The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1) (2 page)

“Yes, Papa?” She hurried down the ladder and to his side by the cash register, her cheeks burning.

Papa set his ledger on the counter and jabbed a finger into the page he had it opened to. “You entered the wrong amount here.”

She bent over the page, gave a quick-but-thorough study of the numbers. When she located the problem, she quietly pointed to the correct column. He stared at the ledger for a moment, then without a word of apology, he sent her a furious look and stalked through the doorway to the office located out back.

Jack and the perfectly ladylike Melody had heard every word of her father’s rebuke, of course. Every word he’d blasted across the store. Becky stiffened her spine—standing tall and straight, her chin held high—and looked over her shoulder. There they were, the two of them, their gazes riveted on her. Melody had this look of pity and discomfort on her face, clearly embarrassed on Becky’s behalf.

Becky turned and briefly squeezed her eyes shut to gather herself. Then she moved behind the counter with as much composure as she could muster and rang in their purchase: a length of the softest white flannel that Sullivan’s carried—obviously meant for baby clothes. That’s all anyone ever bought this particular fabric for. It was no secret.

“Congratulations,” Becky murmured. It was the hardest word she’d ever spoken, made harder by the fact that Jack must have known it. How could he not? He had the grace to look discomfited.

“Why, thank you, Miss Sullivan.” Melody blushed, her cheeks practically glowing.

After they said their goodbyes and left the store, Becky stared down at the bolt of baby flannel on the counter before her. There was only a small square left, not even enough for the tiniest baby dress—not enough to put back on the display table.

She should set it aside though, perhaps tie it with some twine and mark the price down.

But she couldn’t move.

She stood there for an eternity, fingering the flannel. It was soft and perfect—light as dandelion fluff. Despite the fact that everyone called her a hoyden, Becky had always wanted a baby someday. She loved children.

A baby.

She held the fabric to her cheek, filled with an unspeakable longing.

Who would marry her now? Certainly not any of the young men who’d returned to Pepperell after the war. Many hadn’t come home. Too many. And she couldn’t think of a single one who would’ve chosen to marry her anyway.

But to stay here? She looked around, seeing shelves of goods stacked to the ceiling, table upon table of neat displays—the same as always—and the street outside, carriages rumbling past... The same, the same, the same. She didn’t know how she could bear it any longer.

Glancing over her shoulder at the door to Papa’s office she hesitated, then quickly hid the remnant under the counter, her heart pounding like a wild thing.

Late in the night while the house slept, Becky retrieved her bundle, slipped a few coins inside the register, and crept back up to the room she shared with her younger sister. Careful not to disturb Rachel, who was thankfully still snoring delicately on the far side of the bed, Becky tucked her little treasure into the back of her linen drawer, wincing when the lid creaked.

She fell asleep praying.

So then, when Mr. Melrose Preston arrived in town the very next afternoon, Becky was convinced her prayers from the night before had been answered.

He went door to door and shop to shop handing out leaflets. Becky overheard him telling her father about the opportunities to be had for any young women who might be willing to travel to Seattle, Washington Territory. He even preached an impassioned matrimony plea at the Town Hall that night. Becky slipped away from the house to listen, hoping for her answered prayer. Longing for escape. And Mr. Preston’s fervor swayed her. She signed up to marry a man named Isaac Jessup, sight unseen.

TWO

N
ot one week later, Becky bustled around her room, packing for her voyage.

“But, Becky, what do you know about this Mr. Preston? Or this Jessup man?” her mother asked for the thousandth time, wringing her hands.

“What’s left for me here, Mama?” Becky asked. With Jack married, they both knew the answer:
nothing
. “And you know Papa wants me gone, the sooner the better.”

“Becky! I know no such thing. Don’t be so quick to judge your father. There’s much you don’t know about him...about what he’s done for you. Or the sacrifices he’s made...” Mama’s eyes took on a look of anguish. She stood there, biting her bottom lip, as if debating whether she should confide in Becky or not. That she had something to confide was obvious. Her gaze slid away to the window, and she wandered across Becky’s room to look down on the street.

“Tell me, Mama,” Becky whispered, feeling a measure of dread and certainty overtake her. There was
something
—she’d always known it, always suspected. “What is it?”

“Your Papa and I were courting, when—ah—a situation arose precipitating our wedding in haste.”

The walls closed in around Becky. A buzzing sound filled her ears.

What?

“What are you saying, Mama, that you were...expecting?” Becky couldn’t have been more surprised if her mother had said they’d found her—the infant Becky—under a mushroom.

“What?” Mama turned to her, clearly flustered, her cheeks turning a rosy pink. “Oh, no, Becky. No. It was Papa’s sister, Marilyn. She was the one who was...expecting. Well, the Boston Sullivans can’t abide by scandal—that’s a known fact—and Mari’s beau had run off at the news. So your papa was called upon to ‘handle’ the situation. To save the family from social ruin, we rushed our own wedding and moved here to Pepperell to start the business, and to raise you as our own once you were born. And Mari was sent away to live with your great-aunt Margaret in Philadelphia.”

“Auntie Mari?” Becky stared at Mama’s back in silence until she finally turned to meet her gaze. “Auntie Mari was
my mother
?”

“Yes.” Mama quickly looked away again.

Any hope that Becky had mistaken her mother’s words or that this was some sort of bad dream evaporated with that one softly spoken word.

The floor seemed to tilt away from her. She collapsed onto the top of her newly packed trunk and stared vacantly at the ceiling.

“Don’t ever doubt you’re a Boston Sullivan, Becky.” Her mother sounded sad, almost bitter. “And don’t ever doubt my love. I have always been, and shall always be, your mama.”

Mama’s words were meant to reassure, but they only left Becky feeling empty. She’d never really known her aunt Mari. She certainly hadn’t known her as a mother. And she was gone now. She’d died of consumption about five years ago.

Tears welled in Becky’s eyes, blurring her vision.

She brushed them away angrily, willing her hurt away. What use was it crying now?

Mama was still wringing her hands, not daring to look at her.

She appeared lost, something Becky wasn’t used to. Her mother had never been a particularly strong woman—she always had an air of concern about her—but she was always refined, always in control.

Becky stood and went to her.

“Of course you are,” she said softly, taking her mother in her arms. It was a rather awkward embrace, since they’d never been particularly affectionate—not like Mama and Rachel were. Those two were like two peas in a pod.

Becky swallowed.

So this was why. It explained so much.
Like why Mama always let me go my own way.
Why she’d simply thrown up her hands at Becky’s hoydenish ways and not put up a fight.

The truth certainly explained the way Papa was with her. He’d left everything he’d ever wanted because of her: Boston, an established family business, his freedom... Why, just about everything.

The
sacrifices
he’d made.

No wonder he resented her.

Well, come tomorrow he’d be free of her. She’d soon be so far away from him he might even forget she existed.

Becky made a fist and clutched it to her stomach, trying to hold herself together.

Unfortunately, she didn’t think the hole in her heart was going to be so easily mended. If she wanted to start fresh and build a family of her own—finally find a place she belonged—she’d have to guard her actions. Her future was at stake, and every step she took from now on would determine what kind of life she’d have.

She’d disappointed enough people.

Papa, who’d given up so much.

Mama, who hadn’t known what to do with her.

And finally, Jack, who’d wanted a wife, but found her wanting.

It was time for a fresh start. A new Becky.

A new
Rebecca
.

Or else there was going to be one more man who found her lacking, who would discover that Rebecca Ruth Sullivan wasn’t all she was meant to be.

THREE

Seattle, Washington Territory, June 1866

“M
iss Rebecca Sullivan!”

Becky’s head jerked up to find Mr. Melrose Preston, the leader of the expedition, scanning the crowd impatiently. How many times had he called her?

“I’m here.” She waved to him, leaning to one side around a strapping young man and a woman in a wide skirt.

Mr. Preston inclined his head and waited for her to scurry over. “Mr. Jessup hasn’t shown up,” he said, checking the list in his hand once more.

Not here?

Why? Where was he? Had he changed his mind even before he met her?

Acid sloshed in Becky’s stomach.

“The hotel’s full up,” Mr. Preston continued, “so I’m going to have to put you up with the Pearsons. For now, until we track this Isaac Jessup down.”

“Oh.” Becky clutched her carpetbag tightly to stop her fingers from shaking. If ever she’d felt like a child alone, it was now in this strange new land.

Mr. Preston instructed her to wait where she was and strode off, evidently to talk to the Pearsons, whoever they were.

“Becky.” Meggie, a girl she’d befriended on board ship during the long journey, touched her elbow and gave her a sad smile. “I just wanted to see you before I left. And I wanted to say good luck to you.”

Becky squeezed Meggie close and kissed her cheek. “Good luck to you too. I hope your William appreciates what a fine woman you are,” she said, meaning every word. If anyone deserved a good life it was Meggie, such a sweet girl. She was just a year younger than Becky, but seemed even younger. After months of commiserating and confiding on board, Becky felt closer to her than she’d ever felt to her own sister.

Meggie blushed shyly. “And your Isaac too.”

Becky watched as Meggie walked away toward a young man, tall as he was lean, who looked about twenty. The two climbed up into a wagon behind an older couple. His parents, Becky supposed. She felt a twinge of envy at the sight of them together. Meggie had met her William.

Where was
her
Isaac?

Becky craned her neck to look around, but all the men who’d come to meet the ship had been paired off already.

Oh, Lord, what’ve I done?

She’d committed to marrying a man sight unseen.

Had she come all this way for nothing?

She gripped the handle of her bag and forced herself to take in a few deep, steadying breaths.

She had the oddest sensation of still being on board the ship. Though the ground was steady, it felt like it was undulating beneath her. Like the rolling decks of the ship she’d left behind. She wasn’t going to miss that ship—that much was for sure. After spending three months being tossed about by waves and storms, she was heartily sick of the sea and everything in it.

Would she ever feel normal again? she wondered.

While she waited anxiously for Mr. Preston to return, Becky sized up the town. So this was Seattle. It was nothing like Pepperell, with its white clapboard buildings and brick-paved roads. This place looked more like a lost civilization. It was small—not that Pepperell had been particularly large, but this was even smaller. It had an intimate cluster of town buildings, but everywhere to the left and right was a wilderness. Towering snow-capped peaks jutted into the clouds, dwarfing the collection of stores and houses. And the sky above was the most incredible deep blue. It seemed to go on forever. The air was crisp too, like a drink of cold water.