Mercer's Belles Read online

  “A dance hall?” Harriet didn’t know what she thought she’d be doing on her first couple of days in Seattle, but it wasn’t socializing.

  Once the room assignments were arranged, Harriet followed Vivian to the staircase, but not before casting another glance toward the street through the large windows. No street fighting going on.

  “What were you thinking?” Vivian said when they entered their shared room and shut the door behind them.

  Harriet moved to the free-standing mirror and began to take out her pins one by one. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “I acted before I thought about the consequences.” She met Vivian’s green-eyed gaze in the mirror. “Are you laughing at me?”

  Vivian’s cheeks dimpled as she tried not to crack a smile, but she failed miserably.

  “You went out on a public street of a city you’ve only just stepped foot in, to stop a brawl between two strangers?”

  Harriet’s lips twitched. “One of them wasn’t a stranger. He was Mr. Munns.”

  Vivian’s brows arched at this. “The man who pulled you from the bay?”

  “The very one,” Harriet confirmed, but now her cheeks had flushed pink.

  Vivian rested her hands on her hips. “Why, Harriet Silverton, you have a tendre for this Mr. Munns, don’t you?”

  Harriet turned and set her own hands on her hips. “Please don’t insult me.”

  Vivian pressed her lips together, but her eyes were still smiling.

  “Now, answer me this,” Harriet said. “Why are we going to a dance hall and a social tomorrow night? What are we? To be paraded in front of Seattle like some willy-nilly spinsters who want a man? I mean, we’re here for jobs. For independence. To start our lives over.”

  Surprisingly, Vivian didn’t have a comeback for that.

  “Viv,” Harriet started. “You . . . you’re hoping to find a husband.”

  Vivian dropped her hands and sighed. “I’m twenty-nine, and although I refuse to believe that means I’m a spinster . . . I thought perhaps out here—in the West—men wouldn’t be quite so . . . picky.”

  Harriet blinked. Vivian had been the most vocal on the ship about finding her own path in life without relying on a man. “I thought you said . . .” She exhaled and tried again when she saw the defensive look in Vivian’s eyes. “Of course you’re not a spinster—that’s a term the newspapers throw at us. We haven’t married young like other women, but we’ll marry as wiser women.” Not I, Harriet amended to herself. Already in Seattle, she’d proved her unconventional ways. The men who’d been brawling were probably having a good laugh over her right now.

  Vivian’s gaze became less guarded. “You are hoping to marry as well?”

  Harriet knew if she said no right now, Vivian would somehow be offended. “If the right man comes along, certainly.” There, that was enough of a concession for now.

  Vivian’s smile was sudden. “Wonderful. Then we shall have a wonderful time at the dance tomorrow. Mr. Mercer says we’ll be outnumbered by the men five to one.”

  Harriet nodded, trying to pretend that those numbers didn’t bother her. Of course, they were in the farthest western territory, and it had been no secret that men—unmarried men

  —were plentiful out here. But five to one? Harriet’s imagination took off at full train speed as she imagined men lining up to ask her to dance. Her. The staunchest spinster of Philadelphia.

  She dropped into bed, her body exhausted but her mind a whir. So far, Seattle was full of the unexpected.

  The day came too quickly, and Harriet wished she could have had one or two more hours of sleep. The social at University Hall was quite gratifying, since the Seattle residents expressed their gratitude for their arrival over and over. When they returned to the hotel for their meal, Mr. Mercer informed the belles that the Women’s Benevolent Society of Seattle would be joining them for dinner.

  During their meal, the belles listened to the president of the society, a Mrs. Barton, explain about the education needs in the town and the territories beyond. “Some of these children have never read a word in their lives,” she said. “Others have been educated in the East, but due to hard times, they haven’t been able to continue their schooling.”

  Mrs. Barton looked about the room, a soft smile on her face, contrasting to the formality of her navy short jacket and prim white blouse. “Some of these schoolhouses are one or two rooms only. Others are part of the larger farmhouses. You’ll be provided room and board. Your salaries will be determined on the number of your students.”

  Harriet was entranced as she listened, imagining a whitewashed school building, surrounded by green hills dotted with wildflowers. The children would be fresh-faced, wide-eyed youth eager to learn everything “Miss Silverton” taught them. They’d grow up to attend colleges. They’d send her Christmas cards with fondly written letters full of school memories.

  “Harriet,” Vivian whispered, elbowing her. “Raise your hand.”

  Harriet blinked away the daydream and lifted her hand. “Why are we raising our hands?”

  “To volunteer for meeting the Seattle superintendent tomorrow,” she said. “They are looking for teachers for the children of the dock workers.”

  Harriet frowned and lowered her hand. But it was too late. Mrs. Barton had already pointed at her with a broad smile. “Thank you, ladies, the superintendent will arrive first thing tomorrow morning to meet with the two of you.”

  Vivian was all smiles, and Harriet didn’t have the heart to tell her friend that the last place she wanted to work was near the harbor, where the smell of fish was constant and the children looked like they needed their bodies bathed and their clothing burned. She thought of those begging children. Surely they weren’t in school, were they?

  Well, Harriet would have to make her intentions more clear in the interview tomorrow. She was paying attention now to what Mrs. Barton said as she set up interviews for others. Rural. That’s where she wanted to go. To a place where she could truly start over. Become her own person at last.

  But, first, she’d have to get through tonight’s dance and the interview tomorrow.

  Caleb’s best suit coat was quite lacking. He’d split a seam more than once, due to the jacket’s rather tight fit across his shoulders. Working on a fishing boat day in and day out had built up muscle that he hadn’t had living in Montana. So, here he was, using a blunt needle and too-thick thread to repair the shoulder seam before he made an appearance at the Women’s Benevolent Society of Seattle dance social.

  He’d been roped into this event more than once by his landlady, who was campaigning to join the committee. She told him that if she convinced enough bachelors to attend, then her prestige would raise in the eyes of the board.

  It was all hogwash to Caleb. But he didn’t mind the food. And dancing with a woman or two with no expectations wasn’t too poor of a way to spend an evening. He just had the darnedest time getting rid of the fish smell on his skin. As luck would have it, he hadn’t fished today because of all the traveling, so scrubbing up had been a simple-enough task.

  Of course, now there was the matter of his black eye. He set down the half-finished seam and glanced in the small, brass mirror he used for shaving. Yes. The bruise had only grown darker, changing from violet to deep blue. Perhaps the ladies would be intrigued and want to know the story. Or perhaps they’d shy away, thinking he’d been in a drunken fight. Which was a quite common occurrence in the taverns after the sun went down.

  But Caleb was no drunk.

  His marriage to Lucille Baker had lasted thirty minutes. Caleb hadn’t been able to say no to the petite blonde, blue-eyed woman who used to visit him at the ranch where he worked as a field hand. Lucille’s father was a dairy farmer, and she’d deliver milk to the ranch where Caleb worked. Pretty as a button, she was. But she’d lied about her age.

  She’d also lied about her father. Said he was a mean old drunk. Wouldn’t let her out of the house except for deliveries. She’d told Caleb
her mother had died years ago, and that’s why her father was so protective of her. She hadn’t ever been kissed. And she’d fallen in love with Caleb.

  He’d fallen for every word that dropped from those cherry-red lips of hers.

  She’d begged him to take her away from Montana. Wanted to see the ocean, she’d said. And when Caleb proposed marriage to her, she’d jumped into his arms, and he’d fully believed that dreams really could come true.

  Up until the moment when a cart came careening toward the train station soon after they left the courthouse. Caleb had picked up Lucille a short distance from her father’s ranch, and they’d driven into town to be married by the justice of the peace. Then Caleb planned to take her on to Seattle, where he’d lined up a job, and she could live by the ocean like she’d always dreamed. Far away from her abusive father.

  Lucille’s father was a burly man, but his words were soft when he spoke to her.

  “Sweetheart, it’s time to come home,” Mr. Baker had said.

  Next to her father was a woman who looked like an older version of Lucille.

  Apparently her mother. Who was very much alive.

  “We’re very sorry, Mr. Munns,” Mrs. Baker said. “We didn’t know Lucille would take it this far again.”

  “Again?”

  Mrs. Baker’s smile was sad, and Mr. Baker climbed out of the cart, lifted his hat and scrubbed at his receding, thin hair. “Lucille is a fanciful girl. Always creating stories. When a man pays her a bit of attention, she becomes . . . obsessed.”

  Caleb looked over at Lucille, who was sitting next to him at the train depot.

  She had folded her arms.

  “I like this one, Pa,” she said.

  “I know you do,” her father said, his tone nonplussed. “He seems like a nice man.” Mr. Baker took a tentative step toward his daughter. “What did you tell him?”

  Lucille pushed out her lower lip. Caleb was reminded of a small child, who was pouting because her parents wouldn’t let her buy a lollipop.

  “I told him you were mean,” Lucille said, her voice sounding contrite.

  Her father sighed. “What else?”

  Lucille lowered her head and spoke so softly it was hard to hear. “Ma was dead.”

  “Oh, Lucy,” her mother said. But her voice held no anger, no reprimanding. Just resignation.

  Caleb looked between the family members. What was happening here?

  Her father held out his hand. “Time to come home, dear. Your mother made pancakes this morning, your favorite.”

  Lucille jumped up to her feet and smiled. “Really?”

  Caleb watched with incredulity as the woman he’d just married hurried to her parents’ buggy and climbed in to sit next to her mother. Lucille wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

  Caleb was speechless.

  Mr. Baker crossed to him and placed a hand on his arm. “Sorry you’ve gotten mixed up in this. Our Lucille had an accident as a child, hit her head and all. The doctors said we should expect episodes now and again. But we never thought they’d turn into this.”

  “This?” Caleb said. “How many . . . men?”

  “You’re the fourth she’s married,” Mr. Baker said matter-of-factly.

  Caleb blanched.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Baker said. “The justice of the peace didn’t really marry you. Who do you think sent word to me?”

  Caleb opened his mouth, then closed it.

  He wasn’t really sure what he said to Mr. Baker, or what his reply was. All he knew was that moments later, Lucille Baker rode off with her parents in their buggy, happily chattering with her now-alive mother about pancakes. Completely unaware that she’d left behind a very heartbroken, confused ex-husband.

  If they’d been married at all. Which, apparently, they hadn’t been.

  So Caleb had gotten on that train and headed for Seattle alone.

  It wasn’t a story he planned to share with anyone, ever. Not just because he’d been so thoroughly duped, but because he couldn’t trust his heart. He’d been in love with Lucille. He’d arrived in Seattle with an empty heart and empty soul.

  When he’d first arrived in Seattle, he’d been reluctant to attend any sort of social event or dance with other women, who were single and available. He couldn’t imagine going through, and surviving, another heartbreak. Thus, he set up his own rules. Dancing with a woman once was his limit. Dancing with a woman twice was something he’d not allow himself.

  Caleb tied off the thread of his repaired suit coat, then stood and drew it on. Still snug, but it would have to do. He’d sunk the earnings from his first year of fishing into his own boat, and he didn’t have the budget to be buying new clothing, especially something he only wore once every couple of months.

  By the time he reached the dance hall, the music was soaring from the open doors, and he caught a glimpse of a good-sized crowd inside. Perhaps his landlady wouldn’t miss him at all. He hovered at the edge of the steps leading inside. A few people greeted him as they headed past him. One man asked him about his recent trip.

  “Fine, fine,” Caleb said, keeping to the shadows to conceal the better part of his bruised face.

  There really were quite a few men inside, and the women were being well attended to. He’d be surprised if any of the women sat out a single dance. He was tired, come to think of it. And he ached, mostly from the fight, of course. Going to bed a bit earlier tonight would ensure him a better day tomorrow.

  But the scent of food somehow reached him, and his traitorous stomach growled.

  Maybe he could eat and leave? Or just dance with one woman and leave? Consider it a duty done?

  But as he stepped inside the dance hall and caught sight of a familiar woman, one with blue eyes and dark hair, wearing a dress that was a couple of sizes too small for her, Caleb forgot about the food.

  Miss Harriet Silverton wasn’t looking at him, but that didn’t matter. He was still rooted to the floor. Because Bill Sutter, that snake, was talking to her, his smile oily, his frame leaning too close, his eyes full of things Caleb didn’t like.

  Then, to Caleb’s consternation, he watched as Bill held out his hand, and Miss Silverton put her hand in his. Was she accepting a dance from him? Or something more?

  Before he realized what he was doing, Caleb found himself striding toward Miss Silverton.

  The man’s bright blue eyes nearly had her fooled. Harriet recognized him, which seemed impossible, because she’d never been to Seattle in her lifetime. But then with an unpleasant jolt, she realized who he was. The man who’d fought Mr. Munns.

  “Good evening, miss,” he’d started out. “I do apologize if I’m intruding, but I feel that I owe you a deep apology. My name is Bill Sutter, and I’d like to welcome you to Seattle properly.”

  Harriet couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to, because Bill Sutter was a conversationalist, it seemed. He’d cleaned up nicely too. Gone was the sweaty, wild-eyed man, replaced by a slick-haired, twinkling-blue-eyed man. The transformation was quite astonishing, really. And completely unexpected.

  “Thank you, uh, Mr. Sutter.”

  He bowed, rather flamboyantly, and Harriet was aware that several people were looking their way.

  “Might you forgive me for behaving so badly last night in the street?” His blue eyes implored as much as did his smooth words.

  “Of-of course,” Harriet said. “I don’t even know you, so there’s no reason for me to hold a grudge.”

  Mr. Sutter lowered his gaze for a brief, contrite moment. Then he focused his blues on her once again. “That is the best news I’ve heard in all my life.”

  “Surely not in all your life,” she repeated.

  It turned out that Mr. Sutter had a rather booming laugh. Despite any reserve she might have, Harriet smiled.

  “Tell me, might I have the pleasure of learning your name?”

  It wasn’t like he couldn’t learn it anyway. All he’d have to do was ask Mr. Mercer or one of the other be
lles.

  “Harriet Silverton.”

  “Ah . . . A lovely name for a lovely lady,” Mr. Sutter said.

  A far-fetched compliment, but Harriet truly didn’t mind. She could bask in praise for a few moments. This Mr. Sutter wasn’t all that bad. Sure, he’d been in a heated argument with Mr. Munns, and it had come to blows eventually. But Mr. Munns had been in the same fight, done the same yelling, thrown the same punches. And she didn’t hold a grudge against him. In fact, she’d been wondering how he was faring.

  “Would you do me the honor and dance with me?” Mr. Sutter asked, extending his hand.

  Harriet really had no reason to say no. “All right.” She placed her hand in his, but just then, Mr. Sutter looked past her, and his eyes narrowed.

  His hand tightened about hers quite unexpectedly. What was he about?

  Then she heard a familiar voice, and a warm shiver whispered along her neck.

  “Step aside, Bill,” Mr. Munns said.

  Her hand still enfolded in Mr. Sutter’s, Harriet turned to see the man himself.

  He’d cleaned up nicely as well . . . not that he needed to add anymore awareness to his appearance. Mr. Munns was already an imposing man. But in a suit, even one that had seen better days, he was quite possibly the most striking man in the room. His dark copper hair gleamed in the lamplight, and his brown eyes were impossibly black, not to mention she caught the faint scent of pine and fresh air, as if he’d taken a stroll along a wooded path. His hair was no longer windblown, but combed, which only brought more attention to the square set of his jaw and the length of his throat.

  “You don’t own this woman,” Mr. Sutter said, his previously jovial voice now turned decidedly gruff.

  “And neither do you,” Mr. Munns was quick to say.

  The future flashed before Harriet’s eyes, of a brawl starting between these two men, once again. How many times could they fight in less than twenty-four hours? By the look in both of their eyes, she guessed more than once. Whatever had transpired between them on the street last night was not finished yet.

  “No one owns me, gentlemen.” Harriet pulled her hand from Mr. Sutter’s tight grip. “And I do not have my parasol with me, so I’d appreciate it if you would either leave the dance immediately, or behave as I’m sure your mothers taught you to do.”