Hazel's Mail Order Joy (Home for Christmas Book 4)

by Annie Boone

The recollection made Hazel smile. How was Minnie managing now that all of the responsibilities of running a home were on her shoulders? Minnie was the sort of person who would set herself to a task that needed to be done and she would get it done. Clara was just as determined and effective, but Minnie employed a different manner in accomplishing her goals.

  It would be lovely to be with Minnie again. Hazel wondered what her sister's husband was like, this Gavin Clifford, who had made no predication of ever being more than a man willing to work hard. A rumination which, naturally, brought Hazel’s thoughts back to the mystery of her own husband-to-be, Harley Wyatt. What would he think of her? Hazel hesitated just a moment over that question. The Ellis sisters were accounted great beauties and for that reason, Hazel hoped that he would find her appealing in appearance. Hazel took after the appearance of her blonde-haired, green-eyed mother, and she had not lacked for beaux in the times when no society ball could be regarded as a success unless the Ellis sisters were invited.

  But beauty could not scrub a floor, or sew a seam, or cook a meal. And her talents in those areas were not of a quality that would be likely to impress. What if he had a mother who managed all of the housewifely tasks with superior skill? How would that make Hazel appear in comparison? Would she seem to be a very paltry choice of wife, after all?

  A mother-in-law! This was something Minnie had not prepared her for. Harley Wyatt’s letter had not mentioned a mother in residence, Hazel recalled. Perhaps his parents did not live on his ranch. Perhaps they had their own. Or perhaps, she thought with hope, they lived in another state entirely and it was Harley Wyatt who had left his home to venture West. That would be the best option, she thought. There would be no one else’s expectations to measure up to.

  Except her husband’s. He was thirty years old. By thirty, men were already settled in their ways. They knew what they wanted, they were aware of what was their due, and they were experienced. Suddenly, Hazel’s thoughts veered away from that realization. She could not help her husband’s past. He had written in his letter that he was a Christian and temperate. Surely that meant that he obeyed the Ten Commandments and heeded the scriptures. Still, she knew that men had different rules by which they lived. Father was a faithful man and had never looked at another woman after marrying Betsy, but that did not mean that he had lived as a hermit before his marriage.

  What if Harley Wyatt had loved another woman? What if he had been married before and widowed? What if there was another presence at the ranch, the memory of a lost and beloved wife? How could she possibly hope to compete with such a woman?

  “Is anything the matter, ma’am?” the porter inquired. “You’re barely touching your food.”

  “No, I— it’s quite fine. Very fine. In fact,” she said, picking up her fork again to demonstrate how pleasing the meal was to the palate. “I wonder if your chef would share his recipes with me? You see, I am going to be married and I would like to bring these meals with me, so that I may prepare them in my new home.”

  “I’ll ask him, miss, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to oblige.”

  That was what she would do, Hazel resolved. She would write down all of the recipes for the meals she had made at home in Boston, and then the ones from the dining car chef. She would be sure that when she was in her own kitchen, despite her deficiencies in other aspects, her husband would know he could count on delicious meals.

  She dedicated herself to that aim for the rest of the journey, recording the recipes that the chef was quite happy to provide, and remembering the meals she had made for her family. Did the people of Colorado eat chowder, she wondered? Did they eat anything but beef? No doubt there were many meals that she could prepare with beef. Perhaps the chef would be so kind as to offer her ideas on ways to prepare it.

  The chef, flattered at her interest, was indeed willing to impart his knowledge to the pretty Bostonian young lady who listened to his words with such steadfast attention. He let her come back into the kitchen so that she could see how the food was prepared. Hazel was astounded at how much work went into providing meals for a dining car full of passengers. Everything was made on the railroad car, she learned. Fresh fish and meat were brought into the kitchen when the train made its stops along the way.

  The chef had more recipes for pie than she imagined possible and she wrote down each one as if she were a student and he the teacher.

  “That man of yours, miss, the one you goin’ to marry, he’s sure lucky to have a woman like you who’s so set on keeping him happy in his stomach,” Chef Antoine said, as Hazel made ready to leave the kitchen so that he could proceed with directing the kitchen in the preparation of the next meal.

  “I hope so,” Hazel said, blushing at the compliment. “I shall try my best.”

  “Miss, a lady as pretty as you, all she need do is put a plate on the table. A man lookin’ at you, he won’t care a fig what’s on it.”

  Hazel’s blush deepened from pink to red. “You are very kind to say so, but you see, I have never been west and I do not know what sort of wife I need to be.”

  “Why, you just be a good wife,” said the man. His uniform was snow-white against his dark skin and his tall chef’s hat gave height to his small frame. He ruled the kitchen like a monarch and his kitchen help rushed to do his bidding, but he never raised his voice.

  “Are you married?” Hazel asked suddenly. He was very kind. No doubt he was a good husband.

  A look of sadness entered the man’s dark eyes. “I was. My wife and I, we came north after freedom. But she took sick a few years ago and passed on to the bosom of Abraham. I didn’t much like being alone, y’see, and my children, they have their own lives. So I took to working for the railroad. Didn’t know a whole lot ‘bout cooking when I started, but I sure did know about eatin’, thanks to my Dorothy,” he laughed heartily at the memory. “Pretty soon, I got to be a chef.”

  “I hope that I may one day cook as well as you do,” Hazel said.

  “Oh, miss, mind what I tell you. That man of yours, he’s not goin’ to care what you’ve served when he’s got you sittin’ across from him.”

  It was very kind of him to say, but Hazel doubted that any man, no matter how besotted, would be satisfied with an unpalatable meal for very long. No, she must be the very best cook that she could be, so that there was at least one part of being a wife where she could succeed.

  She must always be as attractive as she could be, Hazel resolved that night as she lay in her berth, her mind too active for sleep to come. She had brought many of her dresses, and even though they were no longer in the peak of fashion, she would always look her best. Her hair would always be styled so that it was, as the Bible said, her crowning glory. Harley Wyatt would be proud to have her at his side. She would be gracious and polite, as Mother had taught the girls, and she would dress herself with distinction. Even with a wardrobe that had no new Paris creations in it, her dresses were well made and she could take confidence in that. Her hats, too, while no longer in the latest mode, were exquisitely made. Surely it took a bit of time for fashions from the East to travel so far West, so perhaps her hats would not seem to be so out of date. How long it had been since she or any of her sisters had gotten a new hat, Hazel wondered, hungry for the accessory which put a bedazzling finish to any gown.

  On the day the train was due to arrive in Newton, Colorado, Hazel took painstaking care with her dress. She selected a pink and gray dress with one of her favorite hats, pink to match her dress, with pink netting at the back and white beading upon the crown of the hat. Mother had always said that pink was an excellent color for blondes, provided that they maintained a good complexion, a trait shared by all her daughters. With her hat and gloves and dress, she looked as if she were on her way to a Boston engagement, she thought, as she studied her reflection in the mirror. She wanted to make the very best impression that she could so that, as soon as he saw her, Harley Wyatt would be certain that he had made the right decision in choosing her to be his wife
.

  She had just left her berth when Chef Antoine appeared. “Miss Ellis,” he said formally, “I didn’t want you to leave until I gave you something here.”

  In his hands, he held a collection of small, cloth-wrapped packages. “I don’t know what you’ll find when you get where you’re going, miss,” he said, “but here’s spices to take with you. The recipes I give you use these and you’ll find that man of yours, he’ll be likin’ what’s on that plate almost as much as he likes lookin’ at what’s sitting across from him.”

  Hazel took the little wrapped items into her hands. “Why, how kind you are,” she said warmly. “I shall never forget this kindness.”

  He bowed his head. “Good luck, miss; God looks out for those who have a good heart and the Lord will do right by you.”

  Hazel was heartened by his words. She put the packets of spices into the carpetbag that she carried with her. The rest of her luggage would be unloaded onto the baggage car.

  She stepped off the train into a vista. The blue sky was close to the ground, as if there were no impediments to the bond between the two realms of nature, with sunshine, bright and pure, liberally spreading its rays on the scenery. In Massachusetts, industrial progress meant that the sky was home to soot and dust from the factories, but here, there were no mills to interrupt the communion between the ground and the light.

  She put her hand to her eyes to block out the powerful sun, looking up and down the platform for her husband-to-be, for surely he would be here to greet her. Then she saw Minnie, grinning hugely, her arms outstretched. Behind her was a smiling, black-haired man, but he wasn’t Harley Wyatt. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, but she did. He must be her brother-in-law, Gavin Clifford, Minnie’s husband. He looked as if he were a nice man and not at all rustic and uncivilized like the cowboys one heard of in penny dreadful lore.

  But where was Harley Wyatt, and why, on this day of all days, had he failed to appear to welcome her?

  3

  Mr. Clifford’s explanation made sense. Harley Wyatt was not at the train station because he was still on the cattle drive. He always went out early, Mr. Clifford said, as if this were part of a sequence of events which would be logical to Hazel. She nodded attentively, despite having no notion of what difference it made when a rancher drove his cattle to wherever they were to go.

  “You’ll stay with us,” Minnie told her when all of Hazel’s belongings had been loaded into the wagon and they were leaving the town. That was very good news and Hazel found her spirits lifting. Time spent with Minnie would give her the courage she needed when it came time to meet her future husband.

  It was a very small town, Hazel could not help but notice. She had never been in a town so small, except, perhaps, when the Ellises had visited the French countryside some years ago and stopped at a little inn in a picturesque village which laid claim to very few houses. This little town was busy, but its streets were not paved and the packed dirt of the streets kicked up dust whenever footsteps walked on the surface. There was an undeniable odor of cattle throughout the town.

  It was a different smell from the odor which rose above the cities of Massachusetts on hot summer days, when the factories spewed out their clouds of discolored smoke. In all, Hazel decided, cattle were a preferable smell. They were, at least, emblematic of nature. She must accustom herself to the scent of the cattle if she were to live on a ranch, she decided.

  She had brought lavender with her, and had intended to use it as a fragrance for her clothes and to keep moths away. Perhaps she would need to put it in the rooms of the ranch as well. Lavender was the scent associated with Mother, it was her favorite scent. It would be a comfort to have even that intimation of Betsy in the house with her.

  Mr. Clifford was agreeable to riding past the Wyatt ranch so that Hazel could see the spread where she would be living when she would be Mrs. Wyatt. It was enormous, dauntingly so. Mr. Clifford explained that the Wyatt acreage was so vast that although his address was Darby, Colorado, his ranch was not at all far, in Western terms, to Newton. He seemed to think this was impressive, but as she looked upon ranch she felt a qualm of apprehension. How would she feel in the unfamiliar architecture of a structure designed to suit a different habitat, in the barn and the stables and the broad stretch of clearing where the livestock spent their days. This was an enormous residence. No one in Boston owned such a great . . . what had Mr. Clifford called it? A spread. And a spread it was, spreading across the horizon with what seemed almost arrogance, testifying to the wealth and ambition of this stranger, Harley Wyatt, who was to be her husband.

  It was a relief when they arrived at the small, neatly constructed cabin where Minnie and her husband lived. There was a barn, and grazing land, and a garden, but they were simply parts of a home, not an empire. Hazel praised the bright curtains at the windows and the fresh flowers in jars on the windowsills, which gave such a welcoming atmosphere to newcomers. Her bedroom, where she would be staying while waiting for Harley Wyatt to return from the cattle drive, was small and clean. When her nostrils caught the scent of lavender, she smiled, knowing that Minnie, too, had brought this with her so that Mother would be with them in their thoughts.

  She was happy to help Minnie prepare a meal when her sister confessed that her kitchen skills were sadly lacking. As they cooked, Minnie told her sister about her own arrival in Newton. She had arrived just as a snowstorm was making its terrible transit across the town, bringing snow like great white waves, burying the town in drifts and making the roads impassable.

  “Gavin did not think it suitable for him to expect me to marry him,” her sister said as she followed Hazel’s instructions for the meal. “But I told him that I must marry him. I had come this far and I could not go back to Boston.”

  Hazel stared at her sister. “How did you dare?” she wanted to know.

  “I could not go back,” Minnie said frankly. “I had no money and no means of acquiring it. So he agreed to honor his proposal and we were married in the hotel. Then we came here to find the cattle dead, frozen in the snow. It has been very troubling as we are considering how to go forward.”

  “Oh, Minnie, and you were all alone!”

  “I have Gavin,” Minnie said. “We are married and this is for us to solve. And we will,” she declared, her chin raised as she made her assertion. “We will solve this. We will not be brought down.”

  “No,” Hazel said. Would Harley Wyatt, a man of wealth, be willing to help Minnie and her husband? Would Mr. Clifford accept the assistance? Men could be very proud, she knew. She recalled her father refusing to ask any of his Boston neighbors or associates for a loan. He would not, he had said, dishonor the friendship with a request for money.

  A thought struck her. “Minnie, I brought Grandmama’s diamonds with me. If you need money. . .”

  Minnie held out her hands. “The diamonds are yours,” she said without a pause. “They were Grandmama’s gift. Besides, if you should ever need money,” she went on delicately, “they would help you.” Then she laughed. “Listen to us. How Clara would scold us for discussing money in such a vulgar fashion. Is she well?”

  “She is Clara,” Hazel said. “She has made out a list of the tasks that must be accomplished so that Father is settled before she leaves Boston. She has him quite cowed, of course. He is going through his and Mother’s belongings to determine what may be kept.”

  “I am glad she is there to help,” Minnie confessed. “I knew that I would not be able to do so.”

  “Minnie,” Hazel said hesitantly, “about Mr. Edwards.”

  She had been thunderstruck to learn from Mr. Clifford that Clara’s prospective husband lived in a mining camp. Their elegant and discriminating sister could never, never be expected to make her home in such a place.

  “We shall go to visit him before Clara arrives…” Minnie promised, but her voice faded as words abandoned her. What they would do, exactly, if the miner was not able to provide a home for Clara, remained to be see
n. But Clara would not live in a mining camp, that much was certain.

  While the meal was cooking over the fire — in itself, a shock to Hazel, who realized that she would have more lessons to learn about preparing meals in a kitchen which was not equipped with the modern innovations that were common in Boston — Hazel went to the bedroom where she would be staying and changed for dinner. She chose a green-and-white striped dress with a black lace overskirt. It seemed rather excessive for the cozy Clifford cabin, but she wished to do justice to her sister and brother-in-law for hosting her in their home. The extravagant bustle in the back was still fashionable, which she knew from the pictures in the ladies’ magazines.

  She was somewhat surprised, upon returning to the kitchen, to see that Minnie had not changed from the dress she had been in while she cooked. Minnie noticed Hazel’s change of attire, but instead of being embarrassed by neglecting this familiar Ellis habit, she expressed admiration for the dress.

  “Why, it looks new,” she said.

  “Clara helped. She took the overskirt from one of the dresses you left behind and sewed it to this one.”

  “I didn’t know Clara was so handy with a sewing needle. I suppose we all learned new skills. But I have not yet mastered cookery, so Gavin will be entirely delighted by tonight’s meal,” she said as her husband came in the front door.

  “It smells very good,” he said, choosing diplomacy. “Minnie has been boasting of your talents since she arrived.”

  “Don’t expect more than I can possibly deliver,” Hazel warned with a smile, although she was pleased with the aromas coming forth from the fireplace. The blend of the onions and herbs that she had used — some of them from the packets that Chef Antoine had given to her — gave the beef a tantalizing scent, one which was able to hold its own against the aroma of the potatoes and bacon fried together. Minnie had picked green beans from her garden and the plates, with biscuits on the side, were an enticing merger of odor and sight.