A Mistaken Match. Whitney Bailey

faster to walk.”

      The sticky heat of the summer evening clung to Ann’s back. She tried to push the thought of walking to town as far away as spring felt.

      “You’re a farmer, aren’t you?”

      James nodded.

      “Are you originally from New Haven?”

      James only nodded again. Ann sighed. She needed a new line of questioning.

      “How old are you?” She tried.

      James turned to her. “Didn’t the agency tell you all of this?”

      “Yes, but I wanted to hear these things from you.”

      “I’m twenty-five. You’re eighteen, right?”

      “Nineteen in September.”

      Ann waited for him to ask her a question but he remained silent.

      “Isn’t there anything you wish to know about me?”

      James took his eyes off the road and placed them squarely on Ann. She shivered under his intense gaze. “The agency said you used to work as a maid.”

      “That’s correct. I was eight years in service.”

      “You don’t look like a maid.” He sounded accusatory.

      “May I ask what a maid is supposed to look like?”

      His eyes narrowed. The effect made him look thoughtful rather than menacing. Ann sat up straighter and tried to look more confident than she felt. As his scrutiny continued, blood drummed in her ears and perspiration trickled down the back of her neck.

      “I guess I never thought a maid would look like you,” he answered finally.

      “And you don’t look like a farmer.”

      James eyes widened and his lips drew into a broad smile for the first time that day.

      “Alright, then. What does a farmer look like?”

      Ann narrowed her eyes in the same way James had, and tried to mimic the intense scrutiny he had applied to her. Her efforts had the opposite effect. His smile grew wider. And what a simply splendid smile. Straight teeth and full lips. The fading light darkened the green in his eyes, and fine lines crept out from the corners. He sat perfectly straight as he drove, and his work-broadened shoulders tapered into a lean waist. The fingers of the hand holding the reins were long and slender, but thickly calloused. He’d likely worked hard every day of his life.

      “I’ve changed my mind. You do look like a farmer.”

      “You still don’t look like a maid.”

      Ann sighed and crossed her arms. She wanted to get to know him better, but he didn’t make it easy.

      They continued the rest of the trip in silence and Ann tried to ignore the bumps in the road that bounced them closer and closer together on the wagon seat. She let out a breath when James announced, “There it is.”

      James’s farm sat a quarter mile off the main road. A large whitewashed brick two-story with a gray slate roof and gracefully arched windows perched atop a small hill at the end of the drive. A deep porch sporting a sun-bleached porch swing ran along the front. The barn and other outbuildings shone bright with new red paint, and a neatly trimmed yard spread out in front of them. A well-tended garden filled with neat rows of green sat beside what appeared to be half a dozen fruit trees. Ann’s heart leaped to find something else that day that exceeded her expectations.

      James stopped the wagon in front of the porch steps and helped her down. As she stood waiting for him to return from the barn while he stabled the horse and put away the wagon, she admired the clumps of freshly planted white and yellow daffodils around the foundation. Had he asked a neighbor for some transplants for her benefit? James returned carrying her trunk and the quilt, and she tentatively held his elbow as they walked up the steps. His arm didn’t stiffen this time.

      An elegant panel of windows flanked either side of the front door, and it opened into a small but inviting entry. A long rag rug, shallow side table, oval framed mirror and a gilt framed photo of the very house they were standing in adorned the space. A graceful walnut railing curved along the staircase.

      He set the trunk down at his feet and gestured to the left. “This is the parlor.” A stiff horsehair sofa and chairs faced the fireplace. “And the dining room to our right.” Six curved-back chairs surrounded a cherry dining table. A high cabinet with glass front doors held a small collection of matching china dishes encircled with blue flowers.

      Ann smiled and nodded, hoping he could see how the house pleased her. Mrs. Turner had tried to prepare her for something small and sparse and her heart lifted in delight to see she couldn’t have been more wrong.

      “Where’s the kitchen?”

      “Through the door at the end of the hall. My father only put on a lean-to when he built the house.”

      Ann perked up at the mention of his father. “When will I get to meet him?”

      “Who?”

      “Your father, of course.”

      James set down the bags and rubbed his hands together. “I’m afraid you can’t. He and Mother died some years ago.”

      “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “When will I meet your brothers and sisters?”

      “No brothers or sisters. It’s just me and Uncle Mac.”

      “I thought all farmers had many children.”

      James laughed. “Where did you get an idea like that?”

      “In England, farmers always have scads of children.”

      “Did you grow up on a farm?”

      Her thoughts turned to the orphanage and the Atherton house. The simplest answer felt the easiest. “No.”

      “Mother and Father wanted more but the Lord only blessed them with me. A farm is hard work with only one son to help. I pray God chooses to bless me with many children.”

      Ann’s hands grew slick with sweat and her stomach lurched like a newborn foal finding its legs. He wanted children? Had her one request been overlooked? Ignored? Certainly her face reflected the nausea that lurched within. James tilted his head in scrutiny, and she drew in a deep breath to stifle the sickening dread that threatened to overtake her.

      “Are you alright?”

      What could she possibly say? Two dollars in coins jangled in her pocket book. It was all the money she had in the world.

      “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

      He picked up her trunk and pointed toward the stairs. “I’m sure you’re worn out after all your travels. Let me show you to your room.”

      Upstairs were three closed doors. James stopped at the first on the right and opened it. Inside a small side table and dresser sat below a plainly framed mirror. A single bed hugged the wall next to the window. He marched in and set her trunk down in the middle of the faded green rag rug and draped the quilt across the top.

      “Uncle Mac has the room next to this one, but he’s in bed already. You’ll meet him tomorrow. My room’s across the hall, but I’ll be sleeping on the back porch.”

      “Is that really necessary? I’d feel horrid if you weren’t able to get a proper rest.”

      “Don’t feel bad on my account. I sleep out there most summer nights anyway.”

      “Oh.”

      “Can I get you anything?”

      Her head and neck ached and the fatigue of travel and stress enveloped her like a heavy blanket. She could only think of the inviting-looking bed. Ann shook her head.

      “Well