The Final Baker Bride

  The Final Baker Bride

  By Kathleen Y’Barbo

  Dedication:

  To those who wander.

  Not all are lost,

  And none escape our gracious Father’s watchful eye and loving care.

  Chapter 1

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  May 1889

  A train whistle sounded. Octavia Derby glanced up at the massive clock and then reached into her handbag to retrieve the envelope she had prepared for this moment.

  “It’s time for you to get back on the train.” She pressed the envelope into Bridget’s palm.

  Bridget shook her head. “Oh miss, I mustn’t take this. You’ve already been so generous.”

  Tavia brushed away the comment with a swipe of her hand. “It’s for your mother, not you.” Another round of train whistles split the air between them. “Hurry now. You’ll miss your train.”

  Bridget reached to touch Tavia’s sleeve. “Now remember, you’re staying at the Monteleone Hotel. Tomorrow you have an appointment with Miss Marie O’Shea at Baker Shipping. Do you remember what you’re to tell her?”

  “That her niece Bridget wrote to her about me and that I am fully capable to take on any menial task she might offer.”

  “Perhaps not all that.” Bridget smiled. “I think simply that I wrote to her on your behalf will suffice. Auntie Marie wrote that she has a position as a typist available for you.”

  “Of course.” Tavia exchanged good-byes and then watched Bridget scurry away. The Irishwoman disappeared inside the railcar, and then a moment later, she reappeared at a window.

  “Miss Tavia!”

  Tavia hurried toward her as the steam from the train rose around her. “Yes, what is it?” she said as she batted at the sodden air.

  “Your trunks! You’ll need to fetch them.”

  Tavia shook her head. “Fetch them? How? Where?”

  The train’s big wheels jerked forward. “Over, there.” Bridget pointed. “Remember, you’re staying at the Monteleone, and you will need to hire a taxicab for transport. But first, find a porter and tell him. . .” The remainder of her statement was lost in the screech of wheels and blast of the train’s whistle.

  Tavia let out a sigh and turned her back on the disappearing train. She could do this. She would do this. All she had to do was find a porter. Over there. If she could just figure out what a porter was.

  But she did know what her luggage looked like, and she spied it a few minutes later unceremoniously stacked with all the other various bags, boxes, and trunks in a corner of the station. She found a rather thin fellow in a uniform who vaguely resembled Father’s butler, Vargas.

  “I need my luggage, please. The two Louis Vuitton trunks and the bag.”

  Thankfully, the fellow was much stronger than he looked, and a moment later, he was shadowing her toward the exit. Father always offered a few coins to the men who moved their things between conveyances, so she opened her purse and reached for the first two pieces of money she found.

  Apparently her gratuity was generous, for the fellow’s sour expression quickly turned congenial. “Where’ll I be depositing these?” he asked as he struggled to move the decrepit trolley over cobblestones.

  “Depositing?”

  “Yes ma’am. How will you be leaving the train station? Perhaps you’ve got someone here to retrieve you?”

  Oh, dear. “No,” she said slowly, “but I will need to find my way to the Monteleone Hotel. How does one accomplish this?”

  His quizzical look almost made her smile. “Well, miss,” he said as he scratched his head. “Most folks either take the streetcar or they hire a taxicab.” He shifted the burden of the trolley to the other shoulder. “Under the circumstances, I reckon I’d hail a taxicab if it was me. Seeing as how you’re not exactly traveling light.”

  A taxicab. Of course. She’d ridden in a taxicab once in Paris. The ride, though completely unsanctioned and undetected by her mother, had been quite entertaining for her and her friends.

  Tavia looked around the station. Every sort of carriage, wagon, and buggy crowded the street in both directions. Most were filled with persons of various social stations and dubious intentions, or so it seemed.

  Except one.

  “You there.” Tavia waved to the driver of what appeared to be a decent taxicab. “You’ll do. I wish to be dispatched to my hotel immediately.”

  ~

  Though hers was not the first offer Merritt Baker had received while waiting for his driver to retrieve his trunks from the train’s conductor, it was the most brazen. And tempting.

  If he had been the sort who could be tempted by a pretty face and an attractive offer. Which he was not, or he would have already married one of the many society gals his family insisted on introducing to the last unmarried Baker brother on a regular basis.

  Oh, but she was a beauty. Not nearly tall enough to reach the top of his shoulders, and pretty as any woman he’d seen, this gal certainly did not look like the type who plied that sort of profession.

  Honey-colored curls teased her neck and cascaded down her straight back, tamed only by a feathered confection of a hat that must have set one of her customers back a minor fortune. Her scarlet traveling dress brought out the fire in her eyes and set off rosy cheeks and lips that looked as though they had been recently kissed.

  While he watched, those lips formed a frown as the little lady gestured to a porter burdened with two trunks and a traveling case stacked on a trolley. Before he could protest, the porter hefted one trunk to his buggy and was reaching for the other.

  “Hold on here,” Rit said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The porter spared him only a brief glance before returning to his work. “Just following orders, sir.”

  “Well, I order you to take those bags off my buggy before I take them off for you.”

  Ignoring him, the porter tossed the final bag atop the others. “I reckon you ought to take that up with the lady.” And then he was off.

  “I’ll do that.” Rit turned around to see the lady in question had already situated herself in the buggy and appeared quite irritated that he hadn’t done the same.

  He stalked around the buggy to the side where she sat like a queen awaiting her coronation parade. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

  “Waiting far longer than I ought. Are you always this reluctant to conduct business?” Those sea green eyes gave him the same measuring up she’d just given the buggy.

  He gave her the same look right back. “What makes you think I plan to conduct business with you, ma’am?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a swipe of her hand. “Of course you will. This is a taxicab, is it not?”

  “A taxicab?”

  Rit waited for the change in expression that would indicate the woman was joking. It never came. Was it possible this woman actually believed the Baker Shipping buggy was a New Orleans taxicab? Apparently she did.

  “You’re serious,” he added to be certain.

  “Quite. I’ll be going to the Monteleone. Have you heard of it?”

  “I have.” Considering Baker family friends owned the place.

  “Then please come around and do your job. I have traveled quite a distance in the most atrocious circumstances. I actually had to sleep sitting up. All the way from Houston.” She shuddered and then straightened the plume on her hat.

  There wasn’t anything waiting on him back at the office except his brothers and more work than he cared to attend to. Not with memories of the Texas ranch he’d left this morning still riding hard in his thoughts.

  Oh, why not?

  “One minute, ma’am.” Merritt tipped his hat to her and then lope
d over to meet his driver. “Hire a wagon to get my things home,” he said. I’ll be using the buggy for a while.”

  “Yes sir, but I’m supposed to deliver you to Baker Shipping. What will I tell your brothers?”

  Rit reached into his pocket and retrieved a day’s pay for the man. “Take the afternoon off. After you deliver my bags. I’ll handle my brothers myself. Tomorrow.”

  He returned to the buggy and climbed onto the seat beside the young lady. She looked up at him, wide-eyed and pretty, and his heart did a little giddy-up.

  “Belle callas! Tout chaud!”

  His passenger jumped at the sound of the street vendor who stood less than an arm’s length away. Her eyes went wide as the elderly woman with the colorful scarf lifted the basket from her head and thrust it toward her.

  “Belle callas! Tout chaud,” she said again.

  “What does she want?” came out as a frightened squeak as the gal scooted toward him.

  “She’s selling rice pastries.” He retrieved his coins and reached past her to the woman. “Deux callas, sil vows plait.”

  The callas vendor broke into a broad toothless smile as she tucked the payment, extravagant by any standards, into her pocket and then handed over three pastries. “Lagniappe,” she said with a wink. “And may the Bon Dieu bless you with a long life and many children.”

  His passenger sat very still until the old woman sashayed away. Even as her call echoed around them, Rit saw the little lady beside him was shaking.

  “They’re harmless for the most part. Here. “He offered her a rice pastry. “If you were on the train from Houston, I’d wager you haven’t had a decent meal in quite some time.”

  “Thank you, but I think not.” She was still shaking.

  “It’s all right, ma’am,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Fire blazed in her eyes despite the fact she still looked like a scared rabbit. “I am not afraid. I’m just. . .” She looked away. “It’s just not what I’m used to, that’s all.”

  “You don’t travel alone much, do you?” The words came out before he could figure out why.

  She swung her gaze back to meet his. “No,” she said softly. “Not much.”

  Unless he missed his guess, the correct answer was not at all. Something strange and protective rose up in him.

  Whoever let this woman travel alone should be hung up by his toes and shot. Yes, that was it. She had a husband somewhere, and they’d parted company. That would certainly account for her jumpiness.

  “Ma’am,” he said, as gently as he could, “you seem like the nice sort, so I’m sure whatever trouble you and your husband have run into is something you can patch up. I’d be happy to put you on a train headed to home so you can have the opportunity to do just that.”

  He waited for the tears. Or the protest. Or something. Instead, she stared blankly back at him.

  “Husband?” she finally said.

  “Well, yes. Isn’t that who you were traveling with?”

  She began to giggle. “Hardly,” she managed a moment later. “The last thing I need is a husband, though my father would disagree. In fact, it is our dispute on that point that caused me to decide I was in need of an adventure.”

  An odd and unwelcome relief washed over him at the thought that the green-eyed beauty had no husband. Not that he was looking to fill the position.

  “And what’s so bad about being married?”

  Soon as the words were out of his mouth, the irony hit him. How many times had he been asked that same question since his father died? He was about to withdraw the question when the gal started talking.

  “Oh, I don’t know if there’s anything wrong with it in general, but I’m certainly not interested. Any man who would marry me would certainly not marry me for love.”

  A couple of more question occurred to him. He kept his mouth shut.

  “I came here on the train from Houston with my. . .well, with Bridget. Her mother is ill, so she traveled on to Biloxi. So,” she said as she placed her gloved hands in her lap and once again looked up expectantly, “since Bridget is generally the one who handles things, I am at a slight disadvantage at this moment.” Again that backbone straightened. “However, rest assured this is merely a temporary setback. I am nothing if not resilient.”

  “Resilient,” he echoed as he looked at the kid gloves, the expensive Louis Vuitton trunks, and the posture that could only be learned at the finest of finishing schools. He had to wonder what kind of temporary setback a gal like her could possibly have.

  So he decided to ask.

  “So you and your daddy had a falling out and now you’re having an adventure. My guess is your setback involves Daddy’s money and the lack of it.”

  Those pretty eyes widened. “How did you know? I worked so hard to look. . .well, average.”

  “Darlin’, you can work at looking average from now until the cows come home, but I can’t see how you’ll ever manage it.”

  Her shoulders fell. “Oh. Well, that’s troublesome.”

  Rit shook his head. “Women! Here I am trying to give you a compliment, and you don’t want it any more than you want these callas.” He reached down and grabbed one of the pastries and took a bite. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said as he finished off the callas and grasped the reins. “Hang on there. I’ll have you to the Monteleone in no time.”

  He eased the carriage onto Canal Street, barely missing a wagon loaded with crates heading for the wharf. He couldn’t help but notice the markings on the side indicated they were headed for Baker Shipping.

  Traffic was heavy this time of day, so they moved at a crawl down the wide boulevard. Up ahead he spied the reason. A tangle-up between a wagon and the interurban had produce and chickens covering the width of Canal Street.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rit spied his companion reaching for one of the two remaining callas. He waited until she had a mouthful of pastry, then he leaned over toward her. “This may take a while. What say we get acquainted?”

  She finished the pastry, looking slightly confused. “Acquainted? With the help?”

  The help. His brothers would never believe this.

  His brothers.

  “First names only,” he hurried to say as he realized he might have just opened himself to the kind of trouble he did not want.

  “Why not?” The little lady stuck out her hand. “I am Octavia. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Octavia,” he responded as his big paw enveloped her hand. “You can call me Merritt.”

  “Merritt is a very nice name.”

  “My mother thought so,” he said.

  “Apparently,” she responded, with what he thought just might be the beginnings of a giggle. “You know, these pastries are very good. What do you call them?”

  “Callas.” He nodded to the remaining one. “Go ahead. I’ve had my fill.”

  Unlike Octavia, he’d been traveling by private railcar. And Mama always insisted the Baker railcar be staffed with the best chef and all the food anyone could want. And more.

  “If you’re certain,” she said as her gloved hand inched over and snatched up the callas. “These really are very good. I believe I will like living in New Orleans.”

  Rit slid her a sideways glance. “I sure hope so, ma’am.”

  And for the first time in a very long time, he felt as if someone was really seeing him instead of the heir to Baker Shipping. Or rather the final Baker brother to need a bride before he got his inheritance.

  Chapter 2

  The taxicab driver’s lack of insistence on any further informality offered a slight comfort, which was more than she could say about the frighteningly chaotic world through which they were currently driving. Though the awful smells that blanketed the train station had abated, here on the wide boulevard the sign said was Canal, there were other scents that easily overpowered her.

  “I can see you may be changing your mind about your impre
ssion of New Orleans,” he commented after a few minutes.

  She dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief then tucked it into her sleeve. No longer could she smell the violets. Still, it seemed rude to complain about a fact that this fellow had no ability to change. And he had allowed her two of the delicious pastries.

  “It’s lovely. Truly.”

  Her driver slid her a sideways glance and punctuated it with a broad smile. “Liar.”

  His laughter mingled with hers. “Oh, all right,” she admitted. “I was raised on a ranch, so I am accustomed to certain pungent odors, but nothing like this.”

  “You?” He expertly guided the taxicab around a gathering of buggies and persons and then turned the corner onto a much more narrow street. “I don’t believe it.”

  Though his protest held more interest than disbelief, her ire flamed anyway. “And why is that?”

  “Well, you’re just so. . .” He shook his head. “No. Forget it. I’m just the taxi driver.”

  He pulled the taxicab to a stop in front of an establishment worthy of the nicest street in Denver or New York City and jumped out. The sign above the door declared it to be the Hotel Monteleone.

  “You stay right here, miss, and I’ll go in and see to everything.” He stepped around to the back of the taxicab to lift a trunk as if it were light as a feather.

  Oh my. She’d never been in such close proximity to a man who was handsome and strong.

  He came alongside the buggy and stopped so close she could have reached out and easily touched him. “I don’t see any callas vendors, so you ought to be safe until I come back.” The impertinent driver punctuated the statement with a wink.

  “Oh.”

  Tavia tried—and failed—not to watch him travel the remainder of those steps to disappear inside the ornately trimmed double doors of the hotel. Still, those broad shoulders did heft a trunk with such ease. And the way he moved with such assurance, that those who were walking past gave way to allow him to pass. Then there was that smile.. .and he’d offered it to her, not having any idea who she was or the amount of money she was set to inherit.