by Natalie Dean
“It’s not the best land for farming,” Billy said. “And, with winter coming on fast, you’ll have to stop construction on the house for a few months.”
“Thankfully I’ve still got a job with you,” Jimmy said turning to Billy with a wide, beaming smile still on his face.
“Unless you plan to fire me for leaving like Mr. Miles did with all of his hands.”
“You know I wouldn’t do that, Jimmy,” Billy said. Even so, his face remained impassive. Jimmy turned away from the paradise of the beautiful green field and stepped back to the earthen dirt of the road just off the property line.
“But, you still think I’m foolish for wanting to do what you did,” Jimmy said.
“I don’t think you’re foolish,” Billy answered. “I just don’t want you to make the same mistakes I made.”
“I’m running a farm, not a ranch,” Jimmy reminded him. “The workload will be much smaller.”
“From the way Matt Jacobs talks, it won’t be much lighter,” Billy said. “You’ll still need help.”
“And I’ve already got John Marx,” Jimmy reminded him. “I picked him up as soon as Miles let him go from the big ranch.”
Billy frowned as the two made their way back to the wagon they’d driven to mark off the lot.
“I still don’t know how good an idea that was,” Billy said. “Mr. Miles doesn’t tend to let good hands go for no reason.”
“He let you go,” Jimmy reminded him with a smirk.
“That was because he found out I was saving money for my own place,” Billy said. “John Marx…well…he doesn’t seem interested in owning his own land.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Jimmy asked. “For me, I mean. I’ll have an experienced hand as long as I like.”
“If he is experienced,” Billy said.
“Of course, he is! He worked for Miles, didn’t he?”
“I just don’t think Miles would have let him go if he was as good as you seem to think he is.”
Jimmy had to admit that Billy had a point about that. At one time, both Jimmy and Billy had worked for Mr. Miles, who still owned the largest ranch in the area.
Miles had fired Billy when he found out that he was saving up to buy his own ranch. And, once Billy’s ranch had gotten started, Jimmy left Mr. Miles of his own accord to work with his friend.
Mr. Miles had not been happy to lose either one of them. In fact, Miles had done everything in his power to make sure that Billy and even Jimmy were not successful. The fact that Miles had let John Marx go without a fight was strange.
Still, Jimmy reminded himself, perhaps Mr. Miles had changed. People were known to do that.
The fact that he had let John go might not have had anything to do with the level of John’s work at all.
“No one knows why Mr. Miles does what he does,” Jimmy said. “By all accounts, he treated John terribly. Maybe he just thought John was a bit too odd.”
“He is that,” Billy said. “And that’s not necessarily a good thing.”
“But, it won’t necessarily affect John’s work here either.”
“Hmm,” was Billy’s only response as he sidled into the driver’s seat of the wagon. Jimmy hopped up beside him, and they started back down the dirt road.
“Even if you do have John to help,” Billy said after a moment’s silence. “You’ll still need someone to tend the house. Two men won’t be able to do that work alone.”
A blush came into Jimmy’s cheeks, and he looked down at his feet. He thought he knew what Billy was about to suggest and he was none too keen on the idea.
“We’ll manage all right,” Jimmy said. Though he knew he sounded as uncertain as he felt. “Maybe once the farm gets started, I’ll be able to hire someone to look out for the house.”
“There aren’t many men here, if any, who are willing to do that kind of work,” Billy said. “And everyone knows hiring a woman to live on a farm with two men would not look proper.”
“Then what’s there to be done about it?”
“What you should do is get yourself a wife,” Billy said.
“You know there aren’t any wives to be had out here,” Jimmy said. “None of marrying age who aren’t spoken for.”
“That won’t stop you from writing back east like I did,” Billy said reasonably. “Even the pastor found a good woman that way.”
Jimmy bit his lip and felt his cheeks growing warmer. This was what he’d known Billy was going to suggest. Other men in town had already suggested it before.
They all said it was the surest way to find a bride if a man wanted one. They stated that, after the war, there were plenty of women looking for good men back east.
Jimmy knew there was a lot of sense in what they said. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wasn’t confident like Billy was, nor was he eloquent like Pastor Rhodes.
The sorts of letters he would send to a young lady would be as awkward and halting as his speech was. Besides that, …
“I can hardly speak to a girl face to face,” Jimmy pointed out. “How do you expect me to write love letters to one I’ve never met?”
Billy shrugged.
“You might be better at writing than you are at speaking,” Billy said. “Lots of men find that they are. And a girl agreeing to marry you before she sees your face, in your case, might be a good thing.”
Billy gave a teasing laugh and nudged Jimmy in the ribs as the wagon trudged on along the dirt road. Jimmy glanced up and gave his friend a small smile.
“But, she can always call the wedding off when she gets here, can’t she?” Jimmy asked. “What if she takes one look at me and decides I won’t do?”
“I don’t think that would happen, Jimmy,” Billy said, his voice changing from teasing to reassuring. “You’re not bad looking, at least compared with some of the men out here.”
Jimmy had to admit that was true. He had never been a vain man. He often allowed his beard to grow into a hint of a shadow on his chin. His light brown hair was slightly longer than was fashionable.
Still, he’d received praise for his bright green eyes from more than one person in town. And, when compared with some of the men, especially those who lived closer to the mountains, he was very well groomed indeed.
“Besides,” Billy continued. “You usually send a picture along with your advertisement. So, ladies who don’t like the look of you can pass you by.”
“And what if I don’t like the look of her?”
“You can do the same thing,” Billy said. “No one says you have to propose to the first girl who writes to you. But, you certainly don’t have anything to lose by trying.”
Jimmy lifted his head and turned instead towards the side of the wagon. He knew he didn’t have any excuses left to give. Even so, the idea still terrified him.
What on earth would he say to a woman he had never met? He was certain a fine eastern lady would expect nothing less than poetry from a man who wanted to court her. And, what he had to offer in the way of intellect, was certainly less than any poet.
Thankfully, they did not discuss the subject further. And, when they arrived back at the ranch, Jimmy went back to his room to change for supper.
Lizzie, Billy’s wife, was cooking chicken pot pie with yeast rolls. One of Jimmy’s favorite meals.
As he entered his room, he had to admit that Billy had certainly found a wonderful woman through this letter writing system.
But, he argued that had been a bit different. Lizzie’s sister-in-law, Bernadette had lived in Laramie long before Lizzie came. When Billy wrote to his future wife, Bernadette had been there to tell him what to say to win her over.
Sometimes Bernadette had even written the letters on Billy’s behalf.
It wouldn’t be like that with Jimmy. There were no other women in town with sisters or cousins back east he could marry.
No, if he wrote to a woman, he would have to do it completely on his own. With his own very plain way of speaking. His o
wn disjointed and sloppy handwriting.
He entered his small room and slumped down onto the bed.
No matter how his mind tried to argue against what Billy had said, he had to admit there was truth to it. He wouldn’t be able to get along without a woman’s help on the farm.
There were no women in town seeking employment as hired hands or maids. And, even if there were, Jimmy was not sure he would be content with that arrangement.
When he looked at Billy, with Lizzie and their little one, he couldn’t help but be more than a little jealous. Something inside him longed for a happy, loving family of his own.
And, it was becoming increasingly clear that the only way he was going to get one was to write back east.
He glanced up from his hands and over to the small writing desk at the far end of the cabin.
It was cluttered with tools, extra work boots, and dust. Looking at it now, it seemed almost depressed from neglect. As though the desk itself were begging him to put it to use.
Heaving a sigh, he pushed himself up from the mattress and headed over to the desk. He shoved the tools and boots aside, dusted off a piece of parchment and picked up a quill.
With large portions of his mind still adamantly protesting that this was a bad idea, he began to write his advertisement.
Chapter 2
“Aunt Victoria! Come to the nursery with me!”
Victoria Weston found herself being pulled forcefully from her seat at the breakfast table by the surprisingly strong hand of her five-year-old nephew, George. He dragged her no further than the edge of the room before his mother called to him.
“George!” she said reprovingly. “I’m sure nanny won’t approve of a grown up in the nursery. Especially not so early in the morning.”
Victoria’s sister-in-law, Julia, a proper English woman from London, always sounded as though she were better than anyone else in the room. And, that was not only because of her accent.
“But, Nanny’s not here Sunday!” George said petulantly, stomping his little foot down on the ground. Sunday was the one day in which George could eat at the table with his mother, father, and Aunt Victoria. The other days of the week, he was kept mostly out of sight in the nursery.
“Even so,” Julia Weston said. “It’s simply not appropriate. Besides that, I am certain that Aunt Victoria has more important things to do today.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, truly,” Victoria said eagerly. The truth was, she had nothing with which to occupy her time this afternoon. This had been the case ever since her elder brother and his wife had moved into her house one year before, just after her father’s death.
Mr. Weston had been ill for a good long while. Victoria had taken it upon herself to attend to him. Though her father’s illness had not been ideal, it had given Victoria, who lived a mostly privileged life in Boston, a sense of purpose. When she had a meaningful task to perform, she felt alive.
When her father died, her brother Robert was named heir to their father’s estate, and had immediately moved in. He had graciously allowed Victoria to stay on in the house. However, it seemed predicated on the condition that she behave like a true Boston “Lady”.
This meant that she was never permitted to do anything useful at all.
“Nonsense,” Julia responded predictably with a tinkling little laugh that Victoria could tell was entirely false. “You can always call on Nanny Cartwell. She always enjoys having visitors on Sunday. I’ll have Samantha come in to take George up to the nursery.”
“But, I want Aunt Victoria!” George said stamping his foot again and now close to tears. But, it was no use, his mother had already stood to ring the dining room bell which would call the maid, Samantha into the room.
“You rang, Ma’am?” Samantha asked. She was a fair-haired girl with wide eyes and an Irish brogue.
“Yes, Samantha,” Julia said. “Could you please take George up to the nursery? It is time for his nap at any rate.”
Samantha, who looked harassed as it was, went pale at the suggestion that she take on yet another task.
Victoria could feel the frustration coming off the young girl.
Victoria had always been able to sense how people were feeling. When he was alive, her father had called it her “gift”.
She could always tell what someone was really thinking, even what their true intentions were. And, when tested, she was rarely wrong.
But, she thought ruefully, it didn’t take someone with a “gift” to realize that poor Samantha was overworked.
None the less, Victoria saw the maid take a large breath and compose herself before saying, submissively, “Yes, Ma’am. Come along George. Time for your nap.”
The maid picked the five-year-old up even as he kicked and screamed that he wanted his Aunt Victoria. His cries were ignored as Samantha carried him from the dining room into the hall. Victoria could hear George crying all the way up the stairs.
Though she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t help but let her eyes glance towards the hall even as George’s cries disappeared.
“You mustn’t be so concerned about him, Victoria,” Julia said sipping her tea with a decidedly unconcerned air. “It does him good to cry a bit. It will teach him to fend for himself. That’s the way I was raised and it all worked out very well for me.”
Victoria would have liked to dispute this. Julia’s pretentious, shallow, and often selfish airs were not what Victoria considered desirable. And, sitting about doing nothing while the maids did all the household work and raised the children to boot was not her idea of a fulfilling life.
Still, she knew that arguing with Julia was not worth the headache it would give her. And it would certainly not do to get on the wrong side of her brother who, no doubt, would take his wife’s side when he learned of the disagreement later.
“I suppose it’s something I need to get used to,” Victoria said quietly sipping her tea. Julia seemed to find something very amusing in Victoria’s statement because she let out a tinkering giggle.
“I forget that you Americans were taught that you must work with your hands to feel useful, no matter how wealthy you are,” Julia said. “I suppose that’s why you see even upper-class American mothers rushing about after their children looking as harassed as any ordinary nanny.”
Victoria pursed her lips and told herself not to answer harshly that hard work never harmed anyone. And a mother who was actively involved in parenting tended to produce more well-rounded children than those raised by distant parents.
But, then, she remembered Robert and her place in the house. She was a guest here now that her Father was dead. And, what’s more, she was a guest who could be thrown out at a moment’s notice.
So, she took another deep breath and forced herself to answer civilly.
“Father always insisted that I keep busy,” Victoria conceded. “‘Idle hands are the devil’s playground’, he used to say. Perhaps that is why I feel so useless just sitting about.”
Julia looked across the table at Victoria and gave her that simpering smile she always wore. The one that told Victoria that her sister-in-law was about to say something very condescending.
“Well, dear, if you find it so dull here, there are always ways to amuse yourself,” she said. “Why don’t you take a walk down to that little chapel? Services are over for the day. And the pastor never minds you going in to pray, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t mind,” Victoria said. “I suppose a walk would do me good.”
“Go on then, dear,” Julia said returning her attention to her tea. “I’m sure you’ll be in better spirits when you return.”
As long as Julia was still in this house, Victoria doubted she’d be in better spirits when she returned. Still, as there was nothing better to do, she made her way out of the house and down the lane to the small chapel.
The pastor usually left the back door open for Victoria. Even on Sundays. He said that it was admirable that a lady of her station still found time during the
day to come in and pray.
Of course, Victoria didn’t tell the kind old man that she did not go to the chapel to pray. Not really.
Her father had taken her to services at the little chapel when she was a child. She remembered fidgeting with the ends of her dress as the pastor gave his long sermon. She remembered her father taking her hand to stop her wiggling.
She would look up at him always expecting a stern glare. But, instead, he usually gave her an understanding smile and a wink.
Now, she only came to church when she was alone, and hardly ever for services.
Robert and Julia never attended Church services save for weddings and funerals.
After her father died, Victoria attended a few services on her own. But, the stares and murmurings, not to mention the condolences from well-meaning acquaintances saying that they were ‘sorry for her loss’ became too much to bear.
But, after services, the chapel was the only place in the neighborhood where she could truly be alone.
As she walked down the steps of her father’s large home, which stood beside a dozen other stately homes in Boston’s finest neighborhood, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Breathing the air outside was like drinking from a glass of cool water after a prolonged walk in the desert. Ever since Robert and Julia had moved into her home, bringing their fancy china, decorative furniture, and huge art pieces, the house had felt stale and as stifling as a museum or an old tomb.
She no longer recognized it as the busy, joy-filled place she had known as a girl.
When she was a child, her parents had entertained nearly all their acquaintances from the greatest to the least in that home. She remembered lawyers who worked for her father’s business dining with visiting earls from London.
And, there had always been something in that house for her to do. When she was young, her mother had taught her to play the piano and to draw. When she grew older, her father taught her to use the typewriter so that she could take dictation for him when he was away from the office.
That house held so many special memories for her.
But, now that Robert and Julia had moved in, she was never happier than when she was away from it.