Renee Ryan - Mistaken Bride

Women should be lining up to become his wife.

Yet he’d sent all the way to Ireland for a bride.

Hands shaking, Bridget turned over the letter and skimmed to the bottom. The signature read Bridget Collins.

He did, indeed, have the wrong woman. Sorrow settled inside her heart. The sensation made her feel as though she’d lost something important, life-changing.

She sighed.

Without meeting Will’s gaze directly, Bridget returned the letter to him. “I was right. You have the wrong woman.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady, even to her own ears. “My name isn’t Bridget Collins. It’s Bridget Murphy.”

For a long, tense moment he looked taken aback by her words. He swallowed once, twice and again, each time harder than the first.

“You did not write this letter?”

“I’m sorry, no.” Why she felt the need to apologize, she couldn’t say. But he seemed truly shocked by the news and she wanted to make everything better. If only she knew how.

“I see.” He glanced down at the baby. Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You are already married.”

“No. I am not. I—”

“Forgive me.” He took a step back. A very large step, the gesture confirming her worst fears. He thought Grace was hers and she’d had the child out of wedlock.

“The baby isn’t mine,” she said in a halting voice.

“Of course not.” He turned to go.

“No. Wait.” She reached out a hand to his retreating back then quickly curled it around the baby once more. “Please.”

He swung back around to face her, a question in his eyes.

Although she knew she would never see him again, she couldn’t bear him thinking ill of her. “This is baby Grace,” she said past the lump in her throat. “I’m holding her for my sister.”

It was the truth, if not entirely accurate. The situation was far too complicated to explain in a few succinct sentences.

“I understand.”

Did he? Oh, his words were kind enough, but in the next instant he gave her a formal nod of his head. The gesture was cool, polite and an obvious dismissal. Yet he didn’t leave right away. He just stood there staring at her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She meant every word.

“As am I.”

Once again he turned to go. This time he stopped himself before he took the next step. “Might I ask you one last question?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you know Bridget Collins?”

She searched her brain, reviewing all the women and girls she’d met on board the Annie McGee named Bridget. It was a common enough name, so much so she counted four off the top of her head. None of them had the last name Collins, though, not that she remembered. Then again, she hadn’t known most of her fellow passengers’ full names.

Collins. The name triggered a memory, one Bridget couldn’t quite grasp. There was a Collins family back in Castleville and there were several daughters among the eight children. Had there been a Bridget among them?

Yes, that must be why the name sounded familiar. “I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting your Bridget aboard ship.”

“Pity.”

It was, indeed.

“Thank you for your understanding, Bridget, I mean, Miss Murphy.” He shoved his hat onto his head. “I apologize for disturbing you and the child.”

A heartbeat later he was gone, disappearing into the crowd to continue the search for his bride.

Feeling oddly lost without his company, Bridget watched him weave through the maze of people and piles of luggage along the wharf. He moved with masculine elegance, the fluid motion proving he was a man used to controlling his body, confident in who he was and exceedingly comfortable in his own skin.

It was a very attractive, heady combination of traits. Just watching him made her feel very feminine.

In spite of the awkwardness of their meeting, Bridget had liked him. Even now as she watched him search for his bride, concentrating only on the faces of women near her same age, she felt a pull of—something. Something strong and lingering and very, very pleasant. Attraction?

Maybe.

Or perhaps the sensation was simple curiosity. Yes, that must be it. She couldn’t possibly find this man attractive when she knew the potential for heartache. Her sisters claimed she was a romantic, but that did not make her naive. Giving in to curiosity, she wondered what possible scenario would induce a man like Will to seek out a mail-order bride, a man with undeniable breeding, wealth and good looks.

Before she could contemplate the matter further, Nora returned.

“I found our luggage,” she said, a wee bit breathless, her eyes shining. “It’s on the other side of the gangplank, about a hundred yards down.”

When Bridget merely blinked at her, Nora indicated the spot with a jerk of her head.

Realizing she was expected to respond, Bridget nodded.

Eyebrows pulling together, Nora made an impatient sound deep in her throat. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t seem yourself.”

“I… It’s…nothing. I’m simply preoccupied.” That was true enough. “There are so many new things to see and hear, to feel, to comprehend. My head is spinning.”

“It’s all very exciting.” Nora reached out her arms. “I’ll take Grace now.”

Bridget handed over the baby without argument.

Hoping for one last glimpse of Will, she lifted onto her toes and caught sight of another familiar set of faces heading straight for them.

Head held high, marching along in all her regal glory, Mrs. Fitzwilliam led her new charges through the bustling wharf. The three McCorkle brothers following in her wake watched the activity around them with wide eyes. Although it had taken Bridget a while to warm up to the imperious widow, the boys had been a different matter. From the moment Bridget had met them, they’d inspired her sympathy and her faith. She was pleased to see them find a happy ending with Mrs. Fitzwilliam as their foster mother.

As was her custom, the older woman had chosen to wear a dress designed in the latest fashion. The pale blue silk, adorned with delicate lace and ribbon trim, was undeniably beautiful but couldn’t possibly be comfortable in the midday heat.

The widow didn’t seem to notice. She looked cool, elegant, her dark auburn hair contained in a beaded snood that would have been more fitting for a ballroom. Bridget wondered briefly where her attendant Stillman had gone. Perhaps to hire a carriage?

“Well, hello, my dear Murphy sisters.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam drew to a stop, her nose in the air, eyes cast downward. “I see you still have that precious baby with you.” She reached out and caressed Grace’s cheek with a loving, gentle touch. “Such a beautiful child.”

Nora accepted the compliment with genuine pride in her eyes, as though the baby was her own. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Nodding her approval, Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued studying Grace’s sweet face. “My stepgranddaughter Mary had the same coloring.”

At the mention of the girl, a sad, faraway look entered Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s eyes. The widow’s quest to find her missing relative had led her to make this trip to America. The rebellious Mary had run off with her boyfriend, Thomas. The lack of any contact from the girl, not a single letter, had left Mrs. Fitzwilliam quite concerned, enough to seek the help of a professional.

“Will you be meeting with a detective soon?” Bridget asked, unable to hold her tongue in light of the distress she saw in the woman’s gaze.

“As soon as possible. Oh, yes indeed. As soon as possible.”

“You will keep us informed?” Nora asked.

Never taking her eyes off the baby, she gave one firm nod. “You may count on it.”

After touching Grace’s cheek one final time, Mrs. Fitzwilliam turned her attention back to Bridget. “Enough with all this gloom.” She shook her head as if to wipe away the remains of any negative thoughts swirling around. “Now tell me, my dear girl, are you prepared to claim your new home today?”