by Ruby Hill
Her mouth curved into a soft smile as she wondered what life would be like with her new husband, whomever he turned out to be. She’d have to get used to a new place and new people, idly wondering what the prices would be like compared to her small town.
Her coins ready, she paid the shopkeeper the minute he lifted his head, smiling at his surprised expression as she gave him the exact amount. Funny how he always looked so astonished, as though he hadn’t quite worked out how she knew the price before he said it.
Picking up her things, Grace made her way out of the mercantile and began to wander home, glad that she hadn’t needed to hitch up the wagon that morning. That only usually happened once a month or so—when she needed to buy larger quantities of foodstuffs. The day was pleasant enough, even though it was dry and dusty, and Grace took her time walking back. There was no need to rush. All that was waiting for her was some chores and yet more sewing.
“Miss Grace!”
Startled, Grace almost dropped her purchases, just as the errand boy from the postmaster came running towards her, a letter in his fingers as he waved it at her. Grace’s heart slammed into her chest, her breath disappearing altogether for a moment.
“A letter for you, Miss Grace,” the boy exclaimed, smiling up at her with that adorable grin of his.
“Th-thank you,” Grace stammered, managing to pry out a small coin from her pocket, which she handed to him before taking the letter with trembling fingers. The small boy doffed his cap and hurried away, clearly unaware of the effect the letter had on Grace’s heart.
Grace felt herself tremble all over, her fingers growing clammy as she looked down at the letter. It wasn’t Clara’s handwriting. That meant that it had to be from George.
Her legs were shaking so badly that Grace stumbled as she hurried back home, her heart slamming repeatedly into her chest. Was this going to be a rejection? No, surely the man would not have written back to her if he did not want to correspond with her. He had to be interested in her as his wife, surely. Excitement slowly unfurled in her belly as she pushed open the front door, practically throwing her purchases onto the kitchen table.
Sinking down into the rocking chair by the fire, Grace drew in a few long breaths in an attempt to settle her jangling nerves. Closing her eyes, she let her breath settle even though her heart still pounded frantically.
Opening the letter, she read the first few lines hurriedly, as though desperate to discover whether or not he was interested in her.
And, much to her relief, he was.
“Miss Grace,” she read aloud, hardly able to believe what she was reading. “Thank you for your letter. As I mentioned, I have three small children, whose mother died a few months ago. I’m not able to care for them and run my farm, and I need a woman who can look after them and me. A woman who can cook well and don’t mind hard work. I had a great fondness for my wife that won’t ever be replaced, so don’t have any notions of love or the like growing between us.”
Grace paused for a moment and allowed that truth to sink into her soul. The man clearly had no intention of falling back in love again, still holding a candle for his recently deceased wife. There was something admirable about that, although Grace had to admit that a small kick of disappointment settled deep in her gut. It was not as though she had expected to find love, but a small hope had burned within her that, maybe one day, her husband might come to have some kind of affection for her. Her lips twisted. Was that what she was to be? A woman who would cook and clean and care for her husband in marital faithfulness? What of her own needs?
A frown settled between her brows.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she told herself aloud, shaking her head slowly. “Quite ridiculous, Grace. Get a hold of yourself.” Her eyes drifted to the mirror on the wall. She could not expect love and should not expect affection—not when she was the plain, homely sort.
A memory of Clara and her husband drifted into her mind. Clara had seemed so alive, her eyes burning with a deep, intense love for her husband as she’d looked up at him. Grace allowed herself to admit that she had long desired that for herself, but despite recognizing it, did not allow herself to linger on the feeling. This was to be a practical arrangement, not one that could hold any type of feeling. A woman like her needed to be content with that.
“Besides,” she said aloud, lifting up the letter again, “you’ll have your hands full with those three children!”
“I am older than you by fifteen years, but I don’t reckon that would make much difference to me. If this all seems amenable to you, then please write back to me as soon as you can, and I’d be much obliged if you could send a photograph of yourself also, just so I know what you look like. I’ll expect to hear from you soon, and then we can arrange travel to Montana. Yours, George Stubbs.”
Grace swallowed—hard. A photograph? She had never had such a thing done before and was not even sure where to go—but that was not the foremost problem.
Grace was quite sure that once George Stubbs saw what she really looked like, he’d turn her down. After all, Grace was plain and homely, not exactly what a man was looking for. But this was to be her new life, her new future. If George rejected her, then she would have to start from scratch all over again—and what was to say the next man wouldn’t do exactly the same as George? Once they saw her, they would know that she could never make them happy.
A sudden rush of tears had Grace wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffing fiercely in an attempt to keep a hold of herself. If only God had seen fit to bless her with pretty eyes or curling hair. It was not that she wanted to be the prettiest lady in town but rather to have at least one redeeming feature. As it was, she was rather dull, and men did not want dull wives.
Sighing heavily, Grace put down the letter and tried to dry her tears, seeing her future going up in smoke. There was nothing she could do but send the man a photograph and just hope that he might accept her anyway. If he did not, then she would have to simply write to another man looking for a wife and hope that he might accept her. Her shoulders sank. This could take her years, and there was no guarantee that any man would ever accept her. She might be destined to marry an old man, a man who wanted a wife to care for him in his old age instead of being a partner and companion for their shared lives. It would be just like caring for her father all over again. Despair clouded her mind, as her sobs echoed around the quiet room, reminding her of her loneliness.
The letter could not remain unanswered. She would have to do as George asked, knowing in her heart that he would reject her outright when he saw her. She had already resigned herself to that fact. Now all that mattered was to find a place to get her picture taken.
* * *
Two days later, Grace inquired where she might get her picture taken, only to be told that she would have to go to the next town. The stagecoach jostled her back and forth as it made its way through the dusty plains, taking her ever closer to her destination.
Grace did not want to have her picture taken, but what else could she do? She could choose not to reply to George, but that would be rude, and she did not want to leave him waiting endlessly for her reply. No, she would do as he asked and cling to the tiny hope in her heart that he might choose to marry her regardless of her plain face.
“And where are you going, my dear?”
Grace lifted her eyes to the older woman sitting in front of her, managing a small smile. “I’ve got to get my picture taken.”
“Oh, I see!” the lady exclaimed, her grey eyes gleaming. “Sending it to a beau, are you?”
Her gut twisted. “Something like that,” Grace replied heavily. “A potential husband actually.” She felt no shame in telling a complete stranger about her plans to be a mail order bride, finding it something of a relief to speak so openly. “But I’m not sure I’m the kind of woman he’s looking for.”
“Why not?” the lady asked, her face filled with astonishment. “You can cook and clean, can’t you?”
“And you’ve got plenty years left in you yet. For children and the like, I mean.”
Grace felt her face flame. “I suppose, but—”
“Then why wouldn’t you think you’re a good match for this man?”
Relieved there was no one else in the stagecoach, Grace shrugged her shoulders. “He asked for a picture, and I’m not sure this”—she indicated her face—“is quite what he’s looking for.”
The older lady frowned, tilting her head to regard Grace just a little. “You’re no beauty, my dear, but that does not mean he won’t find you acceptable.”
Much to Grace’s surprise, she found that the lady’s words did not sting as much as she had expected. “That’s kind of you, but I expect the exact opposite.”
The lady shrugged. “Then add to your appearance.”
Now it was Grace’s turn to frown. “Add to it? What do you mean?”
A small laugh came from the lady, her eyes sparkling. “I mean, a little bit of padding to enhance your feminine qualities.” She lifted one eyebrow, as Grace blushed. “After all, you want to marry this man, don’t you?”
“I-I do,” Grace admitted, stammering just a little. “But I don’t want to lie.”
“Oh, nonsense!” the lady exclaimed, waving her hand. “It’s not lying, it’s just giving the man what he wants so that he will agree to marry you and then discover just what a gem he’s got for a wife.” Her smile softened, the light in her eyes dimming just a little. “After all, being a wife and mother is so much more than just how you look.”
A strange sense of kinship rose up in Grace’s chest, and she could not help but smile. “Yes, I think the very same. I do not mind how my husband looks, so long as he is not too old in years for me.”
“Then just add a little something here and there!” the lady exclaimed, looking suddenly delighted. “The man will accept you, you will be wed, and all will be well. Besides,” she continued with a wide smile, “such additions to your figure will hardly be noticeable, I promise. It will be just enough and no more.”
Grace, finding herself quite caught by the idea, bit her lip. “But I have very little idea of what to do, or where to even get such a thing.”
The lady laughed. “Then I’d be happy to help you, my dear. It reminds me of my youth, hearing about your circumstance. Once we get to town, I will sort out everything.”
Some hours later, Grace made her way back to the stagecoach in something of a daze. Her new friend, Mrs. Abernathy, had done just as she’d promised and helped Grace take the best photograph possible. It had been quite embarrassing at times, as Mrs. Abernathy had needed to see her in just her underclothes before adding padding and the like. Overall, the entire experience had not been a bad one.
And now she had her photograph.
Sitting down, Grace waited until the two other occupants of the stagecoach climbed aboard and settled themselves before taking the photograph carefully out of the envelope, hoping that the other passengers wouldn’t be able to see it. The stagecoach moved forward, taking her back to town, but Grace barely noticed. She was too caught up with the photograph in her hand.
She hardly recognized herself.
Mrs. Abernathy had added a little to Grace’s bosom and hips, giving her the feminine curves she had long desired. Grace blushed as she recalled how Mrs. Abernathy had produced a wig of some description, adding it to Grace’s own locks and insisting that her severe bun be taken down. Whatever she had done to Grace’s hair, it seemed to add a softness to her features, which certainly made her look more appealing.
Her face even looked a little pretty. Self-consciously, Grace rubbed at her cheek, hoping that there was not even a single trace of the paints Mrs. Abernathy had used on her skin. It had been a step too far for Grace, but Mrs. Abernathy had insisted that it would be the “final touch” and so, after a little more persuasion, Grace had relented. Now, looking at the picture itself, Grace was quite glad that she had given in.
It was a picture that she was sure George Stubbs would be happy with, even if she did feel a large amount of guilt over her untruths.
It would be just as Mrs. Abernathy had said, wouldn’t it? He would accept her and make arrangements for her travel; they would wed; and soon, he would realize that she was more than just how she looked. She might have to come up with some kind of explanation as to why she looked vastly different than her photograph, but surely, by the time she stood beside him and met him, face to face, he would be quite content with the rest of her qualities. After all, she could reason with him about how much of an asset she could be to his household. She could tell him about her cooking, show him the dress that she had made herself, and state that she would be a hardworking and supportive wife. Surely, that was what George Stubbs was really looking for! He had been the one to state that there was not to be any talk of love or affection, meaning that he would not care too much if she looked a little different from her picture.
Her guilt a little assuaged, Grace sat back and let the stagecoach carry her home, her mind slowly filling with dreams about her future. There would be children to care for and a home to run. She would be the wife and mother she had always wanted to be, no longer living alone. This was going to be the final step towards her happiness.
The moment she returned to town, Grace pulled out her already-written letter from her bag. Putting the photograph inside, she sealed it up and went to post it. The smile on her face grew as she handed it over, paying the charge for the post and clasping her hands together in delight as it was put into a large, brown sack.
“Is it going anywhere interesting?” the man behind the counter asked. “You look awfully happy to be sending it.”
Grace felt happiness bubble up inside her, and she was practically beaming at him. “I’m going to be wed. My husband-to-be will be writing back to me soon with all the travel arrangements. I’m going out West. Starting life over.”
“You’re leaving our town?” he replied, with a lift of his eyebrows. “Well, may I be the first to offer my congratulations, Miss Grace. We’ll be sorry to lose you, but I hope you’ll be very happy.”
Knowing that her news would soon be all around town, Grace thanked him and left, finding that she didn’t care in the least as to whether everyone knew about her plans to be a mail order bride. Soon, she’d be away from this dusty old place and starting life all over again. A life filled with all the things she’d been dreaming about. A life she’d never really thought she would have.
“I’d better think about packing!” Grace exclaimed, as she stepped into her house, her eyes roving around the small kitchen. “I can’t take all of this with me.”
Mentally, she began to note what she could take and what she could sell. Her stomach churned with a mixture of happiness and anxiety. There was so much to do and so much to see to before she would be able to move ahead to the next chapter of her life out in Montana. Grace could hardly wait to get there.
3
It felt as though she had been on the train for years. Every time she looked out of the window, Grace saw nothing but clouds of dust and red, rolling plains, broken up only by the few small towns they stopped in. She was tired of being jostled about in her seat, tired of trying to get some sleep on the small, narrow bunk she’d been given. She was hot and sticky and knew she was probably in desperate need of a bath – even if it was just to get the dust out of her hair.
Finally, the call sounded. The next station was hers, the town of Roselake. Even the name sounded wonderful.
Pulling out the last letter she’d had from George, Grace opened it carefully and read the few short lines. He’d thanked her for the photograph, telling her just how pretty she was, and had given her instructions on how to get to his town. The train ticket had been enclosed, which had sent Grace into a whirlwind of delight.
There had not been much else for her to do, other than sort out her things, sell what she could, and then finally, sell the ho
use itself. It had all gone very smoothly, and she had not had any difficulty in finding new owners. That being said, it had still felt a little strange to be leaving the only home she’d ever known and handing over the keys to veritable strangers. Though, the sadness she’d felt had been quickly replaced with an overwhelming sense of excitement.
That excitement had turned to nerves the closer she drew to the town until she’d been pacing up and down her small cabin, wondering what George Stubbs would think of her. Most importantly, she wondered what he’d be like. She’d not requested a photograph from him, thinking that she didn’t much mind what the fellow looked like so long as he was kind.
There wasn’t to be any consideration of love or the like, so there was no need to worry about whether she might be drawn to him or not – and with children to care for, she would be able to put out all of her love onto them instead.
Still, her nerves jangled.
The train began to slow, a long, loud whistle making her jump with surprise. They were here. This was it. The start of her new life.
Glancing in the small, cracked mirror that hung haphazardly on the wall, Grace placed her bonnet on carefully and tied the strings under her chin. Her face was flushed red although her eyes were bright, and her mussed hair was well hidden underneath her bonnet. As satisfied as she could be, Grace picked up her small case and made her way to the door, knowing that the porter would fetch the rest of her things and take them onto the platform.
As the train drew up, Grace saw that there were more than a few men standing on the platform, waiting. Some of them held pictures in their hands, evidently waiting for their own brides. Was one of these men George Stubbs? Was that why he’d wanted a photograph of her? So he’d be able to spot her in the crowd?