by Stacy Henrie
Carmela Domeneca Rosalia Callemi placed her hands on her hips and restrained herself from yelling at the two flour-covered boys in the tiny kitchen. The young boys blinked up at her, their large brown eyes wide with fear. Their dark mops of curly hair were speckled with the flour, and the white stuff also covered their faces, arms, hands, and likely other parts of their small bodies that were not currently visible to Carmela. She should yell; she should swat their behinds, but instead, her mouth twitched. Then laughter bubbled up.
The boys glanced at each other and grinned, looking like matching ghosts. They would not get a walloping— that they knew now— for their auntie was laughing too hard.
Carmela wiped the tears from her eyes then sighed. “You two. Will you ever live a day in which you don’t create some sort of chaos?”
Although, life is chaos, Carmela thought. Absolute chaos since she’d arrived with her widowed brother and his two boys in America. When Paulo’s wife had died of smallpox on their little vineyard in northern Italy, Paulo had said that he couldn’t live in Italy one day longer and breathe the air his dead wife should be breathing too. Then he’d begged Carmela to come with him, to start anew and look after her nephews.
Carmela hadn’t needed much convincing. She loved her nephews, yes, but the small village she’d lived in her whole life had been absolutely stifling. Her three friends were all married with babies on the way.
But it was like Carmela had the plague: not one man had ever turned his eye toward her. No man had ever proposed. She was plain. Outspoken. Laughed too loud. And was perhaps a bit strong-willed. All attributes that leant one to be an excellent childminder, but perhaps not attributes that made up a sweet, biddable wife.
“Auntie,” Simon said, tugging at her skirt, imprinting the well-worn cotton with a bit of flour. “Zia, abbiamo fame.”
Carmela smiled down at Simon. “English please,” she said. They’d been in America six months, and Carmela had insisted that the boys learn English with her as quickly as possible. At home, and especially around their father, they often resorted to Italian.
“We’re hungry,” Simon repeated.
“I’ll bet you are,” Carmela said, feeling another laugh bubble up. “Is that why you wanted to make bread?”
Simon glanced over at his brother then nodded.
“Well, let’s clean up, and then we’ll go out and buy a loaf,” she said. She didn’t know if they had enough flour, anyway. She’d have to buy more on the way home. The thought of spending precious coins made her wince.
Simon’s eyes widened at Carmela’s suggestion. It would be a treat indeed.
Quicker than she had thought possible, the boys helped her clean up, and they were out the door, stepping onto the bustling streets of Boston. The day felt stifling, though it was almost sundown. The boys skipped ahead, laughing and teasing each other in a mixture of English and Italian that Carmela was sure only they understood.
As they passed along the wooden sidewalk, every so often, the boys would stop to watch a pair of horses pulling a wagon or a carriage. The boys loved horses and missed them from the vineyard. But this wasn’t a luxury their father could afford. Besides, there was nowhere to keep a horse.
Then the boys stopped at a shop window and pressed their hands and faces to it, entranced by the window display of candies and baked goods. The smells emitting from the bakery were heavenly indeed.
Carmela caught up with them. Cookies and sweet rolls and pies and cakes were sitting prominently in the window, enough to make anyone’s mouth water. In the lower corner of the window, she noticed that someone had pasted an advertisement that read:
MAIL ORDER BRIDES! The Seymour Agency is seeking women of intelligence and good moral character, educated, and thoroughly versed in housekeeping. We have select men of good appearance and substantial means, who are in want of a wife to share their western homesteads with. Please inquire at the Seymour Agency on Thursdays between the hours of 1:00 and 5:00 in the afternoon. Approved applicants will be permitted to open correspondence with a gentleman.
Carmela found herself laughing at the audacity of the advertisement. Did the agency think that a woman would agree to marry a man over a few exchanged letters— sight unseen? she wondered. What happened when the woman climbed off the train to find that her intended had a crooked nose and broken teeth, not to mention a huge mustache and unruly beard?
“Carmela!” a woman’s voice singsonged its way into Carmela’s thoughts.
She turned, knowing it was Ruthie, the red-headed, blue-eyed Irish girl who was mad about her brother. Good thing he doesn’t go for the short, freckled type of girl, Carmela thought, not to mention the one girl in all of the world who had a laugh louder than herself.
“Hello, Ruthie.”
“Oh, you’ve got Paulo’s boys,” Ruthie said, stating the obvious. She ruffled both of the boys’ heads, and they ducked beneath her touch. But Ruthie didn’t seem to notice.
“Going to the bakery?” Ruthie asked, again stating the obvious.
“Yes,” Carmela said. “We’ve seemed to have run out of flour.” The boys giggled, and she hid a smile.
“I’ll come in with you,” Ruthie said, linking arms with Carmela.
Carmela supposed that she should think more kindly of Ruthie, but the woman was too bossy. And, with Carmela being bossy as well, it just didn’t work.
She quickly bought a loaf of bread then hurried out of the shop. But Ruthie was right behind them.
“Oh, is this what you were reading?” Ruthie said, tugging on Carmela’s arm. Slowly, she turned to see Ruthie pointing to the poster. “A couple of my friends have gone through that agency, and now they live in huge mansions in Montana.”
Huge mansions, huh? Carmela thought as she folded her arms. “Do their husbands have all their teeth?”
Ruthie screwed up her face. “What?” Then she laughed. “Oh, you’re trying to be funny. Paulo told me about that.”
Paulo had told Ruthie what? Carmela wondered.
“It’s a viable option,” Ruthie said.
Carmela wasn’t sure what viable meant, but she could very well guess.
“I mean, how old are you now?” Ruthie narrowed her eyes as if she were trying to guess Carmela’s age. “Aren’t you older than Paulo?”
“She’s twenty-eight,” Simon spoke up.
Maybe I shouldn’t have taught him English after all, Carmela thought.
But Ruthie’s bright blue eyes grew brighter. “Oh. You’re on your way…” She smiled down at the boys. “I mean…” For once, Ruthie was at a loss for words.
Carmela took full advantage of this. “Come along, boys,” she said. “We best get home and fix supper before your father returns.”
Chapter Two
The night was blacker than usual when Carmela awakened. The moon that had shone into the tiny bedroom must now be covered with clouds, she decided. What had awakened her? Then she heard scuffling and a… giggle?
Carmela was wide awake in an instant. She climbed out of bed, her heart pounding as she clutched her nightgown closed at the neck. She heard another giggle, followed by a sound of hushing.
Carmela’s stomach tightened. If this was what she thought it was… She opened her bedroom door and stepped out into the short hallway that led to the kitchen. The oil lamp was on in the kitchen, creating a cozy glow. It took only three steps to come into full view of Ruthie, perched on the edge of the table with Paulo standing in front of her. Ruthie had wrapped her arms about Paulo’s neck, and Paulo was kissing Ruthie— on her lips, on her neck— and was moving down to her gaping bodice.
“Carmela! Holy heavens! You scared me!” Paulo said, pulling away from Ruthie so quickly that she almost fell off the table.
Carmela’s mouth opened, and a dozen reprimands fought for a way through, but nothing came out. She was speechless for, perhaps, the first time in her life.
“It’s not what you think,” Ruthie said, sliding off the table, smoothing her ski
rt, and buttoning her bodice.
“Don’t treat me like a fool,” Carmela said, her words coming fast now. “You are a fool, Paulo Callemi. You have two little boys, who think the world of you. You are in a new country with barely a cent to your name, and now you are with this… hussy!”
Ruthie gasped, her face growing as red as her hair. “Paulo, don’t let her call me that.”
Now Paulo’s face was turning red, and he folded his arms, which were made strong by the mill work he did six days a week. “I’m going to marry Ruthie,” he said. “And nothing you can say will stop me.”
Ruthie gasped again then practically threw herself at Paulo, wrapping her thin freckled arms about his tanned neck. He turned his face and kissed her.
Carmela’s stomach roiled. Ruthie was so… so different than Paulo’s beloved first wife, Francesca. Francesca had been tall, willowy, dark-haired, golden-skinned, and soft-spoken. Carmela turned away, her eyes burning with tears of shame. If her brother was happy, who was she to interfere? Yet, her heart ached with a fierceness she couldn’t explain. Had she thought she would live the rest of her life with Paulo and his two boys in this tiny apartment?
She turned away from the kissing couple, now completely oblivious to her in their new rush of felicitations for each other. Then she walked back to her room and burrowed under the thrice-patched quilt, her mind oddly turning to the advertisement pasted to the bakery window. When she’d first read it, she had thought mail order marriages were only things for desperate women— and perhaps they still were— except for now, Carmela was desperate herself.
Chapter Three
Leadville, Colorado
“God rest his soul,” Reverend Stanley said, then he replaced his black hat and stepped back from the gaping hole that now housed the coffin of Gideon Butler, the older brother of Samuel Butler.
Samuel blinked his eyes against the dry wind. His brother was good and buried now, and Samuel should be grieving, but he wasn’t. Gideon Butler had been a hard-drinking, foul-tempered man as long as Samuel could remember. At Samuel’s age of twenty-five, there seemed to be a mile between him and his brother, Gideon, who had been thirty-five on the day of his demise two short days ago.
His death had involved a drunken brawl, three pistols, one woman, and— as rumors had circulated— a bag of silver. Although, the silver had never surfaced. Yet, Samuel wouldn’t discount the rumors of silver. After all, Leadville was a booming silver-mine town, filled with men coming from the East and the West to find their fortunes. Ownership of a bag of silver was something you could live… and die by.
Samuel snorted at this thought, drawing the attention of the handful of mourners at his brother’s graveside. One man sported a shiner, and two of the women looked like they’d spent all night in the tavern. And, knowing the company that Gideon had kept, Samuel could readily assume that these women lived in the nefarious quarters above the tavern.
The reverend crossed to Samuel and stuck out a large, beefy hand. “So sorry, Mr. Butler. Will we see you at services tomorrow?”
The reverend’s words were about as subtle as Samuel had ever heard from the preacher. And, with all the effort that he’d put into this respectable ceremony for such a disrespectable man, perhaps Samuel owed the reverend something. It wasn’t that Samuel was against churchgoing folks but he knew if he shut down his blacksmith shop for even a few hours on Sunday, he’d lose too much business. He had to be open when the customers demanded it.
“I’m training an assistant,” Samuel said. “So, that will give me more time to see to things such as church services by and by.”
“Good to hear,” the reverend said in a soft voice, patting Samuel on the shoulder as if he were a small child needing the comfort. “We’ll look forward to that day soon.”
Samuel just nodded. The sooner this farce of a service is over, the better, he thought. He would never proclaim that he was even near perfect, and he certainly wasn’t a churchgoing man. But, wasn’t there something against a rotten-through-and-through sinner being buried on holy ground?
Of course, Samuel thought, looking over the lumps of dirt and grass that made up the Leadville Cemetery, this ground doesn’t look too hallowed.
The distant sound of a train whistle brought Samuel’s mind back to the present. He’d spent enough time away from his shop for this death business, and he had to get back. The arrival of a train from the East always brought the Leadville citizens into town— and their horses. He couldn’t afford to miss any opportunities… not if he wanted to turn his two-room shack into an actual home.
Granted, his place was better than a shack but not much bigger. He’d put in for another acre of land as well. He just had to wait until the bank approved the loan. Samuel figured that, by this time next year, he would be the owner of a decent parcel south of town, would have an apprentice or two, and would live in a home— something that his older brother Gideon had never aspired to.
Five years ago, when the brothers had found themselves orphans and when Gideon had followed Samuel from Boulder, where they had grown up, Samuel had tried to be patient, hoping that Gideon would change his ways in a new town. Although Gideon was hired at the Dawson Silver Mine, his employment was always on the verge of being terminated due to his perpetual drunkenness.
The only misgiving that Samuel had now about his brother as he walked away from Gideon’s lonely grave was that, just a few weeks ago, Gideon had told Samuel that he had a surprise for him, that he was changing his ways, and that he was going to become respectable.
Samuel shook his head at the memory. He never did find out what Gideon had meant or if the man had even been serious. Perhaps it was just one of Gideon’s many drunken promises, Samuel thought. Although, at the time, Samuel had heard sincerity in Gideon’s voice.
The walk from the church house to his blacksmith shop was short. By the time Samuel arrived, he spotted a tall, red-haired man waiting for him. Mr. Brown was his name, although it belied his appearance. Brown had a filly with a crude rope tied around its neck, which looked like she’d been wild just moments ago. The gray coat of the horse shone in the midday light, promising that a good brushing down would make her a beauty.
“Where’d you get this beauty?” Samuel asked, walking up to the filly and stroking her nose.
“Bought it off Parker,” Brown said, showing a gap-toothed smile. “Need to get her shoed.”
“I’ll get right to it,” Samuel said. “You can pick her up in an hour.”
Brown nodded. As he left, Samuel took a few minutes to stroke the horse, calming her down and assuring her that he’d take good care of her.
“Mr. Butler?” a woman said, her accent sounding foreign.
Someone from off the train, Samuel thought, probably asking directions. Without looking up, he answered, “That’s me.”
“Mr. Gideon Butler?” the woman said again, her voice more insistent this time.
Samuel looked up and met a pair of hazel eyes beneath the darkest lashes he’d ever seen. The woman wore a deep green satin dress, dusty at the hem, with a too small bodice… not that he was noticing. These types of women were off-limits for him. He wouldn’t be distracted by members of the opposite sex with rosy cheeks and painted lips. Maybe one day, when he had his acres, his finished home, and his thriving business, he’d consider finding himself a wife. It might be easier now without the constant presence of his drunken brother.
“Uh. Gideon’s my brother,” Samuel said.
The woman brought a handkerchief to her nose as if she couldn’t bear the stench of the blacksmith’s quarters. Samuel knew that the stench wasn’t him or, at least, not all him.
“Oh,” the woman said, lowering her handkerchief, her face breaking out into a smile, a smile that froze time.
Then Samuel’s heart restarted. So, he wasn’t immune to a beautiful woman. This one, though, must have missed Gideon’s funeral… probably engaged elsewhere.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” the woman
said, blinking up at him.
She was tall for a woman and not in the least demure, he decided. He supposed that she’d have to be quite congenial for her line of work. But, when she stuck out her hand to shake his, he paused. This was new.
“D— do I know you?” Samuel had never stuttered a day in his life.
“Not yet,” the woman said with a laugh. “But I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”
Samuel fought for normal breath as he briefly shook her hand. Leadville, Colorado, was high in the mountains, yet he’d become accustomed to its thin air within days of their arrival. But it seemed that this woman had brought an extra dose of thin air with her. Should he cut her off now, or let her down gently? With the demise of his brother, she was probably short a client now.
“I’m afraid that I can’t help you, miss,” he said, although the woman did look older than the young things that Gideon had usually spent his time with. She tilted her head, the first look of confusion crossing those beautiful… those eyes.
“Is Gideon not here, then?” she asked. She took a small step to the side and peered around Samuel as if she expected to see Gideon inside the blacksmith shop.
The thought of it made Samuel laugh. The woman gave him a strange look, but Samuel couldn’t help it. He didn’t think that Gideon had even known where his shop was when he was alive, let alone ever worked in it. Gideon was about as comfortable around horses as a child was with a set of straight pins.
“You’re looking for Gideon?” Samuel said slowly, his words trying to catch up with hers.
“Yes. Isn’t that what I said?” The woman’s gaze returned to Samuel, and the only way he could describe her expression was perturbed.
“And you are?” he asked.
Then the woman’s smile was back as if she had been hoping he would ask her that very question.
“Why, my name is Carmela Domeneca Rosalia Callemi,” she said.
Her smile was almost angelic, Samuel decided. He kept his eyes firmly on her face as she took a deep breath in that too tight bodice. Then she added, “And I’m Gideon’s mail order bride.”