Would-Be Mistletoe Wife. Christine Johnson

nodded her assent. A few minutes with Jesse Hammond couldn’t be that terrible. She would use the time to persuade the man not to give that lecture.

      * * *

      How had Jesse let himself get talked into lecturing in front of a bunch of girls? Mrs. Evans hadn’t accepted his polite refusal, and then the woman manning the store counter had chimed in with how much a guest lecturer would enrich the ladies’ education. They’d shamed him into it.

      Worst of all, he saw no way to avoid Louise Smythe, since she worked at the school. Not that the widow wasn’t pretty, but she was a widow—a childless widow. And both Mrs. Evans and the store clerk had been far too eager to corral him into the lecture for him to believe their motives were strictly educational.

      Jesse picked at his food, which drew the notice of Mrs. Blackthorn, yet another matchmaker.

      “You feeling all right, Mr. Hammond? You’ve hardly touched a thing on your plate.”

      “I’m fine.” To demonstrate, he shoved a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

      “Good trout,” Mr. Blackthorn mumbled between heaping bites of the fried fish and mashed potatoes.

      The boys, both adolescents, were too preoccupied with eating as much as possible to pay any attention to the conversation.

      Jesse swallowed the potatoes. “Yes, ma’am. It’s very good.”

      Mrs. Blackthorn beamed while her daughter sighed and gave him that dreamy look the girls from the boarding school had given him. Over the years he’d grown accustomed to that reaction. Maybe that was why Louise stuck in his mind. She hadn’t fawned and sighed over him. Quite the reverse. Although refreshing, it puzzled him. How does a man respond to a woman who doesn’t show the slightest interest in him? It was easy enough to dismiss the hopeful, but the disinterested presented a new challenge.

      “You do seem a little out of sorts, Mr. Hammond,” Mrs. Blackthorn said as she slathered butter on a dinner roll. “You’ve hardly said a word.”

      Jesse didn’t usually speak during meals, but there was no use pointing that out. “I’m fine.”

      Mr. Blackthorn peered at him. “Did you go and get someone else irritated at you?”

      “No, sir.” He still wasn’t accustomed to eating with the family, but board was part of his compensation.

      “Good.” Blackthorn pointed a fork at him. “It pays to stay on everyone’s good side.”

      Mrs. Blackthorn nodded. “Did you happen to see Louise Smythe when you were at the store?”

      “No, ma’am.” Jesse clenched his jaw. He’d have to ask Blackthorn for an hour off tomorrow morning. Now was as good a time as any. “I did meet Mrs. Evans, though. She asked me to give a short lecture on weather to the students.”

      Blackthorn peered at him. “You don’t say. Never asked me to do that.”

      Jesse wasn’t about to mention his suspicion that Mrs. Evans, like Mrs. Blackthorn, was trying to match him with Louise Smythe. “It just came up in conversation. If you object, I’ll tell her I can’t do it.” He tried not to sound as hopeful as he felt.

      “No, no.” Blackthorn waved off the suggestion. “How long can it take? An hour? As long as we don’t have a storm brewing, it’s fine with me.”

      Jesse tried not to show his disappointment. “Thank you, sir.”

      “It’ll spread a little goodwill.” Blackthorn cocked his head. “Maybe you can have the girls polish some of the brass pitchers.”

      “Samuel! The girls are supposed to learn, not do your work for you,” his wife scolded. She then turned a smile in Jesse’s direction. “That means you’ll have a chance to see Louise.”

      Jesse was not about to reveal that he wanted as little contact as possible with Mrs. Smythe.

      “You should pay her a call,” Mrs. Blackthorn continued, oblivious to his discomfort, “one evening or this weekend.”

      “I’m not planning to call on any woman just yet.”

      “Oh?” Mrs. Blackthorn looked to her husband.

      “I thought you aimed to be head keeper.” Blackthorn’s fork jabbed his way again. “You’ll need someone to watch the light when you’re sleeping, like during a storm.”

      “And help with all the cleaning,” Mrs. Blackthorn added.

      “Like I told ya, the service looks kindly on those that’re married,” Blackthorn added.

      Jesse tried his best not to let on that he knew they were conspiring to get him married. “There’s still plenty of time.”

      After all, it had taken over a year for Jesse to wind his way through the political connections needed to get a nomination from the customs collector and then to secure approval from the lighthouse board.

      “You’re thirty-one,” Mrs. Blackthorn stated. “Louise’s age. A woman like her won’t wait forever.”

      It took herculean effort not to plead an end to this matchmaking. Instead, he focused on fact. “I only have a small room. That’s no place to bring a wife.”

      “We began that way,” Mrs. Blackthorn pointed out.

      Clearly Jesse was going to lose the argument unless he could come up with a solid excuse. “It would cost the service more in provisions.”

      “Not as much as bringing in an assistant,” Blackthorn said. “Take my word. If you want to be appointed head keeper somewhere, get married and have children.”

      Jesse had long dreamed of having a large family with children running everywhere, but he’d first postponed it due to the war and then in favor of getting into the lighthouse service. It’d been years since he’d courted anyone.

      “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he murmured.

      “Start with Louise Smythe.” Mrs. Blackthorn returned to her favorite topic. “She’s looking to marry. You’re the same age. Perfect match.”

      Except she was a war widow. The nightmares already plagued him. Widows often asked how men died in the war. Even the question brought back painful memories.

      “There must be other eligible women.”

      Blackthorn shook his head. “Not in Singapore. You won’t find many unmarried women here. Except the girls at the school.”

      Jesse blanched. “They’re far too young. I have in mind someone more...mature.”

      “Well, if it doesn’t work out with Louise,” Mrs. Blackthorn said hesitantly, “you could always try advertising for a bride.”

      Advertising. It sounded perfectly logical and businesslike. No messy emotions involved. And it had apparently worked for three men in town. It would be a simple transaction for the betterment of both parties. The woman could have a family, and he could get a head keeper’s position elsewhere in the district.

      That evening, instead of napping before his midnight watch, Jesse stared at a piece of paper, trying to come up with the right words. It felt uncomfortable to advertise for a wife, but he told himself that it was the best solution.

      “Wife needed,” he wrote.

      What next? He supposed he should list the qualifications any prospective candidate ought to possess. Hardiness, homemaking abilities, skilled with children. All those came into play.

      He jotted a few down and tried to picture the woman who might answer. Why did Louise Smythe come to mind?

      Frustrated, he crumpled the paper. Then he recalled he only had a few sheets of paper on hand. He’d better draft the wording on this sheet and save the rest for the clean copies of the advertisement to mail out.

      So,