A Most Unsuitable Match Read online




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  © 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

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  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

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  A Note From the Author

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  I water my couch with my tears.

  PSALM 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 p
ressed 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.

  Hannah’s gently insistent voice brought Fannie back to the moment. “Let’s get you home so I can clean your skirt.” She grimaced as she bent to inspect the smudges where Fannie’s knees had met the earth. Then, bucket in hand, she gave Fannie a one-armed hug.

  Dear Hannah. What would she do without her? Her hair might be gray, but her golden brown skin was smooth as glass, her back straight, her figure still the envy of anyone who noticed. Only Hannah’s hands showed the years. And the stiff knees that kept her from gliding up and down stairs the way she used to. And now Fannie had made more work for her. “I’m sorry,” she said as she bent to swipe at the smudges. “Maybe I can clean it.”

  Hannah caught her hand. “Let it dry on the walk home. It’ll be easier to get off then.” She arched one eyebrow. “I’ve slowed down, but I’m perfectly capable of getting a couple of smudges off a silk skirt.” Apparently energized by her indignation, Hannah led the way toward the cemetery gate. “You listen to what I say, little miss. Your mother loved you. She wasn’t much for talking about it, but that woman loved.”

  Fannie paused at the gate to look back toward the grave. Maybe if she’d been a better daughter … she blinked back fresh tears and, looping her arm through Hannah’s, headed home. If she’d learned anything in these past few weeks, it was that shedding tears didn’t yield answers. In fact, crying tended to set her back on the emotional spiral that made thinking harder and decisions more confusing than ever. God said that faith was the evidence of things not seen. She needed to believe more and doubt less. Besides, she didn’t have time for any more tears. There was too much to do.

  “First thing in the morning, let’s head to Haversham’s and see what he has in the way of rosebushes.” She gave Hannah one of her best smiles. “We can plant them together. Surely no one would gossip about a girl decorating her parents’ graves, especially if I make you carry the shovel like a proper servant.”

  Hannah tried to look stern, but Fannie knew that look. The beautiful old woman just couldn’t keep her mouth from curving up at the edges.

  Bleak skies and a steady drizzle on Monday morning dampened Fannie’s interest in rosebushes and gardens. When the sun finally came out after lunch, she and Hannah picked their way around walkway puddles to Haversham’s. When Fannie tried to charge her two yellow rosebushes, the boy at the counter seemed to have a problem finding her account. Once he’d located it, he hesitated to add to it until Mr. Haversham himself authorized the purchase.

  “Perhaps you’ll want to speak to Mr. Vandekamp,” Mr. Haversham suggested as he looked down his long nose at Fannie. “It has been some time since your account was reconciled.”

  Grabbing the tops of the two cotton bags holding the roses, Fannie mumbled something she hoped sounded like agreement and hurried out of the store. “Speak to Mr. Vandekamp?!” Fannie groused as Hannah took the bushes from her hands. “Why doesn’t Mr. Haversham speak to Mr. Vandekamp if there’s a problem with my account?”

  “Now, now,” Hannah soothed as they walked home. “He’s got to make ends meet, too, don’t he? He didn’t mean anything by it. You go see Mr. Vandekamp. He’ll explain everything. After all, understanding how to run a household is part of growing up.”

  “Maybe so,” Fannie protested, “but it’s not a part Mother let me learn. She said we’d always have Mr. Vandekamp and it wasn’t ladylike to know too much about such things.”

  When they arrived back home, Hannah hesitated at the yard gate before saying, “I’m sure your mama meant well when she said that about you not needing to understand about money. She just didn’t realize you’d face what you’re facing. The good Lord blessed you with a good mind, little miss, and that’s exactly what you need to make your way through the life he’s allowed. You’ll be all right. You’ll see.” She headed up the brick path toward the back of the house.

  Pulling the gate closed behind her, Fannie ambled after Hannah, noticing for the first time that the white trim on the windowsill just beneath the portico was beginning to peel. She paused to look up. All the trim looked weathered. The once-shining black shutters on the windows had lost their luster. Weeds threatened to overtake the low hedge along the front of the house. When had all that happened?

  Hannah dragged a bucket out of the carriage house and settled the two rosebushes in it near the well pump at the base of the back porch steps. As Hannah pumped water, Fannie looked over the yard, the carriage house, the kitchen garden. She pointed at the weeds. “Things are looking a little … run-down in the yard.” She nodded up at the portico. “And we—I—need to have the trim painted.” She frowned. “Have I been sleepwalking?”

  Hannah shook her head. “You’ve been grieving, child. Feels like sleepwalking sometimes.”

  Was this how Mother had felt after Papa died? Fannie had just assumed she didn’t care all that much. But that didn’t fit with Mother continuing to dress in deep mourning, did it? Maybe the stone angel was more about grief and less about showing St. Charles how much money we have. Once again, the things Fannie didn’t understand about Mother pressed to the forefront. Hannah’s voice brought her back to the moment.

  “Walker’s been feeling poorly of late. I believe I mentioned it to you last week.” She paused. “I told him to keep up with the grounds as best he could.” Hannah put her hands on her hips and gazed up at the house. “But you’re right. He’s let things go. This won’t do. Miz Rousseau would have both our heads if she could see what’s happened.” She looked toward the garden. “I expect Walker’ll show up directly. Should I tell him you need to talk to him?”

  Fannie took a step back and put a palm to her heart. “Me?” She shook her head. “Can’t you talk to him?”

  “That’s not my place. Walker wouldn’t appreciate my putting on airs that way.” Hannah reached out to pat Fannie’s arm. “It’s time you took the place over, child. The fact that you noticed those weeds and things is a good sign. You’re growing into handling the changes around here.” She smiled. “Old Walker dotes on you. Offer to hire him some help. He’ll see it as a kindness, not a scolding.” She paused. “Once you’ve spoken to him, you can walk up to that bank and schedule a meeting with Mr. Vandekamp and talk to him about the Haversham account and such.”

  Fannie glanced around the lawn. Weeds threatened wherever she looked. The lower leaves of Mother’s roses sported black spots. She walked toward the garden. Reaching for the tallest weed, she grabbed it and pulled. When it didn’t give way, she grimaced, grasped the stalk with both hands, pulled again, and was rewarded with the distinct sound of something ripping. When she let go and inspected her palms, she realized she’d torn a hole in her black gloves.

  “I’m going inside now,” Hannah groused. “Hand me the gloves. Just what I need, filet crochet mending.” Fannie peeled the gloves off. She could hear Hannah’s knees creak as the old woman turned to leave. “Make a spectacle of yourself to the neighborhood if you must, but I’ll not be watching.” Grunting with the effort, Hannah mounted the stairs to the back porch. The kitchen door slammed behind her, punctuating her mood.

  Making a spectacle of herself? By trying to pull one stubborn weed? As she looked around, Fannie realized how truly shabby things looked. The second-story windows were filthy, and one of the shutters was hanging by only one hinge. Was that a seedling tree sprouting out of that loose gutter? She knew she’d been in something of a fog since Mother die
d, but this was ridiculous. All of this couldn’t have happened in only a few weeks—could it?

  Of course it hadn’t happened in a few weeks. Mother hadn’t been herself since the buggy accident last fall. But Mother had assured Fannie that Mr. Vandekamp was taking care of everything. But if he were taking care of things, the account at Haversham’s would be current. Clearly, Mother had been wrong.

  Fannie headed inside, her sense of dismay tinged with outrage. Mr. Hubert Vandekamp was paid very well to take care of Papa’s affairs. Fannie was certain of that. After all, Papa was a generous man. It was unseemly for someone they’d trusted to take advantage. Mr. Vandekamp needed to be reminded, encouraged, to do his job. Still, the idea of facing up to him made her heart lurch. He would bring up the topic of suitors again. And Percy Harvey.

  Dear Lord, help. Please. I don’t know what to do.

  Stepping inside, she untied her black bonnet ribbons. Hannah sat at the kitchen table, crochet hook in hand, squinting down at Fannie’s torn gloves. She didn’t even look up as she said, “You might as well give me that skirt, too.”

  “I will,” Fannie said, “but I have to do something down here before I change.”

  Bonnet in hand, she headed through the kitchen, up the hall, and into the sumptuously furnished room Papa had always used for an office. Little had changed here since his death. Mother had looked completely out of place sitting at Papa’s massive burled wood desk sorting papers. Had she even read the business mail? Maybe all she’d done was open it and take the stack to Mr. Vandekamp. Maybe she was in a fog like the one you’ve been in.

  The enormity of facing life alone washed over her. If she trembled at the prospect of scolding Walker about the weeds outside, how would she ever face Mr. Vandekamp? To fight off a wave of near panic, she crossed the room and raised the window shades. Sunlight filtered in. These things aren’t Papa’s anymore. They’re mine. She put her hand on the back of the desk chair and pulled it out. Mother couldn’t tell her to get out of her father’s chair now. Nor could she remind Fannie that “a lady doesn’t concern herself with business.”