oval framed mirror and a gilt framed photo of the very house they were standing in adorned the space. A graceful walnut railing curved along the staircase.
He set the trunk down at his feet and gestured to the left. “This is the parlor.” A stiff horsehair sofa and chairs faced the fireplace. “And the dining room to our right.” Six curved-back chairs surrounded a cherry dining table. A high cabinet with glass front doors held a small collection of matching china dishes encircled with blue flowers.
Ann smiled and nodded, hoping he could see how the house pleased her. Mrs. Turner had tried to prepare her for something small and sparse and her heart lifted in delight to see she couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Where’s the kitchen?”
“Through the door at the end of the hall. My father only put on a lean-to when he built the house.”
Ann perked up at the mention of his father. “When will I get to meet him?”
“Who?”
“Your father, of course.”
James set down the bags and rubbed his hands together. “I’m afraid you can’t. He and Mother died some years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “When will I meet your brothers and sisters?”
“No brothers or sisters. It’s just me and Uncle Mac.”
“I thought all farmers had many children.”
James laughed. “Where did you get an idea like that?”
“In England, farmers always have scads of children.”
“Did you grow up on a farm?”
Her thoughts turned to the orphanage and the Atherton house. The simplest answer felt the easiest. “No.”
“Mother and Father wanted more but the Lord only blessed them with me. A farm is hard work with only one son to help. I pray God chooses to bless me with many children.”
Ann’s hands grew slick with sweat and her stomach lurched like a newborn foal finding its legs. He wanted children? Had her one request been overlooked? Ignored? Certainly her face reflected the nausea that lurched within. James tilted his head in scrutiny, and she drew in a deep breath to stifle the sickening dread that threatened to overtake her.
“Are you alright?”
What could she possibly say? Two dollars in coins jangled in her pocket book. It was all the money she had in the world.
“I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”
He picked up her trunk and pointed toward the stairs. “I’m sure you’re worn out after all your travels. Let me show you to your room.”
Upstairs were three closed doors. James stopped at the first on the right and opened it. Inside a small side table and dresser sat below a plainly framed mirror. A single bed hugged the wall next to the window. He marched in and set her trunk down in the middle of the faded green rag rug and draped the quilt across the top.
“Uncle Mac has the room next to this one, but he’s in bed already. You’ll meet him tomorrow. My room’s across the hall, but I’ll be sleeping on the back porch.”
“Is that really necessary? I’d feel horrid if you weren’t able to get a proper rest.”
“Don’t feel bad on my account. I sleep out there most summer nights anyway.”
“Oh.”
“Can I get you anything?”
Her head and neck ached and the fatigue of travel and stress enveloped her like a heavy blanket. She could only think of the inviting-looking bed. Ann shook her head.
“Well then, good night, Ann. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
Ann sank onto the bed. A dull ache throbbed across her temples, and she closed her eyes and tried to sort out the day’s events. The more she reviewed the day, the more peculiar it all felt. James had been nervous when they met, but something more hid behind his green eyes. It wasn’t only surprise. Was it confusion? Disappointment? He’d had plans to marry her the very next day—plans he’d quickly changed. Though she was relieved—surely they could get to know one another a little while before they were betrothed—she couldn’t help but wonder why the sudden change of heart? And what of that comment about wanting lots of children? Surely Mrs. Turner hadn’t made a mistake?
She closed her eyes and replayed her exchange with Mrs. Turner in the cramped and stuffy offices of the Transatlantic Agency. Mrs. Turner had announced with resolution, “I believe you and Mr. James McCann will be as perfect a match as any.” Ann took deep, measured breaths and tried to slow her racing heart. Mrs. Turner wouldn’t make a mistake of this magnitude. Her business depended on it.
Ann rose and stared into the mirror above the dresser, hoping to find some clue to James’s dismayed reaction at their meeting. The hint of a shadow traced under her eyes, and two stray hairpins poked their heads out like nosy children. She appeared as she expected after so many days on the train. She removed her brown felt hat and ran a hand over her forehead. The pain in her temples spread over her creased brow. Ann plucked out her hairpins and untwisted her coiffure. Her hair fell down past her shoulders and she groaned as the ache in her head eased.
She opened her trunk and retrieved the few things she needed for her toilet. The pitcher proved empty, and James hadn’t shown her the privy. Did all men forget women had need of such basic necessities? The reality of sharing a home and life with another would drive anyone to distraction. Maybe that was all that was wrong between them—awkwardness and nerves.
That thought cheered Ann, and she convinced herself of it on the short walk downstairs with the pitcher. If houses in America were like those in England, the well pump would be directly outside the kitchen door. James had also failed to supply her with a lantern or candles. Thankfully, the summer sun had not yet set, and soft fingers of orange sunset lit her way.
She opened the kitchen door and found the room bathed in dusky light. James sat at a worn wooden table with his back to her. The floor creaked as she entered and he jumped from his seat, sending papers scattering to the floor. They both stooped to retrieve them and his fingers grazed hers. He snatched his hands back and ran them from the crown of his hair to the nape of his neck.
“I’m sorry I startled you. I came to fetch some water.”
James’s gaze fixed on the papers in her right hand. She passed them to him, but not before she saw the salutation.
“Why are you writing to Mrs. Turner?”
James colored and opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut. He pulled out a chair and directed Ann to sit down.
“I’m sorry, Ann. I should have said something sooner. But when you got off the train, you caught me by surprise and I didn’t know what to do.”
“You’re sorry? What has happened?”
James locked his eyes with hers. “There’s no use beating around the
