The Teacher's Mail Order Bride (11 page)

R
ose smiled
at Maddy as she set down their soup, but couldn’t help the nagging in the pit of her stomach. She’d listened to Mr. Bailey and understood his predicament—she certainly knew what it was like to lose a mother—but she still felt that possibly there was something to be done.

She glanced around the room, smiling and nodding at Mr. Bailey, but hoping mostly to see Sammy or his brother. She couldn’t help but wonder if they were part of the group of boys that had been hanging around the school yard. If they were, that would at least show that they were eager to learn.

She craned her neck to peer into the kitchen when the door swung open but couldn’t quite get a glimpse of anyone in there. Her eyes came back to Michael, and her face flushed under his gaze.

“Your soup is getting cold, Rose. Maybe we’ll get to meet the boys before we go.”

She wondered how he’d known exactly what she was thinking. He was quite an interesting man—and, she had to admit, very handsome—and seemed to have the same philosophies about education and the world that she did. How was it that he was so willing to let this go, when children needed to be in school?

Michael dipped into his soup and closed his eyes, smiling. He reached for the pepper shaker and shook a liberal amount in his soup, distracting Rose from her thoughts.

“This is very good, isn’t it?” she asked as she raised her spoon to her lips and blew on the hot soup.

“It’s one of the things I miss most about not being in Boston. And my family’s restaurant.” He leaned forward across the table and whispered, “Don’t tell Mr. Bailey, but it’s not as good as at my parents’ restaurant.” He winked at Rose and took another spoonful of soup. “But it’ll do in a pinch, especially as I don’t cook myself.”

Rose stirred her soup and frowned. “Where do you eat?” She couldn’t imagine not knowing how to cook.

He laughed. “I’ve become familiar with just about every restaurant in town—the Occidental being my favorite.”

Rose’s eyes lit up. “I’m so pleased to hear you say that. Sadie and Tripp have worked very hard to make it a success.”

“Yes, they certainly have, and Tripp is a fine chef. In fact, he’s promised to make a special dish this weekend. I am feeling a little homesick for Italian food.”

Rose smiled at the thought of Tripp’s happiness at being able to create something new for Michael. “I have no doubt that he will thoroughly enjoy himself in making a special dish for you.”

“Do you enjoy Italian food, Rose?” Michael asked as he leveled his gaze at her, his head cocked to one side.

“Oh, yes, I do. My mother loved to cook and every Sunday, she tried a different cuisine, some from around the world. It was our Sunday tradition.” Her eyes clouded at the memory and she dropped her eyes to her soup bowl.

“That sounds like a lovely tradition. As your mother can no longer provide such feasts, would you like to join me on Sunday for dinner at the Occidental? I am looking forward to seeing what Tripp has in store.”

Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth and she looked up quickly to see if he was teasing her. Her stomach fluttered at the intensity in his eyes. He didn’t look away and appeared to be waiting for an answer.

Rose remembered that he was betrothed—she couldn’t forget, as much as she’d tried—and his future wife would be arriving soon. Surely, he hadn’t forgotten that and his request was just for company, by his assistant.

“We could talk more about how to help these students, I suppose,” she said, hoping he would confirm that it was a “business” event rather than pleasure. “Maybe Suzanne and James could join us. Otherwise, it would be improper for us to go to dinner in the evening, Michael.”

He rubbed his chin, his eyes clouding. “Oh, yes. That,” he said, picking up his spoon.

She decided that changing the subject would be for the best although every part of her was urging her to say, “Yes. I would love to join you.”

“How is it that your family owns a restaurant and you don’t know how to cook?”

He stirred his soup and set down his spoon, his eyebrows raised at the change of subject, but he nodded. “Rose, I very much enjoy your company and—”

“It would be improper for us to go to dinner in the evening, Michael,” Rose interrupted him before he said something neither one of them should hear. “You are scheduled to be married, your future wife arriving any day now.” Rose looked down, her hands clenched together, her knuckles white as she spoke the very difficult words. She’d never thought when she started volunteering at the schoolhouse that he would open an entirely new world for her—one she was destined not to have.

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. She opened them and their eyes met, his dark and stormy, almost sorrowful. Rose imagined hers looked the same as she tore her eyes away, unsure that she would be able to keep the hot tears from spilling.

“How did it happen, truly, that you did not learn to cook when your family owns a restaurant,” she said as soon as she was able, feeling his eyes on her still. She felt that he could see clear inside her, this intense man, and she did her best to ensure that he couldn’t, that he not know anything more about her than he did now.

He sighed and leaned forward, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Rose, I—”

“Really, Michael, how did that come to pass?” she repeated, forcing a bright smile. At least she hoped it was bright.

He pushed his glasses back over his eyes, covering whatever intensity that she’d momentarily seen, his own guard back up. He set his soup bowl to the side and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“My parents were first generation immigrants from Italy. Came over on a boat. In fact, that’s where they changed their names, from Tarantino to Tate.”

“Changed their names?” Rose asked, frowning.

“Yes. From what I’ve learned, things were not good in southern Italy, where they were born and raised. Too many people and not enough food. They’d had a restaurant there as well, and were some of the first to decide to leave.”

“That must have been a very difficult decision, to leave their family.” She held her hand to her heart.

He lowered his head. “Yes, it was difficult. They don’t talk about it much, though, and since they came, many of their family members have followed. Now, they are rich with brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews—never short on family.”

Rose had read about the recent influx of immigrants from Italy now, in the 1880s, but hadn’t known that there had been problems for many years. “They were very brave to strike out on their own.”

Michael sighed and reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a worn, silver watch. He turned it over and ran his thumb over an inscription that Rose couldn’t see.

“They loved each other then, very much, and even more so now. They felt that they could conquer anything as long as they were together. Since they were some of the first Italians and had saved some money to bring with them, they decided to open an Italian restaurant—but become fully American.”

Rose laughed as she set her bowl aside. “That sounds—challenging.”

“Yes. They believed in the promise of America, and when I was born, they vowed that I would be all American and have every advantage possible. As a result, I started school as early as possible and they took me every day, without fail. I was not allowed to speak Italian, only English.”

“That explains why you have no accent,” Rose said, her head tilted to one side.

“Yes. But I was surrounded by Italians, and while I loved school and learning English, I learned anyway. With a little help from my uncles and cousins,” he said, his eyes twinkling while he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small, worn dictionary—Italian and English.”

“Oh, my,” Rose said and picked it up, flipping through the small book which had clearly been read many, many times by its faded, worn cover and dog-eared pages. She smiled as she handed it back to Michael.

“Is this for you?” a soft, young voice asked and both Rose and Michael quickly looked up. Rose gasped as she recognized the small boy holding two plates of pie.

“Yes, thank you,” Rose said, reaching for the plate he was holding, her eyes wide. She looked toward Michael and raised her eyebrows. This was most certainly the boy who had been by the gate to the schoolyard—and also the boy she’d startled coming out of the schoolroom carrying those books.

“Hello. Thank you for the pie. I’m Mr. Tate and this is Miss Archer,” he said, holding his hand out to the boy.

“Sammy,” he said as he looked at Michael’s outstretched hand and reached for it with his own. After a quick shake, he turned on his heel and headed back into the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind him.

Rose stared after him, a smile growing. She turned to Michael, her eyes shining. “That’s him. That’s the boy.”

“Yes. That’s him. The boy we won’t be able to get to school,” Michael said, his brows furrowed.

“There you are, Miss Rose. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Rose turned at the sound of Ben’s voice. He closed the door behind him and pulled up a chair.

“I’m so sorry, Ben. I lost track of time. The school day was so very busy and we hadn’t time for lunch.”

Ben tipped his hat back over his forward. “No worries. I’ll forgive you if I can have some of that pie. It looks mighty good.”

Rose laughed and slid the plate toward him, her nerves buzzing too loudly to eat it herself.

Ben took a bite of the pie and closed his eyes. “Yep, as good as it looks.” He cut another piece and started to bring it to his mouth. The fork clattered on the plated as he said, “Oh. I almost forgot, Mr. Tate. The postmaster asked me to give this to you. I think it’s from your future wife.”

M
ichael felt
the blood drain from his face as he took the letter from Ben. He stared at it for a moment and then looked up at Rose—whose face was as white as he imagined his own was.

He shoved it into his coat pocket and signaled to Maddy for the bill.

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you going to open it?” Ben asked as he took the last bite of pie.

“No, not now. I have to...go do something.” He stood and handed Maddy some bills and walked around the table, pulling Rose’s chair back for her.

“Oh, come on, now. That’s no fun. I been waiting for that letter for a long time.” Ben stood, his smile suddenly dimming. “Um, I mean I know
you
been waiting for that letter for weeks.”

Rose moved toward the door, lifting her skirts as color crept back into her face. “Yes, Ben has absolutely no interest in mail order brides. Do you, Ben?”

Ben coughed into his hand. “Well, good luck, Mr. Tate. We’ll be seeing you later.”

He opened the door for Rose and followed her out, closing the door behind him as he gave Michael a tip of his hat.

Michael blinked hard as he watched Rose lift her skirts and climb into the buggy. He watched until they turned the corner, and not once did she turn to look back.

“Here’s your change, Mr. Tate.” Maddy held out some coins to Michael. “Mr. Tate? Are you all right?”

He shook his head and turned to Maddy. “I’m not sure, Maddy. Oh, that’s for you.” He reached for his bowler hat and ran a hand through his hair, then pulled it on.

“Thank you,” she said as he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the boardwalk, expelling a deep breath. He walked slowly to the boarding house, hands in his pockets, his fingers avoiding the letter that would seal his fate. What had he done? He’d had no idea that there may have been someone in Tombstone that would capture his heart, but there was. And now he couldn’t have her.

He reached the boarding house and sat down on the bench out front. The letter wasn’t going to evaporate, so he reached into his pocket and took it out, staring for several moments at the swirly handwriting and the return address—Margery Tanner from St. Louis, Missouri.

He turned it over slowly, tearing it open. He may as well see what was in store. He spread the paper out flat on this thigh. Taking a deep breath, he held it up, blinked twice and began to read.

He dropped the letter onto his lap and his head into his hands as his elbows rested on his knees.

“Are you all right, Mr. Tate?”

Michael looked up into the kind eyes of the proprietress of the boarding house, Mrs. Blake.

He folded the letter and placed it back in his pocket. He stood and tipped his hat.

“I’m not sure, Mrs. Blake, but thank you for your kind concern.” He turned and opened the door for her, following her into the lobby of the boardinghouse.

She looked up at him, her expression puzzled. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Tate?”

Michael took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. He looked up at Mrs. Blake and said, “Yes, I think there is something you can do for me, if it’s possible?”

“Of course, Mr. Tate. Anything at all.” She set down her reticule and sat behind her desk in the study off the main foyer.

He paused for a moment and glanced out the white lace curtains, not certain at all if he was all right. His hand automatically reached into his vest pocket and he fingered the slick, old pocket watch his mother had given him. He remembered her words to him.

He remembered her words to him, and he knew that this was not what she had meant at all.

The image of Mrs. Samson and the school board popped into his head, and he sighed, resigned to his fate.

“I’ll need to procure another room, Mrs. Blake, for an indeterminate amount of time. Starting day after tomorrow.”

Mrs. Blake looked up from her ledger, her eyebrows raised. “Oh? Are you having company?”

“Not company, exactly. My future wife.”