Jeffery glanced at the hand-engraved gold pocket watch for the fifth time in less than a minute. He closed his eyes, removed his handkerchief, and sopped up the sweat beading down his forehead and the back of his neck. His bride had been due here thirty minutes ago with the arrival of the Charleston-Savannah Railroad. He’d arranged this marriage because it was what his parents wanted.
Truthfully, he didn’t have the time to court and make nice with a woman to determine whether she was worthy to be his wife or not. But on the other hand, he couldn’t imagine marrying one of the women of his own social class. None carried a thought in their heads beyond the next social ball. Savannah had its share of social events—enough to keep a couple well entertained throughout the year. But Jeffery always found himself drifting off into business conversations, plotting new ventures during such events. He would dance with a man’s wife or daughter all for the purpose of business. No woman had ever succeeded in turning his attention from work. The many who tried soon gave up on him. All of which suited him just fine… until the reading of his grandfather’s will.
Jeffery caressed the gold watch… his grandfather’s watch. His heart ached for Grandpa Joe, as the man had preferred to be called by family. He’d been gone for the better part of a year now, and life just didn’t seem the same without his grandfather in his life. Grandpa Joe was a self-made man who had taught his son and grandson the value of hard work and industry.
Jeffery flipped open the watch cover and read the message within: “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord. Proverbs 18:22.” That was Grandpa Joe, he thought with a sigh, always praising his wife, even a decade after she’d passed on. He’d always said he would not be the man he was if it weren’t for Grandma Bertha. And that explained his Last Will And Testament, which stipulated that if Jeffery didn’t find a wife before his thirtieth birthday… Jeffery snapped the watch shut, turned away from the empty rails, and strode back to the station under the shade of the veranda.
A distant whistle blew. Jeffery leaned from the shade into the blistering sun, then back again. With any luck they’d make it to the courthouse in time to be married before the office closed.
He pulled out the letter of response he’d selected following his advertisement posted in a New York City newspaper:
475 W. Broadway
New York City, N.Y.
Dear Mr. Oliver,
I am responding to your offer in the newspaper. I am a strong woman, in good health, and looking for a husband. I can cook and sew, per your request. I am handy in the garden, and while it is not my favorite activity, I can wash and clean clothing. I have a fair appearance. I would not call myself a beauty, but one should not be bored with my features. I love children and look forward to being a mother one day if the Good Lord blesses.
Sincerely,
Tilda Green
The ground rumbled beneath his feet as heavy wheels braked on the steel rails amid clouds of steam and the shrill warning of the train’s whistle. He tucked the letter back in his right coat pocket and stepped forward. Dear Lord, I hope I haven’t made a mistake.
Tilda grabbed her carpetbag as the train came to a stop. Steam released into the air with a great gasp as the big iron horse finally stood still. Her body continued to vibrate. She’d been riding on the train for a day and a half. Jeffery Oliver had spared no expense with her ticket, reserving a spot on a Pullman Palace Car. She’d never traveled in such luxury. She’d had her own bedchamber, and he’d paid for all her meals. She’d probably gained five pounds.
Inside her one small trunk, she’d packed a few mementos, a couple of dresses, undergarments, and a picture of her parents. Her letter to Mr. Oliver had been sent on a whim—or was it desperation? Never in a million years would she have guessed she’d be moving to the South to marry a man she’d never met before.
Pushing a stray hair behind her ear, she slipped into the private bath chamber, glanced into the mirror, and pinned her chestnut brown hair back in place. She checked the pins in her hat, then straightened her dress. She’d heard that Savannah was a beautiful and historic city. Tilda loved exploring, and Savannah sounded perfect. She couldn’t wait to become familiar with this new place.
The train jerked as she stepped into the passageway. She grabbed the doorframe so she didn’t land on her backside. Out the window, people milled about, waiting for the passengers to exit. She scanned their faces. One of them was her husband, though she’d been given no description of Mr. Jeffery Oliver.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
The others in the car stepped forward as the smiling porter—proud in his uniform and white gloves—opened the door and wished each passenger well.
Tilda noticed folks were slipping him a coin as they departed. She’d learned that a quarter was the proper tip to give the porter for any and every service he performed. She reached into her drawstring bag and pulled out a coin.
“Pleasure to have you on board, Miss Green.”
“Pleasure was mine.” She handed him the coin as she shook his hand. A smile inched across her face realizing how practiced he was in accepting the gratuity.
“Your fiancé is a blessed man.”
“Thank you.” Tilda hoped he would be a good husband. He had to be better than the man she’d left behind in New York. Reginald Murphy had pledged to her father he would oversee her assets. Instead, he attempted to trick her into marrying him in order to gain possession of her inheritance. Mr. Oliver didn’t know about her inheritance. If he proved to be an honorable man, she would tell him. Until then, she would keep that part of her life a secret.
Marrying a man she didn’t know seemed a whole lot better than marrying the man who only wanted her money. Reginald was twenty years her senior… Mr. Oliver’s advertisement didn’t state his age. Dear Lord—she closed her eyes and prayed—I hope I followed your lead.
Jeffery watched as an unescorted woman descended the stairs. His bride. She had a regal set to her shoulders. Her brown hair was tied in a loose braid slipped up under her hat. It was a conservative hat, not given to a lot of adornment. She may think she’s plain, he thought, noting her delicate nose and soft chin, but she is beautiful. He stepped forward. “Miss Green?”
She turned in his direction, smiled, and assessed him as carefully as he had been scrutinizing her. “Mr. Oliver?”
He nodded with the removal of his hat. “At your service. I trust your accommodations were sufficient.”
“Superb, thank you. I’ve never ridden in a Pullman Palace before. It was quite comfortable.”
Jeffery smiled. “I had heard, although I have not had the pleasure. My carriage is over there,” he said, indicating the location with an outstretched arm. “Are your trunks labeled with my address?” He took her carpetbag in his left hand and offered the elbow of his right. As she placed her hand in its crook, he moved to place his hand on top of hers… but held back, chastising himself for such a foolishly intimate impulse, especially while carrying her carpetbag.
“Yes, as you instructed.”
“Wonderful.” He lifted his grandfather’s watch from his waistcoat pocket and flicked it open. “If we hurry, we’ll get to the courthouse in time to get married.”
She halted. “We’re not going to have a church wedding?”
“I’m sorry. I assumed—since you didn’t know anyone—a courthouse wedding seemed appropriate.”
Her chest heaved, and she nodded. “I understand. A courthouse wedding is fine.”
“Excellent.” He led her to a stately, highly polished landau carriage. “I know the judge; he’s a deacon in the church. I’m certain he wouldn’t mind saying a prayer of blessing over the vows.”
“I would feel better knowing the Lord is a part of our marriage.”
“I’ll make the arrangements. This is my carriage,” he said, handing her bag to his driver. He then opened the door for her to step inside its plush black-and-red interior. Being the gentleman his parents raised, he held out his hand to assist her. Its soft warmth sent a wave of calm over him. Jeffery shook off the surprising reaction to their contact and walked around the carriage as James secured the carpetbag in the carriage boot. He climbed in, latching the door behind him, and settled beside his bride.
The carriage roof provided modest shade for Miss Green. Normally, he would travel with the top down. But Savannah heat could be quite challenging for the uninitiated. So he gambled on the side of caution, figuring the northern climes of New York City were bound to be much cooler. In fact, in anticipation of his marriage, he’d purchased the home where they would begin their married lives precisely because of its location under a grove of oaks. In addition to the ample shade they provided, the house was positioned so as to capture the cool breezes off the Savannah River. Prior to that, he’d made his home with his parents in the same house he’d been born in nearly thirty years prior. That family home sat proudly on one of the famous city squares designed by Oglethorpe back in the sixteen hundreds.
“Courthouse, James.” He’d hired the young man who had worked for his father in the stables to drive the carriage this day.
“Yes, sir.” James flicked the reins, and the horse plodded forward. The harness jangled with each step.
Jeffery turned to his bride. She really was quite handsome to look at. “Are you familiar with driving a buggy?”
She nodded. “Yes. I didn’t have many opportunities, nor was there much need in the city, but on Sundays our family would rent a carriage and ride through and around Central Park. Mother would make a basket of food, and we would stop for a picnic.”
Her eyes glistened. He recalled she had mentioned in her second letter that she no longer had any living relatives. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your parents?”
She glanced down at her lap and fiddled with the drawstrings of her purse. “They died about a year ago.” She swallowed. “They were traveling to the Cape, and the train derailed.”
“My condolences.” He turned and faced the front. “If it is of any comfort, my parents are still alive.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her give a brief nod, then turn her attention to the various houses as they rode down West Broad Street toward Broughton and the Courthouse. “If you look down there”—he pointed to the right—“you’ll see Liberty Square. General James Oglethorpe designed the city with numerous squares. Each community has a place to gather, sit in the shade of the trees, and enjoy their neighbors. It’s a marvelous plan.” He was rambling, he knew.
He pointed up ahead. “That’s the back of the white marble courthouse. A bit farther up ahead is Bay Street and the Savannah River.”
Her eyes widened—with excitement, he hoped. “It is clearly a city,” she commented, “but much smaller than New York.”
Jeffery’s back stiffened. Did she regret her decision to come to Savannah?