A Most Unsuitable Match Read Online Free PDF Page A

thanks to Minette, her parents . . . and Daniel Hennessey.
    First, after discussing the matter over supper, Mrs. Beauvais had agreed that Walker would welcome help with the grounds. Mr. Beauvais and Daniel had both said they would help Fannie prepare for a business meeting with Mr. Vandekamp. They even offered to go with her if she needed them, although Mr. Beauvais didn’t seem to think she did.
    “You’ll do fine,” he said, winking at his wife as he said, “in fact, Mrs. Beauvais and I have said more than once that you’re much too smart for your own good.” He teased Fannie about all the trouble she’d masterminded when she and Minette were young.
    Best of all, when Fannie mentioned Percy Harvey as Mr. Vandekamp’s idea of “a suitable match,” both of Minette’s parents sang out “Nonsense,” in a duet that warmed her heart.
    Now, as she headed upstairs, Fannie could smile. Maybe the Beauvaises were right. Maybe she could navigate the muddy future successfully. Opening the door to her room, she swept inside, lit a table lamp, and posed before her dressing mirror, elbows bent, hands folded loosely before her. That’s it. You look relaxed but firm. Like a lady.
    She spoke to her own reflection, practicing what she would say to Walker. “No one raises more glorious roses than you. It only makes sense for you to be training someone new. Mother would want you to have help.” With a nod, she turned away from the dressing mirror, then looked back over her shoulder at her reflection. If only she could manage to look and sound this confident when she met with Mr. Vandekamp.
    She’d just unbuttoned her waist and pulled it out of her skirt when a thud sounded downstairs. What on earth is Hannah doing up at this hour? It was nearly midnight. With a tug and a gasp, she unfastened the skirt, stepped out of it, and draped it over the dressing mirror. Next came two petticoats, her waist, and the corset cover. Finally, she could unhook her corset—and take the first deep breath of the day.
    Another clunk downstairs made her jump. Hurrying to undo the rest of the corset hooks, she laid it aside and pulled her nightgown over her chemise and drawers, then lit the bedside lamp. She hesitated at her bedroom door, listening carefully. Finally, lamp in hand, she tiptoed down the hall toward the back of the house and the steep narrow stairway connecting kitchen to back hall and back hall to the third floor servants’ rooms.
    Another thump. This time Fannie wasn’t certain if it came from downstairs or if it had just echoed from the front of the house. Glancing behind her, she continued down the back stairs, calling softly, “Hannah? Hannah, whatever are you doing down—” The next word died in her throat as she reached the bottom stair.
    The side door was standing open. Moonlight streamed in, casting shadows—ominous shadows. She took a step backward. Up one stair. Her heart hammering in her chest, she paused. The wind. You didn’t close it all the way and the wind blew it open. But it was a calm, moonlit night, and the side door was a heavily carved affair boasting leaded glass and intricate brass hardware. It would take a mighty wind to blow it open.
    Extinguishing her lamp, Fannie stood in the darkened stairway, afraid to move, nearly afraid to breathe. Listening. Somewhere in the night a cat yowled. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Perspiration trickled down her back. She reached out with her free hand to steady herself even as she glanced toward the hall ceiling. Was Hannah up there asleep? Terror shivered up her spine. She bit her lip and then—someone stepped onto the stair behind her. Put a hand on her shoulder. Fannie opened her mouth to scream . . . but no sound came out.

    By the end of his first day as a roustabout, Samuel Beck had learned more than he had ever wanted to know about freight, the hold of the steamboat Delores , and Otto Busch. Nothing affecting his boat escaped Busch’s practiced eye,