Christine Johnson - Groom by Design

“Mother and Daddy would never let you marry at your age,” Ruth cautioned.

“Eighteen is old enough. Plenty of girls my age are engaged, and some already married. I wouldn’t want to wait forever, like...”

Though Minnie stopped before uttering the hurtful words, Ruth knew her sister meant her. Ruth had never had a beau, never danced with a man and never experienced a romantic kiss. Oh, she longed for it all. A home. A family of her own. A good Christian husband, poor but hardworking. A man who wouldn’t mind a plain wife with poor eyesight. Countless tearful prayers had been sent heavenward, but at twenty-six, she was a spinster.

Minnie was right about girls here marrying young, but she didn’t understand that a man didn’t love you simply because you loved him. That applied doubly to rich, handsome men. The wounds they inflicted lasted a lifetime.

Ruth attacked the seam with the iron.

“I’m sorry, Ruthie,” Minnie said with a sob. “I didn’t mean anything by it. But can’t you see? Daddy needs our help, and this is the perfect solution.”

“We are already helping by taking care of the shop and house and praying for him.” Yet as Daddy’s heart grew weaker, Ruth feared the small contribution they made would never be enough. But marry for money? That road led to nothing but heartache, as their oldest sister could testify. Beatrice had married the heir to the biggest fortune in town, yet she’d confided to Ruth that her marriage was struggling.

Jen drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Any little bit would help. Even if we can’t marry into wealth, at least we wouldn’t be living at home anymore. Daddy wouldn’t have to feed and clothe us. Any decent husband would help pay for the treatments.”

As Jen ticked off the benefits of her idea, Ruth paused in her pressing, iron held high so it wouldn’t scorch the delicate georgette crepe. Her sister had a point. None of them brought in much from their part-time jobs. The dress shop had lost clients. Maybe marriage was the only answer. Unfortunately, no man would look twice at plain old Ruth. Jen dashed around in trousers half the time, discouraging all but the most forward-thinking man. That left Minnie, and Ruth couldn’t abide the thought of her baby sister marrying that idler Reggie Landers.

Ruth pushed up her spectacles and set down the heavy iron. “There must be a better way to help Daddy. It’s not as if we can walk up to a man and ask him to marry us.”

Jen tossed her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll come up with a plan of attack.”

“A plan of attack? You make it sound like a military maneuver.” Ruth shook her head. Sometimes Jen behaved more like a boy than the lady she ought to be.

A scorched smell tickled her nostrils. The iron! In her inattention, she’d set it down. She jerked it up. Thank goodness, the silk hadn’t burned.

“I made a list of eligible bachelors.” Jen produced a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. With a great show, she smoothed it out on the tabletop.

Ruth fought a wave of panic. “No man wants to feel like he’s being hunted.”

“But it’s all right for them to pursue us,” Jen pointed out before addressing her list. “Gil Vanderloo is home from college. He asked me to dance once. A definite possibility. You could ask about him when you drop off the dresses.”

“I will do no such thing.” Through the open windows, Ruth heard the church bells ring the five-o’clock hour. “Oh, dear. Mrs. Vanderloo wanted her gowns before five so she could dress for her garden party. You’ve made me late with all this silly talk.”

She finished the last seam and slid the dress onto a hanger to cool. She plunked a plain straw hat on her head and jabbed a hatpin through the loose bun of fine blond hair at the nape of her neck. Gloves, gloves... Where were her gloves? She dashed around the shop looking for them while her sisters reviewed Jen’s list. If she weren’t already frantic, the whispers would have driven her mad.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense.” Ruth grabbed the pasteboard carton she used to protect garments against dirt but hesitated. Even this short distance could wrinkle the gowns, and Mrs. Vanderloo didn’t have time to iron them out. Considering the weather had cleared after this morning’s rain and few clouds now graced the sky, she decided to risk going without. What could happen in a few blocks?

She grabbed the hangers and held the dresses high so their hems didn’t brush the ground. Once out the door, she’d loosely drape them over her other arm and pray they didn’t crease.

Before leaving, she directed her sisters to close the shop. Without waiting for confirmation, Ruth pushed backward through the door, turned and crashed into something very solid. The impact staggered her, and in a desperate attempt to regain her balance, she dropped the hangers.

“Hello, there.” The rich baritone voice came with strong hands that caught her by the shoulders and prevented a spill.

She’d run into a man—a very tall man. A stranger, no less. An extremely handsome stranger who at that very moment still held her shoulders. Ruth swallowed hard as she looked up at his impressive height. Goodness! He practically scraped the sky, but the effort was worth it. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a moving-picture show in his meticulously tailored suit. Clean-cut and dark-haired, he exuded the confidence and charm of the fashionable set. From the expensive silk necktie and jaunty fedora to the polished black shoes, every inch of him advertised his wealth.

And she’d just plowed into him.

“Are you all right?” His voice did sound kind.

Ruth drew in a shaky breath, far too conscious of the hands he’d just removed from her shoulders. My, he was handsome! An exotic yet comfortingly familiar scent enveloped him. She breathed in deeply. Bergamot. That was it. The scent reminded her of a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea. Who was this man, and why did his touch send a shiver down her spine on such a hot day? He must think her either careless or a fool. Or half-blind. As she adjusted her glasses, the taunts of her childhood schoolmates came to mind. Goofy Ruthie. Frog eyes.

“I’m sorry.” She averted her gaze. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“The fault’s mine. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He was apologizing? She risked another glance at the exceedingly handsome man.

His lips curved into a wry smile. “Sorry about your dresses.”

Dresses? She smoothed her skirt. Oh, dear, she’d worn a plain old dress that was years out of style and fraying at the cuffs. “I’m all right.”

“I meant the ones you dropped.” He bent, and she followed his outstretched arm to the horrifying sight of Mrs. Vanderloo’s tea gowns floating in a mud puddle.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it couldn’t stop the strangulated cry that shot up her throat. Already she was late, and now Mrs. Vanderloo’s expensive dresses were ruined. This could cost the shop dearly.

He lifted the gowns with one hand and brushed at the mud on them with the other.

“Stop!” she cried. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late.” He turned the dresses so she could see the damage.

Her eyes blurred with tears. The ivory georgette bore a streak of dirty brown, and the mint-green lace gown looked as if an entire pot of coffee had been dumped on it. For years Mrs. Vanderloo had been one of the shop’s best customers, but lately she’d gone from ordering new dresses to bringing in ready-made frocks for alterations. Each time she complained about the bill. Each time she threatened never to bring another gown to them. This would be the proverbial last straw. The shop couldn’t stand to lose more customers.