Fiona stared at the departing Mrs. Calloway while Mr. Adamson resumed his seat at the table and dished some of the chutney onto his and his wife’s plates. She had read the Singapore Sentinel many times. There wasn’t one thing over the course of months that would elicit that sort of reaction from young women with no connection to the town. The newspaper typically droned on about the number of board feet cut, who visited whom for Sunday dinner and which ships had called or were expected. It was a perfectly fine medium for inducing sleep.
After the initial outburst, the women quieted. That appeased the Adamsons, but it didn’t quell Fiona’s curiosity. Like a small child, silence brought suspicion, not comfort. Until now, they had made no attempt to hush their voices. Those ladies were up to something.
Fiona finished her tea and rose. “Forgive me, but the day is long and much remains to be done.”
The Adamsons graciously released her, but they could not have known her purpose. Once out of the dining room, Fiona walked to the parlor. There she found all six ladies huddled around the sofa, four of them on their knees, though definitely not in prayer. The newspaper was spread out on the seat of the sofa, and six faces peered intently at the newsprint.
“He sounds wonderful,” the blonde said, sighing.
Her high voice and petite figure only made her youth more evident. If Fiona was to guess, she would place her as the youngest. Other than hair color, height and weight, little distinguished the women, who were again dressed in the matching navy blue dresses.
“More than wonderful,” countered the brunette who’d acted as the leader of the group from the moment they arrived. “He is everything a woman could want in a husband.”
A husband! This sounded very much like they were reading an advertisement for a wife, but there had never been such a thing in the Singapore Sentinel. What on earth were those girls up to?
The other five ladies nodded, hanging on every word their leader said.
“Perfect.” The blonde sighed.
The redhead echoed the sentiment.
“However, he is just one man, and we are already pledged,” the brunette pointed out.
Already pledged? Fiona stared. This was unseemly behavior for women engaged to marry. Moreover, not a one had mentioned traveling with her betrothed. Fiona mentally counted the rescued passengers. There were not enough men of the appropriate age to match to the six ladies. Moreover, the Adamsons said they were escorting the ladies to some island far to the north. This got more and more peculiar, and Fiona intended to get to the bottom of it.
“Excuse me.” Fiona glided across the room, ignoring the guilty looks on the ladies’ faces and their quick attempt to refold the newspaper. “I could not help but overhear. Am I correct that you found an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper?”
The girls relaxed, and the leader reopened the paper. “There it is, as plain as day.”
Fiona couldn’t see it, unless she got on her knees and crouched with the rest of the ladies. That might be all right for some, but not for a star of the New York stage. She held out a hand, and the leader passed the newspaper to her.
It didn’t take long for Fiona to locate the unlikely advertisement. The wording stunned—no, shocked—her.
Up and coming industrial magnate seeks cultured wife gifted in the social and musical arts. Must be willing to entertain and manage a home. Skill in baking highly valued. Prospective groom has brunette hair and a comely visage. Apply at the Singapore Mercantile.
Fiona let out the breath she’d been holding. Industrial magnate? Lover of music? Reasonably attractive? He did sound perfect, but why on earth would someone of that stature need to advertise for a wife? Even if circumstances did prompt such desperation, why seek such a woman in the least likely place? For a second she thought of Carson, but he had sandy blond hair, not brunette. No, this made no sense.
“This must be a joke,” she announced. “There aren’t more than a handful of unmarried women within miles. No one would advertise in Singapore for a bride.”
“Maybe this isn’t the only place he advertised,” the brunette suggested.
Fiona couldn’t deny that possibility, but the result was the same. She refolded the newspaper. “If you are already promised, I suggest you focus on your beau, not some foolishness published in the newspaper.”
She then carried the newspaper—and source of the ladies’ excitement—from the room.
* * *
“What am I going to do now?” Sawyer shook the newspaper in front of Roland Decker. As he’d feared, the advertisement had made its way into print.
Roland shrugged. “It’s a good way to catch Fiona’s attention.”
“I’m not the one bent on catching her attention. You and Pearl are.”
“Now, Sawyer. Anyone and everyone can see that you’ve had your eye on her for a long time.”
Sawyer had no idea he was giving that impression. “She’s pretty but only interested in someone whose wallet is fat.”
“That’s why the advertisement highlighted your potential.”
“Potential?” Sawyer raked a hand through his hair. “Every word is completely false.” Well, not completely. He could be an industrial magnate if he chose to ride on Father’s coattails and obey the man’s every demand, but Roland didn’t know that.
“Then make it true.”
“How? I can’t become a wealthy businessman overnight.”
Roland leaned on the mercantile counter, that grin of his not budging. “I didn’t see anything in the advertisement about being wealthy.”
Sawyer read the offensive points. “Up and coming industrial magnate.”
“Doesn’t say what you are now.”
Sawyer moved on. “‘Must be willing to entertain and manage a home.’ If that doesn’t point to wealth, I don’t know what does. The poor don’t entertain. Moreover, I don’t have a home.”
“You will. Now that you’re manager at the mill you can afford one.”
“But I don’t have one now, and even if I did lease one, none of the houses here are big enough to require managing. That implies a servant at least, possibly a whole staff.”
Roland chuckled. “That’s a stretch, I’ll admit, but can’t you just see Fiona bossing the servants around?”
The problem was, he could. Sawyer let out a sigh.
“Besides,” Roland continued, “there’s no harm done. No one knows who is looking for a wife, only that applications are accepted here.”
The doorbell tinkled, drawing Sawyer’s attention. He lowered his voice. “And you think no one will ask who it is?”
“Not likely.”
Mrs. Wardman approached.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Roland said. “How are you doing this fine day? Anything I can get for you?”
“I’m curious about this advertisement. My girls are far too young, naturally, but I have a cousin over in Allegan who might be interested. I’d write and suggest she send a letter, but I’d have to know who the prospective groom is.”
“Now, that’s strictly confidential, ma’am. You must understand.”
Mrs. Wardman leaned over the counter to whisper, “Is it Mr. Stockton?”
Roland gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You know I can’t say.”
“It is him, isn’t it? Well,