by Natalie Dean
There were skinny girls too who worked at the Copper Cellar, who caught the eyes of the younger men, but it was Bridget who the older, more experienced men sought. She reminded them of a mother, an aunt, a sister--they’d say. Or a girl they loved long ago when they’d left up north to pursue better days.
“Ah--why’d you leave her,” Bridget would ask with a smirk and false sympathy.
“I came to London Town to make a pound or two and got stuck here,” he’d say, with a remorseful laugh and a wink. “But I could have a shot with you, perhaps, Miss Collins?”
“If you’re eating here, you’ve got about as much money as I do and I’ve got nothing. You’ve got no shot with me, love,” she’d say, slamming a mug down on the table so it sloshed over the rim. Bridget would laugh then and so would the other men, teasing the man who thought he could win her heart.
Even if the attempts by the men had been more genuine, more heartfelt, and with something besides a night in the bed on their mind, Bridget still would have declined. She, like so many other men and women, had come to London seeking better fortune. The north had been awful--cold weather and dying farms. A woman could expect a poor farmer for a husband, many children who would starve and find themselves at the mercy of the same fate. There was little joy for a woman as bright and vivacious as herself.
So, she came. She packed a bag, found herself a little one room flat, and found a job at the Copper Cellar. When she got paid, she always sent money home to her parents and many siblings. After all, she was doing the family proud making her fortune in London.
Rent was high in London, food was costly, and the barmaid, though beautiful and well liked, was clumsy and she often broke mugs and bowls, so the cost for that had come right from her pay. At first, her landlord had been understanding, but after several months of coming up short on rent, the threats to be evicted were happening more and more. So, she started moving from flat to flat, avoiding her landlords as her debts grew. To say that Bridget was in financial straits would have been an understatement.
On more than one occasion, the beautiful woman had been investigated by debt collectors sent by previous jilted landlords. She'd pay what she could to keep them at bay just a little longer.
She tried not to think of this too much, and as another handsy dockworker swatted at her ample behind, she reached out and caught his wrist. “Not tonight, Mr. James,” she tutted before sauntering towards the bar.
At the bar, her employer, a Mr. Hess, smiled at her, looking Bridget over with a glint in his eye. “I've got your pay for the week when your shift ends.”
Mr. Hess was a tall man with a thick, bushy mustache that sometimes reminded Bridget of a large push broom. Despite having no experience and very little natural skill at serving, he’d hired her. And despite many broken cups and plates, he’d continued to employ her. After all, she brought it a lot of regulars with her good looks, bright smile and pointed wit. The customers weren’t the only ones to fall for her charms.
“Also, some gentlemen came by for you earlier.”
She didn’t need to ask who it was. She never needed to ask. The only men who stopped in for a visit at her flat were the debt collectors.
Chapter 2
Bridget needed money fast. No amount of tips from the men that night nor her pay would be enough to keep off the debt collectors. That night, she did her best to be charming, to earn an extra penny or shilling on the side. She showed off her bust, laughed at the terrible jokes and was generous with the beer. Still, she knew she was short.
The next day, before her shift, she found an abandoned paper on the cobblestone road. She scanned the headlines and the advertisements for some kind of part-time, day position she could take, something with an advance on the payment.
A position for a maid earned a scoff from her when they asked for experience. “Ha! Experience cleaning? Everyone’s got that just trying to keep their own places tidy.” Yet another position for a nanny made her perfect petal lips turn up in a sneer. “And anyone can take care of babes. Not the job for me though.”
It seemed, in fact, that nothing was her style. Everyone asked for experience she just didn’t have or for things she just wouldn’t do. She thought this search would be a bust, but then, at the bottom corner, she spotted an ad that caught her eye.
“Great West mail order brides,” she read aloud to herself. “See America. Huh, well, I always fancied myself a trip to America. See New York and Boston and all the great, big cities with their modern ways.” Bridget found herself grinning at the idea, then read further.
For any woman interested, they could come into the office, have their picture taken and fill out a brief form about themselves and their talents. Those women who applied would be given a sum up front, and then it would all be printed in a catalog and sent off to America, where men would mail back or telegraph, pay for her trip, where they’d meet and be wed. It was perfect. She’d get enough to pay off the collectors and keep her lodging. And if some American man in New York City happened to fancy her, he could send for her right away, and she’d escape any other debts in the land of the free!
Bridget tucked the classifieds under her arm and abandoned the rest of the newspaper on the street where she’d found it. She went back to her room, put on her nicest dress, pinned her hair up and made her way to the address listed. There, a quiet little man in a quiet little office took her pictures, while his big, loud wife took down details about Bridget’s life.
“Can you take care of children?” the busty older woman asked.
“Who can’t?” Bridget retorted with a laugh. And anyway, if a rich man bought her hand in marriage, she’d never have to. She could just see him now, some tall, blonde, broad-shouldered bloke from New York with an Ivy League education and a wealthy family. Maybe he’d even have one of those fancy new automobiles!
“Can you cook? Clean house?”
“Doesn’t everyone these days? Yes, I can,” Bridget said shifting as the man instructed her so he could capture her lovely profile.
“What about doing the home finances? Are you any good at bookkeeping?” the woman asked with a smile, checking off something on the paperwork.
“Oh, absolutely,” the brunette said with a gracious smile.
There was no harm selling herself as more than she was--after all, only rich men placed advertisements for mail order brides and rich men didn’t need food cooked or houses cleaned, or children cared for or books kept. They had staff to do that for them. She would have staff to do that for her! They paid her a small fee as soon as they’d taken a few photos and filled out her information, then told her they’d be in touch if ever she was the lucky girl. She was more than a little surprised to learn that they were paying her!
Bridget went to work that night and paid some of the money to the debt collectors--it was enough to keep them at bay--and they let her be that night. In fact, they stayed away for a week, and she was even able to pay her month’s lodgings with the way business was going at the Copper Cellar.
Her dreams of an American man were forgotten after a month. It had been a nice fantasy, but if she was honest with herself, she’d only done it to get the upfront sum. She wouldn’t have said no if one of those rich American men called for her, but she hadn’t been expecting much. She’d just needed some fast money.
One day at her flat, however, when she was getting her mail, she found a posting from the strange little company requesting her attendance at once. Bridget’s heart began to beat fast. She hurried there right away and found that a man was interested in her.
“Oh! This is all very exciting dear,” the woman said. “He telegraphed over yesterday. He’s paying for your trip over the Atlantic, and for your train ride out to Boulder,” the fat, older woman practically sang as she paid Bridget in bank notes. “He’s also including a little extra money for you to have along the way. Use your money to get some nice dresses, perhaps? A travel chest?”
The pair were happily bustling about th
eir little office while Bridget stood in shock. Her heart was beating fast. Of course, she could decline the offer, withdraw her ad--but the money would help her get a few nice things and she could send some off to her mom and pop up north. She signed the Great West Mail Order Brides acceptance receipt, and both of them clapped. But then, something clicked.
“Wait, where’s Boulder?”
“Oh, you know,” the little man said, tucking her photo into an envelope and sealing it with a copy of her receipt. It was addressed to somewhere in America. Boulder, Colorado.
“Boulder, Colorado. It’s out in the rugged west. Not quite as far as say, California, but west enough, and I hear the climate there is much less hot.”
“Lucky me…” Bridget said, though she felt her heart sink.
Chapter 3
Bridget was trying desperately to keep her chin up. She’d had a month to prepare to leave, and in that month, she paid the bill collectors just enough to keep her flat, but not a penny more. She sent some money back to her folks up north and used the rest to buy what the stocky woman told her to. By the time she was ready to travel overseas, she had two new dresses and a new hat. This wasn’t the rich New York man she’d hoped for, but he must have money, right?
That’s what she told herself the entire time the ocean tossed her back and forth. She’d scrounged up anything she could find about the great state of Colorado and used it to distract herself from the sea sickness. The only things she’d managed to find were small publications and pamphlets about the gold rush, but it gave her hope. Maybe the men out West were just as wealthy as the men in New York.
When the ship finally landed, she was surprised to be in Boston. She wanted to explore the city, but there was no time. She and her trunk were tossed onto a train where she sat squeezed between two exhausted-looking women and their crying babies. She’d gotten a glimpse of the bustling streets through the window before the train took off, but that was as close as she got to the city.
The train took her West, making a brief stop in Chicago. It was a city she’d never heard of, but it seemed to be rather large. She stepped off the train to get a better look, but when a fight broke out in the center of town, she started to rethink her adventurous desires. Then, one of the men was shot in the chest and left dead on the streets. She was a gutsy girl, but she wasn’t stupid. She got back on the train and waited for it to keep moving.
When they finally arrived in Colorado, she stumbled off the train, holding her hat as the spring wind picked up, threatening to lift her skirts, and take her brand-new hat. People filed off the train and went into the train depot.
She expected to see a man waiting for her, but the few people who were in the depot were either exiting or getting on the train. A man was sitting at a table near the door, his glasses settled at the tip of his nose as he thumbed through a newspaper. Bridget walked over to the table, dragging the heavy trunk behind her.
“Excuse me, Sir.”
The man glanced up, looking annoyed that she’d dare interrupt him. “Yes?”
She tossed him her best charming smile. “I was hoping you could help me?”
“With what?” he didn’t so much as glance up at her.
“I came here from England. A gentleman sent for me, and I don’t even have his name.”
“Ah. You came with the new batch of brides?”
Her face screwed in confusion, but she nodded. “Yes.”
“Name?”
“Bridget Collins.”
He picked up his pencil and ran it down a clipboard, finally tapping a spot on the clipboard. “Ah. You ain’t Bridget Collins anymore. You’re Bridget McCree, and you live south of town.”
“McCree?”
“Yeah. Your husband is Jack McCree. Good luck,” he snorted, going back to his newspaper.
She set her mouth in a thin line and put a hand on the table, leaning against it heavily. “And which way is south of town?”
“South.”
“Does it look like I have a compass?” she snapped, more than annoyed with the wiry old man in front of her.
“Leave the depot and go left. Walk down the road about four miles, and it’ll be the only house on your left.”
“Walk?!”
“I’m sorry ma’am, should I order a carriage for you?”
Bridget was taken aback by the man’s sheer audacity, but she was in a new place, and it was evident that her charm wasn’t going to get her far with this man. She grabbed her trunk and dragged it outside, pulling it along the long dirt road. Mountains rose high in the distance, reaching up into the clouds. They were beautiful, but she was too annoyed to appreciate them at the moment.
She struggled with the trunk, pulling it through the damp earth as people looked on. A few asked her if she needed help, but she had too much pride to accept any assistance. She struggled down the road for a long while, murmuring to herself all along.
“-Can’t believe the attitude he had! I’m a guest here. When my husband finds out what that man put me through, he is going to have some strong words indeed!”
She gave the trunk a forceful yank, and it turned over, spilling its contents into the mud. She gasped and spun around, wide-eyed as she stared at the mess. Her brand-new dresses were dragging through the dirt, stained and wrinkled. She cursed and grabbed the fabric, shoving it into the trunk without much care. They were ruined now. Who cared if they got wrinkled?
“Are you alright?” a soft voice called to her from the doorstep of a nearby house.
“I’m fine!” Bridget snapped back, sounding more annoyed than she meant to.
The woman came down the steps, holding up the stained hem of her yellow dress. She wore no corset, and her dress was simple with long sleeves and hand embroidery along the neckline. A bonnet protected her golden hair and rosy cheeks. She offered a smile and helped pick up the last of what had spilled from the trunk.
Bridget stood and took a breath, trying to calm herself. “Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble. Are you new here? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Yes. My name is Bridget.”
The woman beamed and offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bridget. I’m Mariana.”
They shook hands briefly before Mariana put her hands on her hips. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can I ask where you’re going?”
“I’m trying to find my husband’s house. The grumpy old man at the depot told me to go this way.”
“Ah. Sounds like you met Theo already.”
“Theo?”
“He handles all the incoming brides.”
“All of them? Are there a lot?”
“Two or three a week,” Mari said, wiping some sweat from her perfect brow. “Anyway, you must have made him angry, because he sent you the wrong way.”
“What?!”
“There’s nothing in town past our house. That road just turns into wilderness.”
Bridget’s stomach was rolling with anger. Her blood felt hot, and her hands were starting to shake. She was at least three miles outside of town, and now she would have to turn around, go back those three miles and then who knows how much farther!
“I’m going to bury that man!” she shouted, slamming her fist on the trunk.
She grabbed the fine leather handle of her trunk and started to pull it down the road again, but Mariana stopped her, smiling softly.
“There’s no need for you to drag that all the way back. Let me get my husband.”
Bridget watched the beautiful woman disappear back into the house, silently thankful that she found at least one decent person in America.
Chapter 4
When Mariana came back, her husband hoisted the trunk onto a little cart and hooked it up to a horse. Now they were sitting in the cart beside the trunk, jostling around every time the cartwheel hit another bump or rock.
“Don’t worry about Theo. He’s not very friendly to anyone in town,” Mariana said, pulling the skirt of her dress up just enou
gh to let the fresh air flow around her lower legs.
“That’s not much of a comfort,” Bridget huffed. “Someone ought to put him in his place if he’s going to be acting like that. If someone like him came into me bar, I’d knock him over the head.”
Mariana laughed. “Maybe you should. Most of the women here in town only dream of standing up to the men.”
“Well, I’m not afraid of standing up to any man.”
“I certainly see that. You’ll be a breath of fresh air.”
They road past the small town, scooting by the dressmaker’s and the doctor’s places until they reached the outskirts of town. Farms dotted the land, though Bridget kept her eye out for a large mansion. When they pulled up to a small farm house instead, her heart sank into her stomach.
“Is this the right place?”
“You said his name was Jack McCree, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is his house,” Mariana said, putting her hands on her hips.
Bridget pulled the trunk off the wagon, and it hit the ground with a hefty thump. Mariana cocked a brow and smiled. “Would you like help?”
“I got it from here, love. But thank you for getting me this far. That walk would have been a nightmare.”
Mari hopped back on the wagon but paused, looking at Bridget for a moment. “Bridget?”
“Yes?”
“Be patient with him.”
With that, the wagon took off, and Mari waved, leaving Bridget to wonder what she was talking about. She shrugged it off and looked up at the modest cabin. It sat on a large patch of farmland that seemed rather fertile. There was plenty of crop growing, and little pens were scattered around, housing cows, chickens, and goats. It reminded her of the farms in the north of England where she’d grown up. The only real difference was the mountains in the background.
She walked up to the door and sighed softly, knocking and waiting. Maybe this was just one of many properties the man owned. After all, how could a farmer afford to pay for her passage across the ocean? Finally, a tall, hulking man opened the door, looking down at her.