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Mackinac (Great Lakes Romances) (Volume 1)

By Donna Winters

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CHAPTER 1
Mackinac Island — 1895

Pressing against the bow rail of the Algomah, twenty-year-old Victoria Whitmore held her straw hat in place over neatly coiled hair. The ferry’s engine vibrated gently beneath her feet, pulsing through her as though she were a part of the vessel. Amidships, black clouds of coal smoke from the tall stack spiced the air.
A throng of passengers either side of Victoria lined the rail. The nearest appeared to be an old seaman with a shaggy salt and pepper beard.
“How do, miss? Fine day to be on the straights.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” She smiled politely despite her uneasy stomach.
“My name’s Scotty. And you are?”
“Miss Whitmore. Victoria Whitmore.”
“Like I said, fine day to be on the straights. I been crossing these waters some six decades now. Most o’ my friends are gone from the lakes now, stayin’ on shore. Not me. I don’t work as much as I used to, but I still lend a hand when the Algomah is runnin’.”
“I suppose you’ve been to Mackinac Island dozens of times.” Though reluctant to encourage the man, Victoria needed to think about something besides her queasiness. The overnight train ride from Grand Rapids, the too-rich cream served with oatmeal at breakfast in the elegant dining car, and her dread of demanding payment from her father’s past due customer had wreaked havoc with her stomach.
“Been to the island many a time, hundreds, even, since I was a boy o’ six. This your first trip over?” His bushy brow rose to deepen the grooves in his weathered forehead.
Victoria nodded.
“Thought so. Don’t like ferries much, do you, Miss Whitmore?”
“I’m afraid not, Scotty.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but she needn’t discuss her father’s finances with a mere stranger.
“Fair sailin’ today. This is ’bout the calmest these waters get. Pretty soon, the cap’n ’l1 ease this old gal in at the dock so gentle you’ll hardly know we’re there.”
She gazed in the direction of Mackinac Island and tried to remain patient as the emerald blur in the distance grew distinct. On its southern shore, Haldimand Bay opened along graceful curves beneath a brilliant sun which cut multi-faceted diamonds into quiet waters. The shimmering surface rippled behind a canoe, and a luxurious private yacht trailing a tiny dinghy left a trail of gentle waves ebbing toward shore.
“Have you ever seen a prettier sight than that sailboat yonder?” Scotty pointed across the harbor. “She’s a double-masted Mackinac boat flyin’ gaff-rigged mainsails and a triangular jib. Makin’ good time today, too, with our steady northeasterly breeze. And look there.” He indicated a long, white wall on shore. “Old Fort Mackinac. Over to the right, at the top o’ the ramp, is the South Sally Port, and to the left o’ that, the officers’ quarters.
The bright sun made the limestone fortress high atop the imposing East Bluff glow softly. The pristine white structures and fancy summer homes nearby peered down on a shoreline jammed with hotels and storehouses, shanties and fishnet dryers, and a series of docks jutting out into the water.
“I used to like watchin’ the soldiers drill on the parade field at Fort Mackinac, but they’re mostly gone now. Less than a dozen men left to keep watch. Won’t be the same on the island without ’em,” he lamented. “You be sure and take a look at the fort while you’re on the is-land, though, Miss Whitmore. And don’t neglect Arch Rock, ’n Sugarloaf, ’n Holmes Observatory.”
“They all sound interesting, but I’m not sure I’ll have time.” She pointed to a long, white edifice coming clear-er into view west of the fort. “That must be Grand Hotel.”
“Aye. Sure ’nough ’tis. Grand Lady o’ the island, I like to call her.”
Above the shoreline’s collection of mismatched struc-tures, the hotel stood like a proud queen on the throne of a grassy hill. Her long rows of windows looked out over the comings and goings of the harbor below. Victoria trembled with nervous anticipation at the thought of de-manding payment from the hotel manager of his long overdue account with her father’s furniture factory. Her trepidation only worsened when the ferry nudged the dock, despite the ease of contact Scotty had predicted.
“Well, Miss Whitmore, I’ll be on my way now. You have a nice vacation.”
“I’ll surely try.” If only she didn’t have to collect that past due payment . . .
Touching his hand to his cap, the old mariner disappeared in the crowd on the deck.
She descended the gangway in close company of an obviously love-struck young couple. Honeymooners, for certain. Marriage, romance, and gentlemen callers had been far from her mind the past four years. Since her mother’s death all her energies focused on one thing only—keeping her father’s furniture manufactory running in the black.
Pulling her skirt in close, Victoria threaded a path past casks and crates, barrels and hogsheads, kegs and chests lining the bustling pier where the stench of fish competed with the odor of manure to taint the balmy air. On a neighboring dock, a steam engine hissed loudly, working a derrick to load coal onto a waiting steamer. Along the waterfront, wagons and drays jockeyed noisily for pier-side positions. She stepped deftly around mounds of hay-flecked, fly-infested excrement, making her way to a line of waiting wagons and hacks, confident her luggage would be transferred by one of the drays belonging to Grand Hotel as the ticket agent had promised.
“Hudson’s Tours, finest coaches on the island!” One of the drivers called to her.
“Ride with Dependable Dan, and see Mackinac in safety and comfort! How ’bout it, miss? Take you past Robinson’s Folly, Arch Rock, and Sugarloaf. Then ’round to Holmes Observatory and on over to the fort. There, you can feast your eyes on the most bee-you-tee-full scenery in the Midwest.” He whipped off his hat with a sweeping motion toward his rig.
Victoria hesitated, and then spotted a two-horse rig with the words Grand Hotel emblazoned on the side. “No, thank you, sir. I’ve found my carriage.”
She hurried toward the tall, brawny driver standing beside the team of the hotel conveyance. His fair cheeks with rosy splotches exuded a gentle look in spite of his size and the formal appearance of his fine livery. Patting his mare’s nose, he smiled and slipped her a lump of sugar, and then offered the gelding beside her the same. When he faced Victoria, he hooked a thumb beneath his suspenders, stretched tightly over the curve of his large belly.
“Bound for Grand Hotel?” His cheerful tone lifted her spirits.
“Yes, sir.”
He gave her a hand up to the empty second seat. “There’s a few more coming, then we’ll be off. M’ name’s Big John.”
Victoria settled onto the polished leather upholstery. “I’m Miss Victoria Whitmore.”
“Pleased to make y’r acquaintance.” He touched the brim of his straw hat. “I trust you’ll enjoy y’r stay.”
Victoria smiled pleasantly. No point explaining she had not come seeking enjoyment.
Within minutes the surrey had filled with passengers. Big John’s horses progressed nimbly through the congested Main Street traffic and up the long incline of busy Cadotte Avenue, reluctant to pull over and let a trap pass. Sitting pretty beneath her parasol on the rig, an elegantly ruched, flounced, and bonneted society matron reclined, accompanied by several similarly costumed friends.
Big John touched the brim of his hat in deference to the passing entourage and then spoke over his shoulder to his passengers. “That’s Mrs. Palmer, queen bee o’ Chicago society, ’n some o’ her friends, likely on their way to a luncheon somewhere. She’s just about the most charming lady ever to visit Mackinac Island. Why, I heard tell she even charmed Congress out of thirty-six thousand dollars for the Women’s Building at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago two years back.”
Victoria chuckled to herself. She had read about how Bertha Honore Palmer had ensured the success of Chicago’s World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893 by traveling to Europe beforehand to solicit participation in the event. Victoria’s attempt to view the woman from behind was rewarded with a glimpse of nothing more than her pale pink parasol.
Moments later, Big John followed the curve to the left at the Grand Hotel, passing in front of its portico, which ran the entire length of the establishment, and stopping beneath the porte cochѐre.
“Here y’ be, folks.” He jumped down and held Victoria’s elbow as she alighted from the carriage.
“Thank you kindly, John.” She handed him a tip.
“And thank you, Miss Whitmore.” He assisted the others, then climbed aboard again, clucked to his team and drove off.
If only she were going with him. Instead, she must face the task she had been dreading for days.

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