to savor it.

Miss Andrews nodded. “On to business, then. I’m planning to run a sale on my dressmaking services next week. I’d like to buy an advertisement in the paper to announce it.”

Everett opened his notebook and reached for a pencil. He was always happy to sell advertisements. “I can certainly accommodate you. What size were you thinking of?”

Once they’d discussed the particulars of the advertisement, Miss Andrews sat back, apparently ready for some casual conversation. “I hear you’ve hired your new neighbor to cook for you.”

So even the straightlaced seamstress was interested in the town’s newest citizen. Everett closed his notebook and nodded. “That’s right. She needed the work, and I was tired of eating my own cooking.”

His visitor nodded approval. “Sounds like a practical arrangement.” Then she changed the subject. “It’ll be good to see that place next door all fixed up again. Any idea what Miss Johnson plans to do with the place?”

Everett repeated the same answer he’d given to everyone else this morning. “She mentioned plans to open a restaurant in the interview you’ll find in today’s newspaper. Other than that, you’ll have to ask her.”

She lifted her head and sniffed delicately. “I must say, if that aroma is from whatever Miss Johnson is preparing for you, she would likely do quite well as a restaurant cook.”

The pesky creak that signaled someone was on the stairs sounded, and they both turned toward it.

“Mr. Fulton, I—” Daisy looked toward his visitor and paused. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Everett and Miss Andrews both stood.

“Miss Johnson.” The dressmaker stepped forward. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Hazel Andrews, owner of the dress shop down the street.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’ve walked by your place a few times. From what I can see through your shop window, you do beautiful work.”

“Why, thank you.” The seamstress studied Daisy with a critical eye. “If you’d like to come in for a fitting, I’d be glad to set up an appointment for you.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Daisy said with an apologetic smile. “As tempting as it sounds, I’m afraid purchasing new clothes is going to have to wait until I’ve taken care of other, more pressing matters.”

The dressmaker tightened the strings to her handbag and nodded. “I understand.” She gave Daisy a head-to-toe look. “Just keep in mind that appearances set the tone for a business relationship as well as a personal one.”

Everett stiffened. Her tone had been friendly enough, but the words carried a barb. Had Daisy felt it?

Then Miss Andrews turned back to him. “I assume I can look for the advertisement to run in the next issue of the Gazette.”

“Of course.” Everett still had his mind on how her words might have affected Daisy as he gave her a short bow of dismissal. “And thank you for delivering the letter.”

Once the door closed behind the dressmaker, Everett turned to Daisy. He still didn’t detect any hint of distress or affront in her expression. Perhaps he’d overreacted. “Was there something you needed?”

She blinked, as if just remembering her errand. “Yes, of course. I wanted to tell you your meal is ready to be served. But there’s no need to rush upstairs if you’re busy. I’ll just keep it warm until you’re ready for it.”

“Thank you. I’ll join you there in a moment.”

He waited until she had started up the stairs to open his letter, smiling in anticipation. Abigail’s letters reflected her personality—they were chatty, exuberant and overly dramatic. He unfolded the missive and leaned back in his chair, prepared to be entertained.

* * *

Daisy set the table for the two of them and then ladled the stew into a serving bowl.

Had Miss Andrews offered to make her an appointment just to drum up business? Or did she think Daisy’s clothing was really that awful? Daisy hadn’t wasted time worrying about her wardrobe since she’d left her grandmother’s. Function was what mattered, and the pieces she had—this skirt, two shirtwaists and her Sunday dress—had that going for them.

In fact, one of the things she’d disliked about living in her grandmother’s home was the emphasis everyone placed on appearances. Daisy had vowed to leave all that behind her when she left there. Nowadays, as long as her clothing was serviceable and modest, she didn’t give it much deeper consideration.

But Miss Andrews’s words had given her pause. She was planning to be a businesswoman now. Perhaps it was time she gave such things a little more consideration.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of Everett on the stairs.

“It smells good,” he said as he entered the kitchen.

Her mood lightened at his praise. “Thanks.” Then she felt the need to give a disclaimer. “I’m afraid the bread is a bit scorched, though. It may take me a couple of tries to get a feel for your oven.”

“I daresay you’re right. But I’m sure the rest of the meal will be fine.”

Coming from him, she supposed that was praise of a sort. Daisy placed the stew and bread platter on the table. “I have apple pie for dessert. And I’m pleased to say it hardly got scorched at all.”

He took his seat without comment, and she sat across from him.

When he reached for the bread platter, however, she cleared her throat. “Would you like to say the blessing before we start?”

Everett slowly drew his hand back and gave her an unreadable look. “Why don’t you perform that service for us?”

Was he the sort who didn’t like to pray in public? She hadn’t thought of him as the reticent sort. But she nodded and bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, we thank You for this food and for all the other blessings of this day. Help us to remain mindful of where our bounty comes from and to whom our praises belong. And keep us ever aware of the needs of others. In Your name we pray. Amen.”

She smiled up at him as he echoed her Amen. “Eat up.”

The silence drew out for several long minutes as they concentrated on their food. Finally, she gave in to the urge to break the silence. “I read that newspaper of yours.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and I want to thank you for the job you did on that interview. You took my uninteresting life and made it sound, well, plumb interesting.”

He seemed more amused than flattered by her comment. “That’s the job of a good reporter—to find the hidden gem in any story.”

“Hidden gem. I like that.” She pointed her spoon at him, then quickly lowered it. “I didn’t read just the interview, though—I read the entire thing. You did a fine job with all of it.”

“Thank you. I suppose it is fine, for what it is.”

“What it is?” His tone puzzled her.

“Yes—a small town, nothing-ever-happens, two-days-a-week newspaper.”

“So you’re not happy with it.”

“As I said, it’s fine for what it is.” He gave her a pointed look. “Do you mind if we change the subject?”

Why was this such a touchy subject for him? But she obediently reached for another subject and said the first thing that came to mind. “I heard you mention something about a letter. It wasn’t bad news, I hope.” Maybe that’s why he seemed so out of sorts.

He studied her as if searching for some ulterior motive behind her question. She thought for a moment that he would change the subject again.

But then he reached for his glass as he shook his head. “Not at all. It’s a letter from my sister, Abigail.”

Why wasn’t he happier about it? “How nice. The two of you must be close.”

He didn’t return her smile. “She wants to come here for a visit.”

His grim tone puzzled her. “Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, wouldn’t you like to see her?”

“Of course I would.” He took a drink from his glass, then set it back down. “But, as I’ve told her any number of times, it’s better if I go to Boston than if she comes here. Unfortunately, she doesn’t see it that way.”

“But if it’s that important to her, perhaps you could allow her to come here just one time. You know, to satisfy her curiosity.”

His exasperated look told her she’d overstepped her bounds. “For her to come here,” he said, “there are significant arrangements that would need to be made—things such as finding a traveling companion and making certain she doesn’t fall behind in any of her classes. Besides, Turnabout is no place for a girl like Abigail. And there aren’t an abundance of activities to entertain and enlighten her here.”

He broke off a piece of bread with more vigor than was absolutely necessary. “No, it’s much better if I visit her.”

A girl like Abigail? What did that mean? Was his sister one of those spoiled, pampered debutantes like the ones who’d graced her grandmother’s parlor? Girls who never got their hands dirty or even knew what a callus looked like? But that wasn’t a question she’d ask out loud. “Do you plan to do that? Go visit her, I mean.”

“Of course. I traveled to Boston to see her over the Christmas holidays and will make another visit sometime this summer. She and I spend our time going to the theater, visiting museums, attending the opera and whatever else she cares to do.”

Those were the kind of things they enjoyed doing together? “Don’t you two ever go on picnics or take buggy rides through the countryside or just take long walks together?”

“Since my time with Abigail is limited, I always strive to make it count for something.” His demeanor had stiffened, and his accent was more pronounced. “My sister is being raised as a proper lady, not a hoyden. Those activities add to both her education and her social polish. Their entertainment value is merely an added bonus.”

Daisy straightened. She supposed she’d been put in her place. And she’d also gotten the distinct impression that Miss Abigail Fulton might be every bit as stuffy as her brother.

Ah, well, there wasn’t much danger that they would cross paths anytime soon—not if big brother had his way.

* * *

Everett was glad when Daisy finally let the silence settle between them. He didn’t care for all this prying into his personal life. Didn’t she understand there were lines one just did not cross? Someone should sit her down and explain the rules of polite society. Not that he thought it would do any good.

Perhaps she would learn from their interaction.

His thoughts drifted to that prayer she’d voiced earlier. It had surprised him, in both its simplicity and sincerity. He hadn’t heard anyone pray like that outside of church before. It seemed that her faith was a deeply personal one. But then again, he was beginning to see that she approached nearly everything in her life with everything she had.

If she was going to make it on her own, and try to establish a business, she’d have to learn to be more objective and circumspect in her approach.

Perhaps that was something else he could teach her.

Chapter Six

Daisy blew the hair off her forehead as she dried the last of the dishes. There was plenty of stew left over, and it would keep fine on the stove’s warming plate until Mr. Fulton was ready for his evening meal.

She hung the dishrag over the basin, then looked around to check if anything else needed her attention before she headed home. Kip would be ready to go for a walk, and she was eager to get back to work fixing up her new home. But she wouldn’t leave until she’d made certain she met her obligations here.

Mr. Fulton was fastidiously neat, and she was determined to leave the place as orderly as it had been when she arrived, if not more so. And she’d start by arranging his cupboards in a more logical manner. Logical from a cook’s perspective, at any rate.

A freestanding cupboard on the far wall seemed to be the ideal place to store items that were seldom used. She crossed over to it and opened the doors, then smiled when she found it held only a few mismatched cups. She could certainly put it to better use than that. Satisfied, she closed the doors, then paused.

Was that a crack in the wall behind the cupboard? It was mostly in shadow, but as she looked closer, she noticed the crack was perfectly straight.

Then her eyes widened. It was a door, painted over to match the surrounding wall. What with that and the fact that it was mostly hidden by the cupboard, it was easy to overlook.

Why had the door been so cunningly hidden? And what was behind it? It didn’t appear to have been opened in quite some time. Did Everett even know it was here?

The doorknob was behind the cupboard, making it impossible for her to even try to open it. She studied it, hands on her hips, her curiosity growing. After all, who could resist the allure of a hidden door?

Removing her apron, Daisy headed downstairs.

* * *

Everett finished cleaning his printing equipment and arched his back, trying to ease the kink in his muscles. After ten months of trial and error, he finally considered himself proficient with the various aspects of the printing process, though there were some tasks he still didn’t particularly enjoy. Back in Philadelphia, he’d been a respected reporter with a major paper. His job had been to write the stories—getting those stories to print had been someone else’s job, and he’d rarely given it a second thought. But here he was responsible for every aspect of getting the paper out.

Which was another reason he was doing everything in his power to find another position as a reporter for a large newspaper once more.

He wiped his hands on a cloth as that squeaky stair announced Daisy was on her way down. “All done?” he asked, moving toward his desk to get her payment.

“I am.” She glanced at one of his trays of print type. “How come all your letters look backward?”

“That’s the way type is set for printing.” He saw her puzzled look and explained further. “Think of it as looking at a reflection. The type is the mirror image of what the printed page will be.”

Her expression cleared. “Imagine that. So you have to set all those letters into backward words so the print comes out frontward on the paper.”

“Not the most eloquent way of explaining it, but yes.”

She shook her head. “That sounds like it would be difficult to keep straight in your head. I know it would make me go all cross-eyed.”

She did have a colorful way of speaking. “It is a tedious job. I will admit, even after several months at it, I find myself having to focus totally on what I’m doing or I’ll get it wrong.” It had given him a whole new appreciation for professional typesetters. He just hoped he didn’t have to be one much longer.