Dear Mr. Stone (Mail-Order Bride Ink Book 11)

  Dear Mr. Stone

  Mail-Order Bride Ink, Book Eleven

  Kit Morgan

  ANGEL CREEK PRESS

  Dear Mr. Stone

  (Mail-Order Bride Ink, Book Eleven)

  by Kit Morgan

  © 2020 Kit Morgan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher. All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or livestock are purely coincidental.

  If you’d like to keep up with Kit’s books and other fun happenings, then sign up for her newsletter at www.authorkitmorgan.com or text COOKE to 22828.

  Created with Vellum

  License Note

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Denver, Colorado 1902

  Home from her errands, Fantine LeBlanc entered the Pettigrew mansion feeling forlorn. Why couldn’t Tobias Lundstrom the butcher’s son look at her the way he looked at the other young ladies that came into the shop?

  She heard voices coming from the drawing room. Mrs. Pettigrew, her employer, must be entertaining a guest. Was it a friend? A client? She didn’t remember any on the day’s schedule. She set her packages on a nearby table and headed down the wide hall. The male voice she heard was familiar …

  Fantine gasped when she reached the open drawing room doors and recognized Mr. Lundstrom, Tobias’ father. What was he doing here? Well, there was only one way to find out. “I have returned, Madame Pettigrew.”

  “Ah, Fantine, there you are.” Mrs. Pettigrew turned to her guest. “I do not know what I would do without my precious Fantine. She is so much more than my assistant these days.”

  Mr. Lundstrom looked concerned. “Why, Mrs. Pettigrew, are you unwell?” Madame Pettigrew faked a French accent, but Mr. Lundstrom’s bore the sing-song cadence of his native Sweden – he was an immigrant just like Fantine.

  “I’m fit as a fiddle,” she said. “It’s just that I care about her.” She looked at Fantine. “Do I not, ma petite?”

  “Indeed you do.” Fantine glanced at the butcher and back. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Don’t bother, my dear,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “Mr. Tugs is preparing some as we speak.”

  Rats. Now she’d have to figure out another way to stay in the room. She wanted to know why Tobias’ father was speaking with her employer. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Thank you, but no.” Mrs. Pettigrew smiled at her guest. “Mr. Lundstrom and I are discussing business.”

  Her eyes widened. Was Mr. Lundstrom looking for a wife for himself? For his son? Is that why he came to see Mrs. Pettigrew? Usually they dealt with women. Her mind racing with possibilities, she curtsied and left the room. Maybe Mr. Tugs had some information. Perhaps Mr. Lundstrom would be delivering meat from now on and that’s what they were discussing. But if so, she’d no longer be allowed to go to the butcher shop and drink in the sight of the magnificent Tobias! What a tragedy!

  In the kitchen she found Mr. Tugs busying himself with a tea tray. “Monsieur Tugs?”

  “Yes?” He peered at her. At his age it was amazing the man could see at all.

  “I see that Mrs. Pettigrew has a guest.”

  “Yes,” he repeated. He picked up the tea tray and turned toward the kitchen door.

  “I can take that for you Mr. Tugs,” she was quick to offer.

  He looked at her, the door, the ceiling. “Where was I going?”

  She shook her head. Mrs. Pettigrew really ought to retire the poor man, but she knew he’d serve their employer until his dying day, he was that loyal. “Here, let me help you.” She took the tray from him.

  He nodded curtly. “Yes,” he mumbled, turned and shuffled away at a turtle’s speed.

  She sighed as she watched him go, then headed back to the drawing room. She stopped short of the open double doors when she heard, “You are a fascinating man,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “I’ve not met anyone like you since my poor Xavier.”

  Fantine gasped. She was comparing the butcher to her late husband, the man she’d adored more than anything? Was this more than a social call? She peeked around the door jamb and, sure enough, Mr. Lundstrom was now sitting on the same sofa as her employer!

  “Is that the tea, ma petite?”

  Fantine jumped, spilling tea onto the tray. Oh blast! “Yes, Madame. I am so sorry, I have made a mess.” She set the tray on a low table, picked up some napkins and quickly dabbed at the mess.

  “Where is Mr. Tugs?” Mrs. Pettigrew asked.

  Fantine glanced toward the kitchen. “He had other things to see to. I offered to bring the tea.”

  “How kind of you.” She turned to Mr. Lundstrom. “Fantine is always so helpful.”

  “As are you, Mrs. Pettigrew,” Mr. Lundstrom said. “Now back to that wonderful story you were telling me.”

  “Oh, yes, the Haverdashes and Miss Branson.”

  Fantine looked up from her work. “You are telling Mr. Lundstrom about Katie Haverdash and the sheriff?”

  “No, little one, I’m telling him about Miss Branson and Miss Haverdash. Make that Mrs. Diamond and her … parents.” The last word was spoken with dread.

  “What about them?” Fantine asked as she poured.

  “It is quite the story. Perhaps you had better sit down.”

  “Oui, Madame.” She quickly served them and took a seat. She enjoyed the story of Katie and Jace Diamond, the sheriff of Independence. Katie had come to her employer seeking a husband to escape an unwanted marriage. She had a friend with her, a Miss Branson who was visiting Katie at the time. Fantine couldn’t remember where Miss Branson was from, only that she came from a wealthy family.

  “I was just telling Mr. Lundstrom about Miss Haverdash,” Mrs. Pettigrew continued, “so he now knows as much as you do.”

  Fantine folded her hands in her lap and nodded. “And then what happened?”

  Fantine glanced at him. He was calling her by her first name? Oh, my …

  “Well it turned into quite the conundrum,” Mrs. Pettigrew went on. “A little over a week after I sent poor Katie off to Sheriff Diamond, her parents showed up on my doorstep, quite upset.”

  “No!” Fantine gasped. “What did you do?”

  “What else could I? I answered the door.”

  Fantine and Mr. Lundstrom exchanged a look. Of course she answered the door …

  “And wouldn’t you know, Mr. and Mrs. Haverdash had poor Miss Branson between them on my doorstep that day, holding her like a prisoner.”

  Fantine gasped again. “Oh, no! Did Miss Branson tell them Katie had left to marry another?”

  “Can’t say as I’d blame the
poor girl.” Mr. Lundstrom took a sip of tea. “I’ve heard of Ronald Finch – he’s a snob and a bore.” He turned back to Mrs. Pettigrew. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, they were most upset. They dragged Miss Branson in and demanded I tell them where their daughter was. Of course I played innocent. The pleading look on Miss Branson’s face was all it took.”

  “Did they believe you?” Fantine asked.

  “Of course not. They insisted I had a hand in their daughter’s disappearance. But I suppose I cannot blame them. It was better to think that than wonder if their daughter had been kidnapped.”

  Fantine hung her head. “I do not know what I would do if I had a child and thought they were kidnapped.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “But in this case, perhaps it would’ve been better if she had. Certainly simpler at any rate.”

  This time Mr. Lundstrom gasped. “But Adelia, how can you say such a thing?”

  “You are right. Things did turn out well. But poor Miss Branson – Beryl, a lovely young thing. Beautiful voice. Intriguing and interesting eyes. And very stubborn.”

  Fantine and Mr. Lundstrom exchanged another look. “How so?” they asked at once.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s eyebrows rose. “What can I say? She was an unusual girl. She had a force, a presence about her. She was confident and strong. Anyone could see it.”

  Fantine nodded. “I remember you telling me, she was so full of life.”

  “That she was, ma petite,” Mrs. Pettigrew agreed.

  “Stop this dribble-drabble,” Mr. Lundstrom said. “What happened?”

  “Well, sit back and I will tell you…”

  The doorstep of the Pettigrew Mansion, July 1898

  Rap, rap. rap!

  “I believe they can hear you, Mr. Haverdash,” Beryl groused as Katie’s father banged on Mrs. Pettigrew’s door.

  “She’ll hear me all right! That eccentric troublemaker has been a thorn in Denver society’s side long enough!”

  Beryl rolled her eyes. Mr. Haverdash had her by one arm, his wife by the other. They’d showed up where she was staying under the guise of inviting her to lunch, loaded her in a carriage and brought her to Mrs. Pettigrew’s doorstep. She thought it would take them longer to figure things out, give Katie more time, but no.

  So now that she was here, there was no use putting up a fuss. She couldn’t blame them for being so upset. After all, over a week had gone by before they figured out Denver’s most infamous matchmaker had to have something to do with it. After all, Adelia Pettigrew had ensured that the three Callahan sisters escaped unwanted marriages in Denver – why not Katie? Which only served to prove Katie’s point that she did not want to marry Ronald Finch. So what if he was rich and could expand the Haverdash empire? Katie couldn’t stand the man.

  Rap, rap, rap!

  The door slowly opened to reveal Mr. Tugs, Mrs. Pettigrew’s ancient butler. “May I help you?”

  “I demand to see Mrs. Pettigrew this instant!” Katie’s father huffed.

  Beryl closed her eyes. Here we go …

  Mr. Tugs looked Mr. Haverdash over a few times before his eyes widened with recognition at Beryl – or at how she was being held captive. “Very well, sir.” He motioned them in. “If you’ll wait in the drawing room, Madame Pettigrew will join you shortly.”

  “She’d better!” Mr. Haverdash snapped, ushering Beryl inside. He spied the drawing room to their right and pulled her that way.

  “For Heaven’s sake, sir,” she objected. “I am not a piece of luggage.”

  Mrs. Haverdash had the decency to let go of her other arm. But her husband … “This is your fault, Miss Branson. I feel it in every fiber of my being. You always were a troublemaker.”

  Beryl gasped. “How dare you!”

  “Oh, I dare. If it weren’t for you, our Katie would be planning her wedding to Ronald. They’d be happily married in a few weeks’ time, then off to enjoy a honeymoon in Paris!”

  “Enjoyment is hardly the word.” Beryl yanked her arm out of his grasp, went to a wing chair and sat. She’d kept her mouth shut as she’d promised Katie – she hadn’t told them a thing – but Katie’s parents figured it out on their own and she was about to be revealed as an accomplice. Still, every moment she stalled was another moment given to Katie to marry her Mr. Diamond and escape a horrible fate. Who wanted to be married to a boring cad like Ronald Finch?

  She shuddered at the thought as Mrs. Pettigrew entered the room. “What is this? What is happening?”

  Mr. Haverdash, who’d taken a moment to gawk at the elaborately decorated room, spun on her. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong, you meddling troublemaker –”

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s eyebrows rose. “My, I can see you are upset. But would you mind telling me who I have ranting in my drawing room?”

  “I’m Katie Haverdash’s father!”

  Mrs. Pettigrew shot Beryl a knowing look. She knew as well as Beryl that this had been a possibility. But what Mrs. Pettigrew didn’t know, was that Beryl hadn’t said a word to them. Nor did Katie’s parents know it had been her suggestion that Katie become a mail-order bride in the first place. She’d been with Katie the day she came to see the matchmaker, saw the letter Mr. Diamond wrote, even made sure Katie got to the train station on time. Yes, she was an accomplice. But she was no talebearer.

  “Tea?” Mrs. Pettigrew said, ignoring Mr. Haverdash’s outburst. She turned, crossed the room to a bell pull and gave it a yank.

  After a moment or several, Mr. Tugs shuffled in. “You rang, Madame?”

  “Tea, if you please, Mr. Tugs.” Mrs. Pettigrew turned to the Haverdashes, smiled, then turned back to Mr. Tugs. “And perhaps a decanter of brandy for Mr. Haverdash.”

  Mr. Tugs arched an eyebrow, turned and shuffled away.

  Mrs. Pettigrew rejoined her guests. “Now what seems to be the problem?”

  Mr. Haverdash’s face was turning redder by the minute. “I’ll tell you what the problem is, you meddling, conniving, insane …”

  “Bertram,” Mrs. Haverdash said, “just get to the point.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Petunia!” He pointed an accusing finger at Mrs. Pettigrew. “You sent our daughter off to be a mail-order bride, didn’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Pettigrew said casually. She took a seat on a long sofa and sat back. “I send many brides out.”

  Mr. Haverdash made a face, his balding head red as a beet. “You … you … you!”

  Mrs. Haverdash sighed. “Katie didn’t tell us. Please don’t pretend. It’s the only other explanation other than …” She looked sorrowfully at her husband. “… well, we’d hate to think she’d been abducted. But when we received no ransom note, the only other explanation had to be …” She glanced at Beryl and back. “… a matchmaker.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew shrugged. “I will not lie. Your daughter is Katie Haverdash, is she not?”

  “Yes!” they said at once.

  “I do not see what all the fuss is about. She did not like the man of your choosing. She wanted to marry another. Is that so hard to swallow?”

  Mr. Haverdash was unmollified. “You meddling minx! It was all arranged! You ruined everything!” He tossed his hands in the air and paced. “The mergers, all the meetings I went through – you have no idea how many cups of horrible tea I had to consume every time I went to Finch house!”

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “How could you think of marrying your daughter off to someone who doesn’t know how to make a good pot of tea?”

  Mr. Haverdash facepalmed, dragging his hand down to his chin. “Tell me where she went.”

  “And what shall you do?” Mrs. Pettigrew asked. “Go there and stop her from marrying?”

  Beryl pondered that. Surely Katie’s parents wouldn’t go so far. What was the poi–?

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do!” Mr. Haverdash roared. “I don’t care if she’s already married. I’ll break it up if I have to!”

  Beryl jumped to her fee
t. “What?”

  “And you!” Now his finger was aimed at her. “You helped, didn’t you?”

  Beryl glanced at Mrs. Pettigrew and back, then retook her seat. “Katie couldn’t stand the thought of marrying the likes of Ronald Finch. How many times did she tell you, but would you listen? Of course not.”

  The man inhaled through his nose, his ears turning a frightening red.

  “Bertram!” his wife cried. “Remember your blood pressure!”

  “Confound it, Petunia, don’t talk to me about blood pressure – can’t you see I’m upset? And Miss Branson, in my day, young women showed their elders respect!”

  “Oh, quite true,” Mrs. Pettigrew agreed. “So my father told me many years ago. And his father before him, and his father before him. No doubt your grandchildren will be telling their children how young women showed their elders respect in their day.”

  Mrs. Haverdash’s mouth opened and closed a few times. She finally gave up as Mr. Tugs shuffled into the drawing room with the tea tray.

  Her husband spun on Beryl again. “How could you do such a thing? We thought Katie was your friend!”

  “I did it because she’s my friend.”

  He grabbed his balding head, groaned, then pointed at Mrs. Pettigrew. “You’re as bad as her!”

  “I will take that as a compliment, Mr. Haverdash,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, cool as a cucumber, “The young lady is very brave to have helped her friend the way she did. I was only doing my job to help them.”

  He groaned again.

  “But if you wish to know where your daughter went, I have no problem telling you,” Mrs. Pettigrew went on.