The Bride Who Came with a Secret

Chapter 1

The clock in the front room of Hargrove Mercantile struck the half-hour with a single clear chime.

Eleanor Cathcart dipped her pen once more into her inkwell.

The gas lamps hissed softly overhead, their light casting long shadows across the ledger.

The back office was quiet. All of the other clerks were probably tucked safely in their beds while she continued to toil away.

Only the scratch of Eleanor’s nib broke the shop’s silence.

She paused, frowning at a freight entry.

The margin did not balance as it should.

Reviewing the figures, she saw that one of the large accounts did not match the bill she had copied out in March, resulting in a discrepancy of nearly two hundred dollars.

Her frown deepened as she remembered how Henry Pryce, one of the junior clerks, had approached her about a similar irregularity not too long ago.

She had sent him directly to Arden, believing the owner’s son best equipped to handle the freight accounts and capable of rectifying anything that might prove inaccurate.

Now the same error stared back at her. It seemed unlikely that the same mistake would happen twice…

Eleanor was about to pencil the number lightly into the margin, intending to flag it for review, when a low voice came from behind the stockroom door. Then came another voice, sharp for a single moment before being cut short.

Silence followed, thicker than molasses.

Carefully, Eleanor set down her pencil and swallowed hard.

Her heart thudded once against her ribs.

Rising, she crossed the room on quiet feet and laid her hand on the doorknob, telling herself it was only two men arguing over inventory.

It wasn’t unusual for people to stay late.

After all, she was still there, toiling away long after the last customer had handed over their coin.

She took a steadying breath and opened the door.

Arden Hargrove stood beside his heavy oak desk, his usually immaculate coat left unbuttoned.

His dark hair was oiled neatly back from his forehead.

He looked like the picture of normalcy, but the scene before her was far from normal.

On the floor was Henry Pryce, lying face down in a spreading pool of blood that had already begun to soak into the floorboards.

At the sound of the hinges, Arden’s head came up.

For a moment, his expression remained perfectly calm, captured in the same mask of composure he always wore.

Then something cold flickered behind his eyes.

“Eleanor,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“This is not as it seems. If you would only allow me a moment to explain.” He took a step toward her as he spoke, one hand reaching for her arm.

She jerked backward, causing his fingers to close around her sleeve instead. The fabric tore with a sharp ripping sound as she wrenched free. Eleanor turned and ran, skirts tangling about her legs, boots pounding across the office floor. Behind her, Arden’s voice rose. “Eleanor! Eleanor, wait!”

But Eleanor did not look back. She kept moving, plunging down the rear stairs into the alley, where the evening air was cold and damp against her face. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She kept to the shadows, darting between crates and barrels, her torn dress sleeve flapping like a broken wing.

“Six blocks,” she thought. “Just six blocks to safety.”

Mary Pallister’s boarding house stood on a modest street lined with brick row houses. Eleanor stumbled up the steps and rapped sharply on the door. A moment later, it opened. Mary stood there in her nightgown, a shawl hastily thrown over her shoulders, her dark hair in a loose braid.

“Eleanor? Good heavens, what?—”

Eleanor stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Her legs trembled as she crossed the parlor to the worn sofa and sank onto its edge. The small room smelled of beeswax and dried lavender. A single lamp burned low on the table.

Mary closed and bolted the door before hurrying to Eleanor’s side. “You’re shaking,” she observed as she took the young woman’s hands. “Tell me what happened.”

Eleanor wet her lips, trying to speak past the lump in her throat, her voice jagged with emotion.

“I went into the stockroom… Henry Pryce was on the floor… unmoving… and covered in blood. Arden was standing over him. He pleaded with me to stay so he could explain himself, but when he reached for me, all I could think to do was run.”

Mary’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. “Sweet mercy. Arden Hargrove? A murderer?”

Eleanor swallowed, as pale as a sheet, unable to answer the question. What other explanation could there be? And she had been a witness to the crime.

Mary sat beside her as the sofa creaked softly under her weight. “I fear he will come looking for you. We must think quickly.” She rose and fetched the evening paper from the hall tray, unfolding it with trembling fingers. “Perhaps we could find you employment in another county.”

Eleanor took the paper, forcing her eyes to focus on the columns. Most of the advertisements blurred together. Then her attention snagged on a small advert halfway down the second page.

Respectable widower, pastor of a church in Deer Lodge, Montana Territory, with one young daughter. Seeks a God-fearing woman of steady character who is willing to marry and help raise the child. Train fare provided. Serious inquiries only.

Eleanor read the words a second time, the man’s location leaping off the page. Montana Territory. Surely that would be far enough that Arden wouldn’t follow. She could make any relationship work if it got her out of the city. “I’ll answer this one,” she said quietly.

Mary fetched paper, ink, and a pen, then brought them over to a small desk in the corner of the room, where Eleanor already sat, prepared to put her life in the mercy of some frontier pastor she did not know.

Her hand shook, but she managed to keep her penmanship legible as she composed the letter, stating that she was a young widow of good Christian character who was competent in household matters, and eager to make a new life in the West. She described herself plainly.

Then, when it came time to sign the letter, she hesitated before jotting down her mother’s maiden name.

Louisa Pallister.

As soon as the letter was sealed, Mary took it downstairs, ready for the first post. Eleanor returned to the sofa, carrying Mary’s worn Bible with her. She opened it to Psalm 55 and found the verse she needed: And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.

She closed her eyes, letting the words settle.

Soon thereafter, Mary returned and sat beside her.

She took both of Eleanor’s hands in her own, the same hands that had helped her throughout her mother’s illness and her father’s long-ago death.

Mary bowed her head. “Dear Lord,” she prayed.

“You see Your daughter Eleanor. You know the danger that pursues her. Hide her under the shadow of Your wings. Guide her steps to safety and grant her a refuge where no evil may reach her. Grant her courage and peace. In the name of Your Son, we ask it. Amen.”

“Amen,” Eleanor whispered.

The two women sat together in the quiet parlor as the mantel clock ticked. Outside, Philadelphia slept under a clouded sky, while Eleanor’s heart had already turned toward a town whose name she had never heard of before tonight and toward a life she could not yet imagine.