A Most Unsuitable Match
Read A Most Unsuitable Match Online
Authors: Stephanie Whitson
© 2011 by Stephanie Grace Whitson
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Cover illustration by William Graf
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3242-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Dedicated to the memory of
God’s extraordinary women
in every place,
in every time.
“Let her own works praise her in the gates.”
Proverbs 31:31
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epilogue
A Note From the Author
About the Author
Discussion Questions
Back Ads
Back Cover
I water my couch with my tears.
P
SALM 6:6
Sunday, May 16, 1869
St. Charles, Missouri
Kneeling before the tombstone, eighteen-year-old Fannie Rousseau retrieved the scrub brush from the water bucket she’d just settled in the grass. First, she attacked the dried bird droppings on the back side of the stone, then moved on to the deep grooves carving the name
Rousseau
into the cool gray surface. She’d just finished cleaning out the second
s
when a familiar voice sounded from across the cemetery.
“
Land sakes
, child, what on earth are you doin’? You’ll ruin your hands. And put that bonnet back on. What will your mother s-s—”
When Fannie laid her hand atop the gravestone to steady herself and lifted her tear-stained face toward Hannah, the old woman stopped midword. Tucking an errant hank of wiry gray hair back under the kerchief tied about her head, she hurried to where Fannie knelt. Her voice more gentle than scolding, she said, “You know your mother would have my hide for letting you be seen in public doing such a thing.” She nodded toward the red brick church just outside the cemetery fence. “And it’s the Sabbath, little miss. What were you thinking?”
Fannie didn’t have an answer. At least not one she wanted to say aloud. She scrubbed out the rest of the tombstone grooves before dropping the brush into the bucket and standing back up. The soil atop Mother’s grave had finally sunk enough to be level with Papa’s side, but the grass hadn’t filled in yet. For now, the tombstone only told half a story.
Louis Rousseau, 1821–1866, Beloved Husband. Eleanor Rousseau, 1831–____.
The stonemason had yet to add the year 1869 to Mother’s side. Fannie contemplated the words
Beloved Husband.
She supposed it was only right to add
Beloved Wife
to Mother’s side. Even if she would always wonder if it was true.
Hannah picked up the bucket and, splaying her fingers across the rim, upended it, sprinkling the newly seeded side of the grave with water as she murmured, “I can’t imagine what people thought when they saw you walking up here, scrub bucket in hand, bonnet dangling like a common servant. The very idea!” Hannah clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “And you didn’t even attend services, did you?”
Fannie looked up at the church spire, then back at the tombstone. “I didn’t want to face Mr. Vandekamp.” That was partially true. She’d grown wary of the man handling Papa’s affairs of late, what with his hints about her future and his coupling of her name with that of Percy Harvey. Percy might be heir to a considerable fortune, but he made her skin crawl.
Avoiding Hannah’s gaze, Fannie shrugged. “Anyone who matters knows I’m not in the habit of avoiding church.” She paused. “Maybe they didn’t even notice me here.”
Hannah looked past the rows of gravestones toward the street, then back at the ground at their feet. “They noticed.”
Hannah was right, of course. People had to have seen Fannie on her knees here, scrubbing like a washerwoman. Papa had chosen the center of the graveyard for the family plot, and the slight rise in this part of the cemetery would naturally draw their eyes toward the name Rousseau every time someone ventured past. Of course, if the location didn’t do the trick, Mother had made certain people would look this way when she ordered a life-sized stone angel to weep over Papa’s grave.
There it was again, the increasingly frequent tinge of annoyance that always mingled with Fannie’s grief. What good did a stone angel do? It was too late for Papa to know how Mother felt about him. And now it was too late for Fannie, too. Any chance she might have had to understand Mother was forever lost.
Lately, all Fannie’s doubts and questions over the years seemed to have rolled themselves into a fast-growing, ever-darkening cloud of emotion she didn’t quite know how to handle. This morning that cloud had been especially dense. And so, feeling confused and guilty about every negative thing she’d ever felt against Mother and not wanting to face the people at church, she’d come here. Tending a grave was something a good daughter would do, wasn’t it? Something a daughter
should
do. She glanced up at the stone angel. Was Mother feeling just this way after Papa died? Did she have regrets? Had ordering the angel made her feel better?
“I want to plant rosebushes on either side of the tombstone,” she said abruptly. “Yellow ones.”
“That’ll be nice,” Hannah said, “but Mr. McWilliams will be happy to do that. You don’t want him thinking you’re displeased with his caretaking.”
Fannie swiped at fresh tears. “I want to plant them myself. I need to do something.” She gestured toward the new grave. “Something for her. Yellow roses were her favorite, and Papa never seemed to remember. He always gave her red ones.”
Hannah’s voice was gentle. “Red roses say
I love you
.”
She was right—again. Red roses meant love. Yellow meant friendship and fidelity. Was there some hidden meaning in Mother’s liking yellow and Papa sending red? Would she always have these niggling doubts about everything? “Isn’t the best way to say
I love you
to give what someone likes, instead of what custom dictates?”
“I see your thoughts, child.” Hannah reached up and brushed one of Fannie’s blond curls away from her face. “There was love in that house. They just didn’t show it the way you wanted them to. That’s all it was, little miss. They just didn’t know how to show it.”
Fannie pressed her lips together. Somehow, Hannah’s tender touch made the longing worse. Why hadn’t Mother ever done things like that? She cleared her throat. There was no point in bringing that up again. It made her sound spoiled and ungrateful. Maybe she was both of those things. She’d never heard her parents say a harsh word to each other. They’d given her everything she’d ever wanted. Mother had even been talking about a trip to Europe for them both.
You should be counting your blessings instead of feeling sorry for yourself.
Hannah was right. That feeling of being held at arm’s length didn’t mean anything. It was just Papa and Mother’s way.