Lisa Bingham - The Other Bride

So alike.

And yet so different.

Phoebe smiled ruefully. Her father would be appalled if he could see her now—blithely throwing away her birthright without a second thought and allowing a stranger to take her place. She’d kept only a few reminders of her past—the indigo gown she’d worn the night before, two sets of delicate underthings and two pairs of shoes. The items were hidden deep in one of her trunks, along with a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present.

She grimaced. She doubted that the heavy piece had been a sentimental endowment. Instead, she was sure that the ring was meant to remind her of the name and title her father intended to pass on to her firstborn son. He would never discover that his daughter had abandoned his legacy until it was too late to rectify the mistake.

Pausing for a moment, she opened the catch to a carpetbag and withdrew the paper where she’d copied the boardinghouse’s address. There she would meet the eight mail-order brides who would make the journey by rail. Once in San Francisco, she would wed Neil Ballard—a simple farmer looking for a woman to take care of his house.

“Let go of me! Unhand me, I say!”

“Watch out, miss! Move over!”

At the sound of a scuffle behind her, Phoebe flattened herself against the wall. To her horror, she saw a grizzled old man being hustled down the street by a pair of uniformed policemen.

Phoebe recognized the old man instantly. Poor Mr. Potter. Halfway through the Atlantic crossing, the scruffy octogenarian had been discovered on board as a stowaway. Within minutes, he’d been locked in one of the lower cabins. He’d spent the remainder of the journey there or shackled in chains on the deck of the ship.

“Lass, lass!” the man shouted as he passed her. “Tell them I’m too old to be sent back to England. Help me, please! Don’t let them do this to me! I’m good for the fare!”

Startled, Phoebe found herself unable to say anything, so Potter turned his attention to the policemen on either side.

“If they’d only let me have a day or two, I could raise enough to pay for my passage. Tell them that, will you?”

But neither gentleman seemed inclined to listen. Instead, they bundled him into an enclosed wagon with iron bars over the windows. Phoebe could only wave to him as the team jolted into a quick walk and the vehicle lumbered away.

Inexplicably, the glow of the sun seemed slightly tarnished. What would become of Mr. Potter? He’d wanted to go West, and in that respect, Phoebe had felt a kinship with him. That was why she’d taken to sneaking him bits of food whenever she could.

“Out of the way, miss!”

She jumped, noting that she was about to be overrun by a pair of men attempting to load a heavy crate marked Farm Equipment onto a wagon. For a moment she stared at the men, noting the way their faces gleamed with perspiration and their bodies strained to lift the heavy box.

Eager to be on her way, Phoebe crossed the street, avoiding the foot traffic and buggies that tangled the thoroughfare. Although she would have enjoyed lingering on her journey to the hotel, time was of the essence. She needed to meet with the other mail-order brides and ensure that her trunks had been delivered. Then she would make a few purchases to augment those items from her friend’s wardrobe that had proved to be too small. She would need sensible shoes and hose, as well as needles, thread and other sewing supplies to alter the hems of those garments that were too short.

Phoebe hailed a hansom cab. Although she was “purse poor” and likely to remain so for some time, she decided that the extravagance would be worth the time saved.

Climbing into the cab, she clutched her carpetbag in her lap, straining to see as much as she could of the city through the narrow window. But even with the plethora of sights, she found her mind wandering back to the night before.

To the stranger.

The memory had the ability to make her skin tingle. How she wished she had found the courage to turn and face the gentleman who had come to her aid on the deck of the ship. He had been so kind….

And yet there was far more to the encounter than a chance meeting with an unfamiliar man who had offered her comfort. His nearness had thrilled her in a way she had never experienced before. From the moment he had spoken to her, she had been tuned to his nearness, his height, his strength. His muffled voice had been deep and warm, yet had retained a harder edge—like velvet over steel.

If only there had been more time.

If only she’d seen his face.

“Here you are, miss.”

The cabby pulled to a halt so abruptly that Phoebe was nearly jolted from her seat.

Her face grew hot. The time had long since come for her to gain control of her wayward thoughts. She was engaged to a farmer in Oregon. She had no business mooning over a stranger she’d encountered during her journey.

Straightening her bonnet, Phoebe jabbed the hatpin through the brim with a bit more force than necessary, then dug into her reticule for the amount she owed the cabby. She would do well to remember who she was. Phoebe Gray, a mild, hardworking Christian woman with a long journey still ahead of her.

Reminded of her new persona, Phoebe thanked the cabby for his efforts, adding a penny tip from her neat stash of coins. Hefting her satchel, she marched up the sidewalk and twisted the gleaming brass doorknob.

“Come in,” a distant voice called from within.

Stepping into the dim interior, she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but even before they did, she absorbed the smells of lemon-scented furniture polish and baking bread.

A plump woman wearing a brown wool day dress, an oversize apron and a lace cap bustled into the room. “Hello, dear. May I help you?”

“Yes. My name is L—” Phoebe’s face flamed. Here was her first encounter with a stranger and she’d nearly made the mistake of using her real name. Never, never, never, she chided herself. You are Phoebe now. Phoebe Gray.

Clearing her throat, she began again. “My name is Phoebe Gray. I was told to meet with—”

Phoebe didn’t have a chance to finish. The woman began clucking in concern. Taking the satchel from Phoebe’s fingers, she looped her arm through her elbow and drew her irresistibly toward a narrow staircase.

“I’m Mrs. Cates, the proprietor.” She clucked again. “My dear, my poor, poor dear. You’ve arrived at last and just in time to discover that your journey is over before it’s begun.”

A moment passed before Phoebe caught the full meaning of what the woman was saying.

“Over? What do you mean, over? Did the Overland group leave earlier than planned? Did I miss the train?”

Mrs. Cates wagged her head and her many chins trembled. “No, dear. It’s worse than that. Far worse.”

Mrs. Cates steadfastly ushered her to the top of the staircase, but once there, Phoebe planted her feet and refused to budge. “Mrs. Cates, please. Tell me what’s happened.”

The proprietress sighed. “The other girls are in here,” she said, gesturing to a small sitting room visible through a pair of double doors. “I’ll let them explain everything, poor darlings.”

With that, she urged Phoebe forward and into the parlor.

Upon stepping across the threshold, Phoebe found the room cluttered with luggage and women. Like her, some of the girls were still dressed in dusty traveling suits, while others must have been in residence at the boardinghouse long enough to grow comfortable with their surroundings.

A quick count assured Phoebe that there were eight women present. The youngest, a delicate blonde who stared wistfully out the window, looked to be barely more than fifteen. From there, the average age of the women seemed to range from Phoebe’s twenty-one to a tall statuesque woman of at least fifty.