Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) (10 page)

What if she doesn’t like the house?
The foursquare design was still new and unusual, and Grace might prefer something more traditional.
Only one way to find out.
“Open your eyes.” His stomach tightened.

Her eyes flew open, then widened in amazement. “Is that it?” she whispered, as if afraid to ask, to believe.

“Your new home, Grace Foster.”

“Oh!” She dropped her skirts, and both hands flew to cover her mouth. Over the tops of her fingers, her eyes were bright with wonder.

Such a perfect reaction for my creation!
His chest swelled with happiness.

Then, Grace’s eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Grace.” Worried, Frey scooped her up in his arms, bunching up what seemed to be yards of skirt.

She gasped and slipped an arm around his neck.

He carried her to the house, careful not to step on any of the chickens pecking in the yard, lunged up onto the porch, and crossed the threshold of their home. Once inside, he strode over to the new sofa and sat, keeping her secure in his lap.

Gertie followed, sitting nearby and staring at them with an anxious expression.

With her face angled down and the wisps of blonde curls around her temples, she looked so vulnerable.

“Grace,” Frey said, expressing his concern in a gentle tone. “Ah, don’t cry,
elskede,”
he said, borrowing an endearment his father used with his mother. “If you don’t like the place, then we’ll sell it. I’ll build you another.” He cupped her cheeks and brushed away the tears with his thumb. “Please don’t cry.”

She stared up at him, blue eyes drenched, and her nose reddening. She shook her head. “No.”

Mystified, Frey stared at her. “
Kjære
—” the Norwegian word for
dear
slipped out. “—I’ll need a few more words, here because I surely don’t understand why you are crying.” He fished his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

Grace sniffed. “These are happy tears. The house is so
big,
so
beautiful!
Far beyond what I ever dreamed, dared to dream, even.” She took the handkerchief from his hand and blew her nose.

A great wave of relief rolled over Frey, and he babbled, “You mean it? You like the place? I know it’s different. You may not have seen the design before.”

She balled up the handkerchief. “I’m sorry, I’m being so ridiculously emotional today.”

“Silly,” Frey teased. “
Elskede
, uh, darling, are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, Frey.” Dropping the handkerchief, Grace threw her arms around his neck.

Ecstatic, he grabbed her tight and rose, twirling her until her dress fanned out, and she let out a scream of laughter.

Slowly he stopped their spin and lowered Grace to her feet. He stared into her eyes and watched her lips part.

Frey leaned forward until his mouth was a few inches from hers, forcing himself to wait for a sign that she’d welcome his kiss. The last thing he wanted was to rush her.

Just as her chin began to lift and her lips drew closer to meet his, the sound of voices and hoof beats, the jingle of harness, told him the Flanigans had arrived with Grace’s possessions.
Rotten timing!

Grace pulled away, obviously flustered. She pressed her fingers under her eyes. “I don’t look like I’ve been crying, do I?”

Frey couldn’t resist. “Your nose is a bit red.” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on the tip. “There, all fixed.”

“Oh, you.” Grace playfully swatted his arm. Stepping away, she fingered her curls as if checking to see they weren’t mussed.

“You look fine.”

She exhaled. “Goodness me, I haven’t even had a chance to look around.”

“There isn’t much to see,” he downplayed.

“I want to examine every inch!” She pivoted. Her gaze seemed to take in everything, but her expression showed no sign of disapproval about the room’s lack of furniture or molding. She looked through the arched opening into the entryway.

He shadowed her every step, eager to see every one of her reactions.

Her gaze lingered on the stained glass window over the door, and she went closer, staring at the transom, her hands clasped to her chest.

Body tense with anxiety, he waited.

Grace turned to glance at him. “Frey,” she said in a glad tone. “This is so beautiful.” She held out a hand to him, her eyes filling, her smile wide and tremulous.

Frey crossed the floor to take her hand and squeezed. This time he knew her tears came from happiness. Oddly enough, this pleased image of her was the most gratifying sight he’d ever witnessed, beyond even viewing any of the houses he’d worked on, including his own.

* * *

While Trudy nursed George and Seth took care of the horses, Grace received a tour of her new home. In each room, she took her time inspecting the size and layout, and then Frey pointed out what still needed to be done, such as moldings and built-in cabinets. Sometimes, he showed her something of which he was obviously proud, such as the view of the mountains from her bedroom window.

Grace marveled at every detail, unable to believe this foursquare was her home. She was most impressed with the bathroom on the second floor, which had an indoor toilet, bathtub, and sink. She also loved the cast-iron radiators that made the rooms comfortably warm.

In the third-floor attic with only rough boards laid out on the floor, Frey waved his arms, describing how the four dormers, as opposed to one, gave the room so much light and useable space—or would, that is, when he installed the hardwood floors.

She couldn’t wait to help Frey finish the house. In her imagination, Grace washed the windows and polished the woodwork, taking pride in her housekeeping. She could see the rooms filled with furniture…and children.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Startled by the thought—her happiness deflated. She wanted children, of course, but had imagined having them with Victor. While the memory didn’t hold the same sharp stab of pain as before, enough remained to shadow the excitement she felt about her new life. Keeping her back to Frey so she could hide her expression, Grace walked to a dormer window, holding up her wedding dress to keep the hem from catching on the rough floor, and pretended to admire the view.

What she saw out the window did help, mostly because she noted the empty dirt yard and imagined a lawn and a garden—perhaps even a few fruit trees. After finishing her mental planting and feeling more composed, she rejoined her husband.

On the way down from the third floor, Grace noticed another door on the second floor. “Oh, I didn’t see that,” she murmured, pointing. Playfully, she tapped him on the shoulder. “These shoulders of yours are so wide, they blocked my view.” She smiled and started toward the door.

Frey caught her hand. “That’s Bluebeard’s room,” he said, in a deep ominous tone.

Grace needed a few seconds to figure out he meant Bluebeard from
Grimms’s Fairy Tales.
She reached up to touch his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard under her fingertip. “This isn’t
blue
.”

“You know what I mean.” Frey grasped her wrist, unfastening her fingers, and dropping a kiss on her palm.

The feel of his lips feathered across her the cup of her hand and up her arm.

“The door is locked,” he said in a normal voice, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “You
aren’t
to go inside.”

“Will I see the remains of your previous wives?” she asked archly.

“Actually, there’s something pleasant in there. I’m just not ready to show you yet.”

“I never liked the story of Bluebeard, anyway, so I’ll stay away. But for how long?”

Frey shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ve hidden the key.” He tugged on her hand to lead her down the stairs.

In the kitchen, a rectangular white table with six chairs, obviously new, or freshly painted, filled the center of the room. Before the ceremony, Trudy had set the table with her dishes. Now the bridal bouquet sat in a Mason jar of water as the table’s centerpiece.

The kitchen needed the most work of the whole house, for the room lacked cupboards or counters, as well as not having an icebox and pie safe. Only a few wooden crates held supplies, dishes, and pots and pans.

But the black four-burner stove stood pristine, as if Frey had cleaned and blackened the surface. Grace could hardly wait to cook her first meals.

Frey bent and stirred the coals in the stove, then he added wood.

Trudy joined her, having handed George over to his father and put the men in charge of the children. She carried a heavy black iron skillet with a lid. “I stored this in the cellar. I just need to warm it for a bit.” She set the skillet on the stove.

“Oh, I haven’t seen the cellar yet.” Grace lifted the lid and peeked in to see fried chicken. “Looks good.”

Trudy chuckled. “In a few minutes, you can bring up the two crocks of butter I put in the cellar earlier. I left a dozen eggs for you as well. You’ll find them at the foot of the stairs.” She set the skillet on the stove.

“You are so generous.”

Trudy sent her a quick smile and then turned her attention back to the frying pan.

Picking up her skirts, Grace hurried upstairs to get an apron from her portmanteau to cover her wedding dress. Back in the kitchen, she unpacked the boxes and baskets Trudy had brought along—jars of preserves and pickles, a dozen sugar cookies, a loaf of bread, and a batch of cinnamon rolls for breakfast. She arranged all the supplies in Frey’s crates, feeling appreciative of the abundance.

The smell of fried chicken filled the air, making Grace hungry. The realization startled her. Before her arrival in Sweetwater Springs, she’d assumed the unhappiness that had previously stolen her appetite, added to the discomfort of marrying a stranger, would have rendered her unable to eat much for days—another unexpected change in herself that she stored away for later thought.

Grace ventured downstairs to the cellar to bring up the butter. She left an oil lamp on the top step to shed a small circle of fuzzy light and pulled her skirts up high to drape over one arm, exposing her legs to the view of any spiders lurking in the darkness. Although she hoped with a house this new, there weren’t any.

At the foot of the stairs, she took a moment to assess the dim space and enjoy the quiet gratitude of actually living in a home with a
cellar
. Although the walls were still bare, she imagined shelves filled with the results of her canning, row after row of glass jars with colorful contents. She glanced at a door, which she supposed led to the boiler room, but she wasn’t about to explore wearing this dress.

Two small crocks sat next to a basket of eggs by the stairs. She shifted the fullness of the skirt, so the fabric draped over both arms before squatting to pick up a crock in each hand. The effort left her panting shallow breaths.
How did women manage to move around in hoopskirts and tight corsets?
As much as she loved her wedding gown, Grace had become tired of wearing it.

Once the food was ready, everyone took a seat at the table, already spread with heaping platters. Frey sat at the head, and, for the first time in her life, Grace took the hostess’s seat at the foot.

Despite wearing the apron, she still positioned a napkin on her lap for double protection.
I’d rather look silly than foolishly do harm to the dress.
As she smoothed the napkin, Grace realized she never would have worn an apron in Victor’s presence at the dinner table, for he wouldn’t have approved of such informality. She gave her head a little shake to banish the thought, grateful the man wasn’t here—another reaction that surprised her.

In addition to the fried chicken, Trudy had provided mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits with honey butter and regular butter, huckleberry bread, green beans, pickles, and corn relish. An apple pie and a rhubarb pie waited in one of the boxes transported from her home.

After Frey said a prayer of thanks for the food, the company, and his bride, the group dug into the meal. For a few moments, no one spoke.

George sat on his mother’s lap. Trudy deftly fed him mashed potatoes, while Anna, perched on a box on top of her chair, had little bites of everything on her plate.

The Flanigans regaled the pair with stories of their first meeting, marriage, and the early days as a couple, as well as related tales about the other mail-order brides who’d come to Montana Territory that same year. Some of the stories brought forth laughter, like the time mean Prudence Morgan fell in the pigpen in the midst of an argument with her husband. Others sounded terrifying. Grace listened with a fast-beating heart to Trudy’s brush with a panther, or when Darcy Walker’s half-brother tried to kill her.

Grace was mostly silent, absorbing the mood of warmth and friendship, and enjoying Trudy’s wonderful meal. From time to time, she asked questions, drawing out more details.

Then her turn came. Grace answered their questions, telling them of the happy years when she was young. She spoke of her schoolmaster father, her mother who’d been a teacher before she’d married—the family’s peaceful life filled with books and learning. Just telling the others about her parents was a bittersweet experience. Previously, she’d shut a door on those memories, perhaps because they hurt so much and made her feel alone. But now her childhood took on a golden tinge, and she shared with a feeling of pleasure instead of pain.