Poppy: Bride of Alaska (American Mail-Order Bride 49) (4 page)

“Please come stay with me at Mama’s,” Gabrielle insisted, her blue eyes pleading. “I swear she won’t mind!”

The offer was very tempting. But as much as Poppy dreaded going back home, she couldn’t impose on her friend’s mother like that. Nor did she have any desire to meet poor Gabby’s horrible stepfather. He sounded even worse than her own father. Besides, it almost smelled of charity, and she hated the idea of accepting charity almost as much as getting married.
 

“Listen, here’s my parents’ address,” she said, pressing a scrap of paper into each woman’s palm. “Write me when you get settled. I’m going to miss you all so.”

“We will, Poppy,” Sarah said, her eyes wet with tears. “Please take care of yourself.”

A stab of love pierced Poppy’s normally armored heart. Though they weren’t related by blood, she considered Roberta, Sarah and Gabrielle closer than sisters. She and Gabrielle had shared the shameful secrets of their fathers, thus bonding them together forever. Sarah’s kindhearted and open nature made her so easy to be with. And Roberta had always watched out for Poppy at the factory, especially when she first started three years earlier.
 

She could have told the mill owner, Mr. Brown, that Poppy was late for work one day, but the fading yellow bruise on the side of Poppy’s face convinced her to not only cover for her, but to invite her to share a cramped apartment with her and her roommates. Poppy would be forever grateful.

“I’ll find work in no time with the glowing letter of reference Roberta gave me. Maybe I’ll even get an apartment of my own, this time.”

Roberta smiled kindly, but doubt infused her face. Sarah and Gabrielle’s mirrored those feelings. They all knew finding work had been an uphill battle for the former employees of Brown Textile Mill. There were too many of them looking for jobs at the same time, and too few open positions.
 

Her three best friends in the world gathered Poppy in their arms, and she wished they’d never let go. For all her bravado, she was more worried about her future than she would ever let on. But more than that, she was devastated to lose her friends. They were the first people to ever treat her like she wasn’t gutter trash, like she had potential for…more. The pain cut so deep that she couldn’t even bear to walk them to the train station.

“Take this,” Roberta choked through her tears, thrusting a rolled up newspaper into her hands. “Just in case.”

Poppy didn’t even need to look at it to know it was a
Grooms’ Gazette
. So many of the single female workers from the factory had responded to ads in the paper seeking mail-order brides, but Poppy wouldn’t even consider it, no matter how much they urged her to.
 

Hoping it would ease Roberta’s anxiety, Poppy smiled, stuffed the paper in the pocket of her threadbare coat and waved goodbye as the trio walked toward the train station. Only when they were far down the street did Poppy allow herself the luxury of letting a tear slip down her cheek. Losing the independence that her job provided was bad enough, but losing her handful of close friends was almost unbearable. The only way she was going to survive her new circumstances was if they wrote.
 

Often.
 

Poppy had only received one letter before she left her parents’ flat. It brought the tragic news that Gabrielle’s mother had passed away, and that she, too, would be joining the ranks of mail-order brides from Lawrence, Massachusetts. Later that same day, Poppy’s fate was sealed.

But she didn’t want to think about that.

Spotting a post office, she ran in and bought four envelopes and stamps. Right now, the need to connect with her friends was more important than replacing her old coat. In her letters, she told of her change of heart, and how she was about to fulfill her dream to sail for Alaska the next day with her new husband. Only for Roberta did she leave out that it was a ‘name only’ marriage, otherwise the poor dear would worry.

At the bottom of each letter, she included the address Mr. Horton had given her for the missionary school in Sitka. Until she heard from them, Poppy had no choice but to send the letters to Elizabeth Miller, the matchmaker who published
The Grooms’ Gazette
. Hopefully she would forward them to her friends.

The final letter was to her mother. Old Mrs. Johnson had died years earlier, so Ma would have to find some other literate neighbor to read it to her, but Poppy was sure someone would help. Just so long as it wasn’t Pa.

Dearest Ma,

I arrived safely in Seattle yesterday. You would be so pleased with my new husband. Matthew Turner is a true gentleman and he comes from a fine Boston family. He’s also a doctor, which I know you will be happy about.

We set sail for Sitka in the morning, and I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be setting off on this adventure. I think about the long hours you and I spent looking through my scrapbook, reading all about Mr. Muir’s exploits and discoveries. I’ve dreamed about Alaska for as long as I can remember and now I’ll finally be able to see its majesty with my own eyes!

My only wish is that one day you could join me there. If my situation proves to be what has been claimed, I plan to save as much as I can and send for you. Would you come, I wonder? I hope so.

I love you with all my heart,

Poppy

* ~ * ~ *

Angry, slate grey skies matched Matthew’s mood as he trudged down the rain-slicked brick of Columbia Street to Colman Dock a little after seven the next morning carrying one large bag. Not so long ago, he would have hired a porter to transport this bag plus two or three trunks to the waiting steamer. If any of his Boston friends could see him, they would be shocked at how far he’d fallen.

But as much as he hated to admit it, that wasn’t the only cause for his foul mood.
 

It wasn’t as if he’d meant to lie to Poppy, it just slipped out. Certainly, she would be angry when she discovered the steamer
City of Topeka
had cast off its lines two hours earlier than Matthew had told her but it was for her own good. Winter in Seattle would undoubtedly be more comfortable than in Sitka. Besides, her perceptive gaze saw more than he wanted to show.

He wasn’t well acquainted with the stubborn little hellcat but he knew enough to know she wouldn’t think he was doing her any favors.

No, she’ll think you’re a cad and an even bigger liar than she already does.

The lump of guilt that took up residence in his belly the moment the lie had spilled from his lips tumbled around inside him. In fact, he hadn’t eaten a bite since. And it didn’t feel as if his appetite would return anytime soon. Probably for the best, considering he was about to set off across the notoriously rough Straits of Juan de Fuca. If there was nothing in his stomach, there would be nothing for it to offer to Neptune.

The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time he reached the main building on Colman Dock, but the wind blew stiff enough to whip up white caps on Puget Sound. After years of sailing on his father’s yacht out of the Boston Yacht Club, Matthew could tell when a passage was going to be rough. This one promised to be a whopper.

Thinking of those pleasant family times got him wondering if his parents were worried about him. That hadn’t been his goal by sneaking off to track down Vinchenko, but he wanted to surprise them when he returned with their fortune. Their status would be restored, and for the first time in his life, his father could have nothing for which to criticize him.

Shaking the rain off his oil cloth slicker at the entryway, Matthew reveled at the warmth inside the large building. Of course, anything would be warmer than walking around in the rain.

“You have a ticket for Matthew Turner?” he asked the ticket agent.

The gap-toothed old man behind the barred window flicked through the will-call box, pulling out an envelope. “Here ya go, son. All paid for by that Horton fellow.”

Inside were two purple tickets for the
City of Topeka
. Guilt gnawed at his gut again. No, he’d made his decision when he paused outside Mrs. Olson’s boarding house a few minutes earlier, wondering if he should collect Poppy so she could live her dream to see Alaska. But his hate for Vinchenko burned hotter than the guilt flaming his cheeks, and he couldn’t risk losing the man because he felt obligated to watch out for her. And he would.

Stuffing one ticket in his pocket, he slipped another envelope inside the first, sealed it and handed it back to the agent. “Sir, please see that my wife gets that, will you?”
 

The man shrugged and shoved the envelope back in the box, peering past Matthew to the man behind him. “Next.”

That was good. The last thing Matthew wanted was for that agent to get curious and discover the twenty dollars he’d stashed in there. That should be plenty to cover Poppy’s room and board for a month, maybe two, if she was judicious, while she looked for a seamstress job.
 

Inspiration struck as he picked up his bag and headed for the gangway. On his return, flush with his family’s fortune, he would track down Poppy and buy her a first-class ticket on the luxury steamer
Queen
. After they filed for an annulment, of course. That would set everything right.

Buoyed by his resolution and soothed guilt, Matthew stepped outside and appraised the
City of Topeka
, every electric light blazing in the dusky light of dawn. At almost two hundred feet, the black-hulled beauty looked more than capable for the journey to Alaska. A single smokestack jutted up from the top deck, nestled between two masts, and lifeboats hung from their davits. A few men milled about but the weather drove most below to the two covered decks.

Dozens of men loaded crates of supplies and bags of mail into the ship’s deep hold, while only a handful loaded passengers’ luggage. December wasn’t the height of tourist season in Southeast Alaska, so what few passengers came aboard were heading there on business.

A purser offered to escort Matthew to his cabin, giving him a quick tour of the ship along the way. The dining saloon was much more sumptuous than he imagined, with deep red carpeting, beautiful, carved wood chairs, and fresh white paint.
 

“Every stateroom on all three levels overlooks the water,” the purser explained. “And the promenade’s two levels are covered, as I’m sure you noticed, so you are protected from the elements.”

Matthew chuffed. “Even in December?”

The purser had the good grace to look abashed. “For the most part. Ah, here we are.”

The door opened wide on a tiny room. Two narrow bunks built into the wall barely left space to turn around, much less open the small, pull-down basin opposite them. Above them, a rack and netting awaited his solitary bag. An eight-inch round porthole looked out to sea and was set above a fold-down seat just wide enough to sit upon. Hooks by the door served as the ‘wardrobe’ for this room, as nothing else could possibly have fit.
 

At one point in his life, the sparse accommodations would have sent Matthew into an indignant huff. Those days were but a memory, and now he was just grateful for a warm space to sleep.
 

The purser left before Matthew could scrounge up a few coins, and he was even more grateful for that. Not because he was cheap — he’d always been a handsome tipper in the past — but because he’d left most of his meager savings for Poppy. He’d be lucky to make it to Sitka with anything left in his pockets.

No matter. This time of strife and poverty would be soon behind him, he felt it in his bones. And if he ever became chilled on this voyage, the hate that burned in his chest for Vinchenko would keep him warm. If only he could rid himself of the ugly weight of his guilt at lying to Poppy.

Matthew’s arms ached as he struggled to shove his suitcase onto the rack above the bunks. It was being as stubborn as his new ‘bride’, which just made him push even harder, taking his frustration out on his case. Finally, the blasted thing slipped into place — at a funny angle but he was just relieved it had finally stopped giving him trouble.

The voice that sounded in the open doorway sent a shudder of shame rippling down his spine and, inexplicably, a soothing warmth to spread over his skin.
 

“I hope you left room for my bag,
husband
.”

The rough, wild water of the Strait of Juan de Fuca mirrored Poppy’s soul. The sea was angry and unforgiving, bashing the hull of the ship with rock-hard waves, much like how she wanted to bash Matthew’s skull for trying to leave her behind. Glancing across the main saloon to the leeward side of the ship, a dozen or so men dangled over the rail outside, heaving their lunch into the gray depths. She preferred the windward side so she could see what was coming at her.
 

“Is this seat taken, dear?”
 

A rotund, grey-haired woman wobbled and weaved with the lurching of the ship, leaning heavily on a cane and gripping the back of the seat across from Poppy so she wouldn’t stumble. Her black dress suggested she was a widow, but even Poppy’s untrained eye could see it was years out of fashion. Poppy tried to smile as she nodded but it felt more like a grimace.

“Mrs. General Jameson Charles Westchester the third,” she said, plopping into the seat with a sigh of relief. “Given name Edith Poppy, but my friends call me Eddie. My enemies, too, for that matter.”

This brought an honest smile to Poppy’s lips for the first time since the day before, when a shopgirl complimented her creamy skin. “You might not believe this but my name is Poppy, too.”

Eddie lit up brighter than the electric lights burning throughout the saloon. “No you are not!”

“Yes, ma’am, Poppy Adams…I mean, Turner.”

Eddie’s bushy left eyebrow shot up almost to her hairline. “A newlywed? This is hardly the best time of year for a romantic honeymoon tour of Alaska, let me tell you.”