Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) Read Free

she’d risen from her bed that morning. It didn’t matter if the other
ladies in the boarding house had wondered if she was ill or not. She’d hardly
noticed the odd looks at breakfast, her mind had been that intent on holding
tight to the character she needed to play for the interview. And she’d been
doing such a fine job of it she’d nearly introduced herself to Miss Miller as
Victoria McClintock!
    It was a lucky thing for Darby the Queen was never
in a hurry, for she was able to catch her tongue before it ruined the game.
    No. Not a game . It was her future she was
forging. But considering the grave importance of that meeting, if she didn’t
think of it as a game, she might break into tears. And McClintocks had more
pride than to trade their dignity for a good cry. Even when she’d been told
about the factory’s destruction, she hadn’t fashed. Sure, she felt sorry for
dear Roberta, who had kept her eye out for them all like a hen watching over
her chicks. And she’d felt sorry for every woman who would struggle to survive.
But the best thing she could do for them was to keep a stiff upper lip and be
bold when necessary.
    It was necessary now.
    Miss Miller picked up a pad of paper and a pencil.
“Let’s start with your name.”
    “McClintock. Darby McClintock, lately of
Newcastle, England.”
    “Lately?”
    Darby lifted her brows and acted as if her eyelids
were much too heavy to open completely. “Lately, as in, prior to coming to
Massachusetts, of course. My father was a minor baron, and though it
embarrassed the family, dabbled in the coal business. All was lost after he
died, and I found myself in want of employment. Of course, the only menial
labor for which I had any experience was my stitching. I found that very few in
Lawrence were looking for a woman adept at running a household.”
    Miss Miller lifted a brow. “And you have such
experience?”
    Darby feigned the most subdued impression of
excitement. “Do you know of someone who requires a chatelaine without the
burden of marriage?”
    The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. No. But if
you are genuinely interested in marrying Mr. Beauregard of Portland, Oregon, I
believe you fit the bill well enough. When you told me your last name was
McClintock, I worried you were a Scot, and this gentleman has a particular
aversion to Scots. Apparently, he works with many sea captains in his office as
Commissioner, and the last thing he wants is to go home to a Scot at night, if
you can understand that.
    “I’ve met the man personally, about a year ago,
and I can assure you, he is far too honorable to hold someone’s nationality
against them, but where his personal life is concerned, I can at least
understand his reasoning. Besides, he insists that I only send him someone who
can be dignified in all situations.”
    “My dear, Miss Miller, I assure you I am not a
Scot, though I admit there must be a drop or two in my veins from generations
ago in order for me to have such a last name. Great Britain is a much smaller
place than you have probably guessed. Everyone is related, unfortunately, to
everyone else.”
    That last bit was heartfelt. She really did deem
it unfortunate that she had as many English relatives as she did, distant
though they may be. After centuries of squabbling over minor worries—like life
and death, robbery and abuse—bitterness was an easy trait to pass down from
generation to generation. And it galled her, the need to play the part of her
eternal enemy for the time being.
    But it galled her even more to hear the woman
insinuate that a Scotswoman can’t be trusted to be dignified in all situations.
In fact, with Miss Miller poised to hand over the keys to her future, Darby was
tempted to toss the offer back and spit in her eye.
    “I’ll be honest,” the woman said. “I’ve been
trying to find the right woman for Mr. Beauregard for quite a while. I’d like
to offer it to you now, if you don’t mind. I suppose if I asked you