Yankee Wife Read Free

I—I—” She stopped again, took a few deep breaths, marveling that she'd reached such depths that she would willingly endure such wretched recollections for a few scraps of food. “I stayed on with the hospital corps, having no reason to return home.”
    Mr. Quade was silent for a long time. He looked deep into her eyes. The meal was delivered, and Lydia used the last of her self-control to keep from scooping eggs and sausage and toasted bread up into her hands and devouring them like an animal.
    â€œYour father must have owned a house in Fall River,” Mr. Quade finally said.
    Lydia shook her head, her mouth full of fried potatoes, which she gulped down before she answered, “Papa was never a practical man. We had rooms above a butcher shop, and we were two months behind in the rent when he enlisted.”
    Mr. Quade began spreading jelly on his toast, averting his eyes. “How did you end up in San Francisco?”
    It was agony to hold her fork suspended, with all that delicious food sitting before her, fragrant and hot, but Lydia succeeded long enough to say, “I came around the Horn with an elderly lady, acting as her companion. I'd planned to start a music conservatory once I'd settled in California and saved the necessary funds, but Mrs. Hallingsworth died and her son and daughter-in-law had no need for my services. I was, in a word, stranded.”
    â€œWhen did this happen?”
    â€œLast month.” Lydia got in a few hasty bites, then went on. “I've been surviving by playing piano in supper bars.”
    Mr. Quade sipped his coffee. “I see,” he said finally. “Is there anything you'd like to ask me?”
    Lydia swallowed more eggs. “You must not live in San Francisco, or you wouldn't be staying in this hotel,” she observed. “Where are you from?”
    He sat back in his chair, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of a brocade vest. “My brother and I operate a timber concern up near Seattle, in the Washington Territory.”
    She gave a small, involuntary shudder. The territories were filled with bloodthirsty Indians and highwaymen, she'd heard, and in the mountainous places there were said to be wildcats in every tree, waiting to pounce on the unwary sojourner.
    â€œYou couldn't have grown up in Washington Territory,” she said. “It hasn't been settled even twenty years, and you are an educated man.”
    He smiled. “Brigham—that's my brother—and I were raised in Maine. We came out here by wagon train as soon as we were old enough to claim our small inheritances.”
    â€œAren't there any women in Seattle?” Lydia asked. She immediately regretted the indelicacy and bluntness of the question, but it was too late to call back her words.
    â€œNone to speak of,” Mr. Quade replied. He really was handsome, with his leonine head of golden hair and strong jawline, which might have been carved, like his nose, by a master sculptor. He was cultivated, too. He would probably be very kind to the candidate he selected for his wife. “Women are at a premium in the Northwest. Why, I'll bet you couldn't walk from the harbor to Yesler's Mill without getting at least six marriage proposals.”
    Lydia swallowed. She had only bargained for coffee and rolls, not a barrage of amorous lumberjacks and mill workers. “Did you have a large response to your…advertisement?” she asked, unable to look at him. She was staring down at the few remaining crumbs of her breakfast.
    â€œThe majority of them were unsuitable,” he admitted. “The Puget Sound area is still largely untamed and very primitive. It's no place for timidity or a hysterical temperament. On the other hand, it's beautiful country, and a woman bearing the Quade name would lack for nothing of any true significance.”
    The whole insane idea was beginning to sound good to Lydia. Appealing as this man was, she felt no particular