A Bride for Donnigan

by Janette Oke

  Donnigan knew that Wallis could read nothing more than his name. He bought papers for show. A slow smile began to touch his lips. If Wallis wasn’t joking, someone else was having fun at his expense.

  “Who showed you?” he asked cautiously. He didn’t want to offend Wallis, but he was sure now that someone had played a mean trick on the man.

  “Lucas. Lucas hisself. He’s sending fer one. Got her all signed up. They’re bringing in a whole shipment of ’em. Be here by fall.”

  Donnigan could not believe his ears. The whole idea was preposterous. No. No, it was worse than that. It was degrading. Inhuman. What man would ever order a wife the same way he would buy an animal for his herd? A kettle for his kitchen? It was totally unacceptable. Unthinkable. Totally.

  “I’m gettin’ my money rounded up now. Almost got enough fer the ticket. You’ve been sayin’ thet you’d like a few hogs—well, I got a couple I’ll sell. Two young sows ready to farrow.”

  He stopped for a breath and Donnigan stared at him, still in disbelief.

  “Well? Ya interested or not? If ya ain’t, I’ll load ’em up and take ’em into town. Someone’ll want ’em.”

  This joke has gone too far, Donnigan was thinking. The man is serious about this and—

  “Well?” prompted Wallis again, and Donnigan pulled his attention back to the query.

  “Sure. Sure,” he responded slowly. “I’m interested. I’ll take ’em—the hogs, that is.”

  “Good,” said Wallis, and Donnigan saw the light in the man’s eyes again. Wallis rubbed his palms together as though he could not wait.

  Donnigan felt sick. What could he say? At least until he had talked with the errant Lucas. But even the thought of Lucas made him shift uneasily. Lucas was not a man for joking around. If it had been Sam Cook or Pete Rawlings who had sold Wallis the bizarre story, Donnigan might have expected such nonsense. But Lucas!

  Suddenly Donnigan knew he had to get to the bottom of the tale. He had to save Wallis from total embarrassment. He rose from his chair.

  “I’d best be going,” he said.

  Wallis looked up from his gravied bread.

  “What’s yer hurry? Ya just got here.”

  “I—I need to ride on into town,” Donnigan said lamely. Then quickly added, “When ya needin’ the money?”

  “By Friday,” responded Wallis. “I want a wife from thet next shipment. They don’t bring in another ’til spring, and I don’t want to go through another long winter talkin’ to myself.”

  Donnigan felt the loneliness of the man pierce his own soul. He understood about talking to oneself. He hadn’t realized Wallis had felt that way, too.

  “By Friday,” he repeated, his mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll have it for you by then.”

  He turned to go, noticing as he did that his coffee cup still held some of the black substance. Would Wallis be offended? Donnigan lifted the cup and drained it with one gulp. It was no longer scalding hot but was still just as bitter. He nodded at Wallis and reached for his Stetson.

  He was about to duck his way out the creaking door when Wallis stopped him in his tracks. “Ya gonna sign up for one?” Wallis quizzed, the excitement in his voice again.

  Donnigan did not even answer the question. He felt sick inside.

  Chapter Three

  Decided

  Kathleen could not have been more shocked. She was aware that Madam had a social life outside the home. Madam kept company with a Mrs. Mercer, who introduced her to woman friends, and supposedly gentlemen as well, but Kathleen had never stopped to think of the possibility of another marriage. She stood now with her mouth open at the announcement from Bridget.

  “Well, don’t stand there letting in all the damp and cold,” Madam scolded, entering the small room from the living area.

  Kathleen moved forward and closed the door. Her eyes studied the face of the woman and she saw a flush in her cheeks. She longed to ask if Bridget had spoken the truth, but her tongue didn’t seem to work.

  “Why do you stand at the door when there is so much to be done? The supper isn’t even—”

  “I just told her about your coming marriage,” interrupted Bridget.

  The older woman stopped and flushed deeper, her eyes beginning to glow by the lamplight. Her hand fluttered nervously to tuck a stray wisp of hair under her day bonnet. But she gave no other response.

  “I—I—” Kathleen did not know what to say. What was she expected to say? “I had no idea,” she finally managed lamely.

  “You are never here to inform,” snipped the woman. “Mr. Withers does his calling by day, and you are always gone.”

  Kathleen was well aware of how her days were spent.

  “He’s a jolly fine old boy,” cut in Edmund, Kathleen’s eight-year-old half brother, as he held out the candy stick that the gentleman had obviously brought him.

  “Watch your tongue,” countered Madam. “You will show more respect.”

  The boy quickly sidestepped the hand that would have cuffed his ear. His eyes danced merrily as he laughed at his mother’s failed, weak effort toward correction, and he left the room, still licking his candy treat.

  “He is pleasant,” Bridget assured her older half sister. “He has even promised that I may go away to the Academy.”

  The thought of Bridget leaving brought an unexpected stab to Kathleen’s heart.

  “Charles is to go off to school, too,” went on Bridget.

  “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Kathleen. It seemed that there had been a whole host of changes in her life in a few brief hours.

  “And we will even be moving,” broke in Charles, who had just entered the room. “To the countryside. I can hardly wait. I do hope I can have my own pony.”

  “Moving?” Kathleen cast a quick glance in the direction of her stepmother.

  The woman just nodded as she began smoothing the lapel of Charles’s jacket. She was always fussing over Charles. Kathleen had long observed that he was his mother’s pet.

  “Moving where?” Kathleen dared to ask.

  “Now you needn’t bother your head none about it,” said the woman, as though all the changes would not affect Kathleen in the least. “Right now we are in need of our supper. We will have plenty of time to discuss the future after we have eaten. Put it on to cook, and while you are waiting you can start the scrubbing. I’ll need my blue dress for tomorrow. It needs freshening. Mind you watch that the color does not run into the white collar.”

  With those words she turned and left the room, shooing her offspring ahead of her.

  Bridget looked back over her shoulder. “I put the meat in the back cupboard,” she called. Kathleen was relieved that the supper items had been purchased.

  At the same time, she felt the anger within her burning her cheeks. Why was she always treated like a—like a common domestic? Quickly Kathleen pushed the anger aside. She should be thankful that she had a family, a home—just as Madam was always reminding her. Daily she saw girls her age who lived totally on the streets. Their lot was not a good one.

  Suddenly her thin coat seemed heavy on her shoulders. She shrugged out of it and hung it on the peg by the back door. Marriage! She had never thought of the possibility. Though she didn’t know why it had not occurred to her. Madam was still a young woman. And she was still appealing—in her own sort of way. Kathleen really should not be surprised to hear that a gentleman friend had proposed marriage to her stepmother.

  Tired and chilled to the bone, she moved to the cupboard and began to prepare the supper vegetables and meat. She wished there was not laundry to do. It had been such a long and difficult day.

  Then a thought came that lifted her spirits somewhat. With the marriage—and the move to the country—she would no longer need to tramp the dull back streets of London each day, calling out her wares. For that much she could be thankful.

  She added coal to the kitchen stove. With the warmth of the fire cooking the evening meal and bending over heated scrub water, she wa
s sure to feel warm again before long. She almost welcomed the thought of plunging her hands into the hot suds. She hastened to get the meat on to cook.

  “I know that Mama said you didn’t know Mr. Withers because you are never home when he calls,” said Bridget after they had retired that night.

  Kathleen nodded silently into the darkness.

  “But do you know what I think?” went on the younger girl. “I think Mama doesn’t want you to know him.”

  Kathleen stirred restlessly.

  “Or—that Mama didn’t want him to know you—I’m not sure which,” went on the young girl candidly.

  “What do you mean?” asked Kathleen.

  “Well, either Mama was afraid that he’d think you pretty or—”

  Kathleen couldn’t believe the girl’s ridiculous statement, but young Bridget hurried on. “Mama has always been jealous of you, you know. Papa often said that you looked like—like your mama, and—well, my mama didn’t like it. She feared he preferred—”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Kathleen cut in quickly.

  “You might say so—but it’s true,” Bridget insisted. And then she added, quite unknowing of how deeply her words hurt her older sister, “But of course she is also ashamed of your limp. She has always been afraid that someone will think you are her child, and she doesn’t want a—a—cripple. She seems to fear that a man will think there is something wrong with her. That she might—might mother another child in—in even worse condition. I think that’s the real reason she made sure that Mr. Withers has never had the opportunity to meet you. She keeps saying to him—oh, I’ve heard her myself, ‘There are four of us. I have three children.’ And she presents us just as though that’s all there are.”

  There was silence.

  “Kathleen? Have you fallen asleep while I’m talking?” Bridget asked into the darkness.

  “No,” came the soft reply.

  “Why don’t you answer?” prompted her half sister.

  “What should I say?” responded Kathleen. Indeed, it seemed that the plans for the future had been made with no thought given to her.

  “When we move—” began Bridget, but Kathleen interrupted.

  “When you move,” she corrected. “Sure now, can’t you see, Bridget? There are no plans for me to move with you.”

  Bridget stirred beside her in the darkness. Kathleen heard the sharp intake of breath and was sure the younger girl had not fully understood the situation before.

  “I won’t go without you,” Bridget declared, her hand reaching out to grasp the arm of Kathleen’s nightgown. “I won’t.” Her voice rose sharply, and Kathleen feared that her outburst would awaken the woman who slept just beyond the thin wall.

  “Sh-h-h,” she cautioned.

  “Well, I won’t.”

  “Sh-h-h,” Kathleen said again, and her own hand went out to rest on the younger girl’s flanneled shoulder.

  “What will you do?” Bridget finally asked, a sob in her voice.

  “I have my job,” said Kathleen with more assurance than she felt.

  “But where would you live?”

  It was a question Kathleen could not answer, but she tried to keep her voice controlled as she responded with seemingly little concern. “There are places. Lots of places.” But even as she said the words, she knew she could afford none of them on a hawker’s pennies.

  “When is the wedding—?” she began.

  “Mama’s? The end of the month. We will stay here until then. I heard Mr. Withers and Mama making their plans. He will send a carriage for our things and on the day of the wedding—”

  But Kathleen wished to hear no more.

  “We must get some sleep,” she told the younger girl. “I was late for work this morning—and I don’t want to be late again. I will need to be up early to get breakfast on.”

  The younger girl did not respond. Kathleen patted her arm in the darkness to let her know that she was not upset with her, then rolled over onto her side to try to get some much-needed sleep.

  The minutes ticked slowly by.

  In the darkness Bridget stirred.

  “Kathleen,” came a whisper at last. “I really meant it. I don’t want to go without you.”

  “You may have no choice,” Kathleen responded without turning over. “Madam gives the orders.”

  As Kathleen lay beneath the blankets, the even breathing of Bridget telling her that the younger girl was asleep, her troubled thoughts would not allow her the luxury. “What will I do? What will I do?” her brain kept repeating. The posting she had seen that morning suddenly intruded on her thinking.

  “If I only had two good legs I wouldn’t hesitate for a minute,” she dared to think. “Surely my situation in the Americas couldn’t become any worse than it is here.”

  But even as she entertained the thoughts, she wasn’t sure of her bold statements. Maybe there were worse situations. At least she had Bridget and Charles and the spoiled young Edmund. At least she had a roof over her head and a warm bed at night. At last sleep claimed her in spite of her troubled thoughts.

  Morning came all too soon, and Kathleen was reluctant to climb from the warm bed and stoke up the fire in order to make the breakfast porridge.

  She was busy in the kitchen when the door opened and Madam herself appeared. She was enveloped in a warm, new-looking robe, her cheeks void of their usual rouge and her hair wrapped in bits of rag curlers.

  “I know you must be wondering about your circumstance,” the older woman began without preamble. “You have two choices. I don’t wish to dictate your fate. After all, you are not my child.” Nor my responsibility hung unspoken but unmistakable in the air between them. She hesitated ever so slightly.

  “If you wish to come with us to the countryside,” she continued, “I’m sure we will be able to find some position for you as household staff. You are quite useful in the kitchen. Mr. Withers would be willing, I am quite sure, to accommodate a—a family serving girl.”

  The words stung Kathleen but she held her tongue.

  “Or—if you wish to remain in London—you have your job. No doubt the baker will allow you to continue to work for him.”

  Kathleen still said nothing—just stirred the porridge round and round with the heavy wooden ladle.

  The woman muffled a yawn. “There,” she said, as if she had discharged all obligations. “It will be up to you.” Then she turned and started from the room.

  “I feel particularly weary this morning,” she said as she left. “I won’t be up for breakfast. Have Charles bring my tea and porridge to my room.”

  Kathleen continued to stir—looking deep into the porridge pot as though searching for an answer to her problem.

  Her feet slowed as she walked by the posting, but she did not intend to stop. She knew the words by heart anyway. “Ladies! The opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Her eyes glanced at the words as she moved to pass by. Then she hesitated. Had it indicated anything about when one must decide? She stopped just long enough to glance over the words one more time to try to catch a date. She saw none.

  Just as she moved away, a man stepped suddenly into her pathway. With a startled exclamation, Kathleen stopped.

  “Are you joining our adventure?” he asked her in an accent Kathleen could not identify.

  “Sure now, and what adventure are you speaking of?” Kathleen responded hesitantly, her voice lilting with her Irish tongue.

  “Why, going to America, Miss—just like the sign says. Wonderful opportunity. Wonderful. And only a couple passage tickets left. If you want one you—”

  “No,” said Kathleen, shaking her head nervously. “No, I’ll not be wanting one.”

  The man stepped forward and reached out a hand to tip her face toward the light from the lamppost. Kathleen felt a moment of panic.

  “It’s a shame,” he said candidly. “A face as pretty as yours would be welcomed in America.”

  Kathleen angrily twisted away from his hand. He see
med to sense her annoyance.

  “Pardon, Miss,” he said, but his words and his tone contradicted each other. “I didn’t mean to offend—just wished to see your face more closely.”

  Kathleen stepped back, her Irish temper quickly cooling.

  “I thought you might be interested,” the man went on as though to excuse himself. “That’s all.”

  “And if I am?” The words had left Kathleen’s mouth before she even knew she would say them.

  “If you are—then come into my office and we’ll talk about it.”

  “I’m lame!” Kathleen spat out, her anger flaring again. “I’m lame. No man—even in the Americas—would wish a lame bride, and that’s the truth now.”

  But the man seemed not to notice her angry words. Instead, he studied her flushed face and sparkling eyes, and a smile crossed his features.

  “Why don’t you come in for a minute and we’ll—”

  “I’m a cripple!” she shouted at him again, and moved to pass the man. “See for yourself, sir,” she flung back over her shoulder. And she began to clump her way, exaggerating her limp in order to convince the man.

  “And what’s a little limp?” the man called after her. “In America we allow people to be—different. We are all lame—in one fashion or another.”

  Kathleen wheeled to give him a piece of her mind, but she saw that he was not teasing her. His face looked serious. His hand was stretched out to her. Her rage subsided in spite of herself.

  She stopped, swallowed, and took a deep breath.

  “And when does this ship sail?” she asked almost in a whisper.

  “In a fortnight” he answered.

  Kathleen held her breath.

  “I already have nineteen fine young women like you signed for the voyage. I need two more to fill the offers I have from America,” the man continued in an encouraging voice.

  “Nineteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Kathleen could scarcely believe that nineteen young ladies had already laid their futures in this man’s hands. Had the short, plump girl called Erma joined Peg in adding her name to the list?