Page 2 of The Preacher's Wife
She waited until he had crossed the street and disappeared around the corner. Releasing a breath, she raced back to her room to gather her letter. Shrugging the cloak over her shoulders, she slipped out the front door into the rainy morning. She could stop at the postmaster and be back home without her father ever knowing she had left.
The icy sludge smacked against her ankles as she hurried through the snowy side street. Thankfully, the shops and depots were only a few blocks away. An errant thought drifted through her mind.
You could be on a stage and halfway out of Massachusetts before he realized you were gone.
She hadn’t really considered that. If she were to leave, having a destination would probably be best. The rumors about it being unsafe for women to travel alone were plentiful, and ending up dead just to escape this life of servitude would not be fulfilling her purpose.
Ducking her head, she prayed the Lord would send her a sign of what to do. Then quickly she crossed the street and ducked into the post office.
The small building was warm, and Prudence tried to stifle a cough. The difference in temperature always seemed to make her cough. Though she did not think she was ill, if it persisted, perhaps a trip to the doctor would be in order.
As she waited in line, Prudence glanced over at the two women ahead of her. The first woman had dark hair with streaks of silver and was speaking animatedly to her companion. The other woman was many years older and had an expression of impatience on her face.
Prudence couldn’t help but eavesdrop on their conversation as she stood behind them, pretending to be uninterested but secretly fascinated by their interactions. She loved observing people when they let their guard down and showed their genuine emotions.
“A minister, Ingrid? Truly? And he thinks you are qualified to match him?” The older woman’s voice carried as she eyed her companion.
“Why wouldn’t I be qualified? Marjorie Holstead suggested he write to me. It’s right here in the letter that Weston forwarded. Marjorie sent a letter as well. I know the Holstead family from my travels with Wes to Omaha.”
“But who are you going to match him with, darling? Finding a preacher’s wife is serious business. I doubt anyone would want to travel all the way out to a God-forsaken place just to get married.”
“I’m sure the Lord has a plan, Mamaí. He always does.”
“Are they hoping you find someone here in Boston?”
The woman named Ingrid shrugged. “I don’t know. There are plenty of men needing wives. Perhaps I should make some connections while I’m still here.”
“I’m so glad you came to visit, daughter. Even if it is only for the summer.”
Ah! They were mother and daughter!
“It’s a shame Addison isn’t old enough yet,” Ingrid continued. “She’d make a perfect wife.”
“Don’t even say such things, Ingrid.”
The postmaster reappeared at his counter and cut off their conversation, much to Prudence’s disappointment.
He handed the woman a small package before leaning on the counter. “Here we are, Mrs. Chapman. I apologize for the delay. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Thank you very much. I think that’s everything for us today.” Mrs. Chapman took the package and tucked it into her basket.
Prudence observed the women as they continued their talk while leaving the store. They had been speaking loudly, and their words echoed in her mind. She couldn’t shake off the feeling of guilt for eavesdropping, but she also couldn’t deny that their words had piqued her curiosity. It wasn’t her fault they were speaking loudly enough to be heard throughout the small post office.
A matchmaker.This must be the woman her father was so upset over!
“Can I help you?” the postmaster asked, his tone clearly saying it wasn’t the first time that he had inquired.
“I’ll be right back.” Prudence raced out the door and looked in both directions. Thankfully, the two women were only a few doors down near the small diner that had recently opened.
Prudence hurried to catch up with them, wanting to know more about the man who wrote the letter. Words rushed through her mind as she thought about what she might say.
What was it that the postmaster called her?
Mrs. Chapman.
She practiced the words out loud as she jogged down the street.
“Mrs. Chapman, I am the daughter of a minister, of marrying age, and have no prospects. Can you help me too?”
