by Natalie Dean
She turned the corner and walked to the back of the chapel.
It was a small building made up of gray stone with a white steeple. Like everything in Boston, it was nearly one hundred years old.
Victoria opened the door and moved inside, breathing in the familiar scent. The pine wood of the pews mixed with the candles from the earlier service.
As she sat down in one of the back pews, she knew she should say a prayer. In this place, it felt right to acknowledge God.
But, despite her frequent trips to the chapel, she hadn’t genuinely prayed since her Father died. And, now that he was gone, she found that she couldn’t find the words to ask God for what she wanted.
So, instead of praying, she pulled out a novel from her small purse and began to read.
Here in the chapel, she could read in peace without feeling as though she were an oddity, or something to be put up with as she often did in the large house.
Lately, her brother had even taken to suggesting that Victoria move out of the estate.
“I’ve inherited enough to purchase a nice little house for you, not far from us,” he’d said last week over supper. “If you are so inclined, you could move there and live quite comfortably doing your charity work or what have you. Of course, I would pay you an allowance each month.”
Victoria had thanked Robert and told him that she would consider it. But, inside, she’d bristled at the picture he’d painted.
Old maids lived in ‘nice little houses’ and did ‘charity work’.
From this description alone, it was clear that her brother could not imagine Victoria ever being married. And, when Victoria thought about her appearances in society, she could hardly blame him.
With her thin figure, fine brown hair and her face still filled with freckles, she was hardly a tribute to beauty. Not to mention, the life of an aristocrat’s wife held no appeal to her.
She could not imagine herself in the place of Julia. Lounging about the house all day. Ordering the nanny to care for her children and ordering the servants to care for her husband. Spending her life occasionally organizing banquets or charity balls.
The life of an old maid, with no one to love or comfort her, appealed to her even less.
But, she knew that, as a fine Boston lady, these were the only two paths open to her.
She tried her best to put these thoughts out of her mind. To focus on her novel which, she hoped would transport her far away from the little church in Boston. To a place where she could create her own destiny.
It didn’t.
No matter how she tried, she could not help thinking about how hopeless her situation seemed. She began to envy the working-class girls she’d heard of. Girls who made their way out west after corresponding with hard working ranchers and farmers.
They could take charge of their own destiny. Victoria supposed that was one of the few benefits of being poor.
With a sigh, she closed her book and allowed her mind to stray to the center of the altar. There, a plain wooden cross stood in the window, cutting the beams of the sun so that it was bathed in bright rays.
Something inside her called her to pray.
She tried to silence it. Tried to tell herself that praying hadn’t saved her father and it wouldn’t help her now. Even so, the voice grew louder.
Finally, with great hesitation, she began.
“God,” she said shakily. “I realize that it has been a long while since I have spoken to you. But, if you can hear me, I need your help. I need my freedom. I want to have the chance to make my own destiny. One that is not decided for me by my brother or sister-in-law or anyone else. If that is possible, please, grant me that.”
She thought about saying ‘Amen’, but, in the end, she left it too long. So, she simply let the prayer hang in the air of the chapel. Hoping against hope that it would find its way to heaven.
She sat there for several more minutes as though expecting some voice to boom out an answer to her. When it didn’t, she heaved a sigh again and stood from her pew.
She headed to the back door thinking that she may as well go back home. It was getting late, and there was nothing more to be done here.
That was when she saw the booklet.
On a small table, just beside the back door, a pile of small red booklets caught her eye. When she looked closer, she could make out the gold emblazoned title: ‘The Hand and Heart’.
Wondering how she could have missed these, she took one and curiously flipped through it.
It was the sort of thing factory girls looked through when they wanted to go out west. Each page was filled with advertisements from men seeking correspondence (with an eye toward matrimony), with young women back east.
As she looked carefully at the ads, most of which came with pictures, she realized that this might be her answer. After all, if a factory worker could find a husband in such a manner, why couldn’t she?
With a hint of determined defiance, she put the booklet in the folds of her skirt and marched out of the chapel.
It was not until that evening, as she was looking through her new treasure by the light of a candle in her room, that she found the advertisement placed by Jimmy Fairchild of Laramie, Wyoming…
Chapter 3
Victoria was starting to think she’d made a grave mistake.
She had been in Laramie, Wyoming all of one hour. Already, the elation she had felt earlier in the day at finally being on her own, at having accepted the proposal of a good, simple farmer, had dissipated entirely to be replaced by a sense of anxiety, horror and more than a hint of shame.
She stood in the kitchen of the Laramie Hotel staring at the pots and pans beside the stove realizing, for the first time, that she truly had no idea what to do with them. When she offered to help with dinner at the hotel, she had thought cooking would be intuitive.
When she arrived at the hotel, when she saw her Jimmy Fairchild, the sweet, simple young man she’d been writing to the past six months, she’d felt an excitement unlike any she ever had in Boston.
This excitement caused her to all but hop out of the carriage and straight to her new fiancé.
Jimmy had been everything Victoria expected. He was tall and thin, like the pictures in books of good, sturdy mid-western boys. His face was ruddy and his green eyes shined when he looked at her.
“Jimmy!” she said eagerly. “You’ve no idea how wonderful it is to meet you at last!”
His eyes grew wide, and he looked slightly taken aback by her excitable introduction. All the same, he smiled, and his eyes brightened when he did.
“Wonderful to meet you as well, Miss…Victoria,” he said hesitantly.
In her last letter to him, when she accepted his proposal, she told him in no uncertain terms, that she wanted him to greet her by her first name. ‘Miss Weston’ still carried the vestiges of her old life in Boston. And, she hoped that it would never be used again.
Now, she would either be Victoria or Mrs. Jimmy Fairchild.
“I suppose I’ll be staying here,” she said moving towards the small, wood building that made up the hotel. “At least until the wedding.”
“Yes,” Jimmy said. “Mrs. Matthews is making up your room now.”
She opened her mouth to ask him who ‘Mrs. Matthews’ was. But, before she could, a larger and haggard looking woman burst out of the hotel’s front door.
“Oh! My dear, I am so sorry that I’m late to greet you,” she said so hurriedly. “I’m sure Jimmy’s told you. I’m Mrs. Matthews, the hotel owner. You must be Miss Victoria Weston. Very pleased to meet you, dear.”
Victoria opened her mouth once again to say that she was pleased to make Mrs. Matthews acquaintance, but before she could, Mrs. Matthews took her by the arm and all but dragged her through the door.
Victoria looked back at Jimmy who gave her a shy little half grin in apology.
“I’ve just finished making up your room,” Mrs. Matthews said as she took Victoria over the lobby threshold, arm
still firmly in her grip. “I would have had the boy do it, but he quit on me this morning. Says he’s heading out to California to be with his brother. So, now I’m here all alone until I can find a replacement. And I haven’t even started on dinner yet!”
The older woman’s voice broke into a kind of panic. Perhaps it was that small break that inspired Victoria’s pity. Because, before Victoria could stop herself, she’d turned to Mrs. Matthews.
“I can start dinner if you like, Mrs. Matthews,” Victoria said quickly. “I’m sure you have other things to see to, and I would love to help.”
“There’s no need to do that, Victoria,” Jimmy said suddenly from behind them. “I’m sure you’re tired after traveling so long. You’ll need rest.”
“Of course, Jimmy’s right, dear,” Mrs. Matthews said. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. It’s best if you go into your room and have a bit of a rest before dinner.”
“It’s no trouble,” Victoria insisted. The energy running through her veins at being in this new place made it impossible for her to even think of sleeping. “I’m not at all tired. And I would love to do something useful.”
Finally, Mrs. Matthews and Jimmy had given in. And, Victoria was more than sorry that they had.
Mrs. Matthews had shown her where to find the pots and told her to start roasting the vegetables. Victoria was too embarrassed to admit that she had not the faintest idea how.
In Boston, they had always had a cook and a kitchen maid to craft their meals for them. And, while Victoria had seen the cook create dishes before, she hadn’t paid enough attention that she would be able to imitate the cook’s methods.
She hadn’t told Jimmy this, of course. In her letters, she gave the impression that she was well versed in all areas required to run a household.
Writing to him, back home in her large home (her brother’s large home) in Boston, she had believed that learning to cook would be simple. Now, staring at the foreign stove and un-chopped vegetables, she realized just how wrong she was.
Taking a deep breath, she attempted to get her nerves under control. A cutting board and knife with full sized carrots and squash were set to the side of the oven.
Looking between them and the pots, she tried to decide what to do first.
She thought she remembered the old cook back in Boston heating the skillet before roasting anything in it. She supposed she could let it heat while she chopped the vegetables.
If she was quick about the task, it wouldn’t take long.
So, with her hand shaking, she oiled the pan and placed it on the simmering stove.
That done, she moved to the vegetables and began to chop.
It went much more slowly than she’d anticipated. The knife was awkward in her hand, and the vegetables had the tendency to slip.
To make matters worse, before she had even finished with the first carrot, the kitchen began to fill with smoke.
Victoria had smelled it before she recognized its source. Turning from the vegetables and to the pot on the stove, she felt her eyes grow wide. Billows of white smoke were beginning to rise from the heated pot that had no vegetables in it to heat.
Cursing herself silently, Victoria rushed to the pot and took it off the stove top. As soon as she grabbed hold of the handle, she let out a sharp yelp that sent the kitchen door flying open.
“What on earth...” Victoria heard Mrs. Matthews voice call through the plumes of thick white smoke. A moment later, the older woman herself appeared, coughing and waving her hand to rid the room of the white fog.
“Victoria, dear,” she said. “What happened?”
“I…I’m sorry,” Victoria muttered. “I…I suppose I put the pan on too early and…”
She allowed her voice to trail off as Mrs. Matthews looked from the smoky pan over to the vegetables only half cut on the counter.
“Well, why don’t you let me finish up, dear?” Mrs. Matthews said taking the knife from Victoria’s hand. “I should have known you would be too exhausted to do anything more tonight.”
“No, really,” Victoria began, her face turning red. “I can help if you need- “
“No, no, that’s all right,” Mrs. Matthews said. “Jimmy is sitting in the parlor. Best to keep him company, I think.”
With that, Mrs. Matthews all but pushed Victoria out the double doors of the kitchen still waving her hand to clear the smoke as she did. When the doors to the kitchen closed behind Victoria, she looked back at them with a sense of shame filling the pit of her stomach.
She had thought that having run a household back home, she would be able to do the same here. Now, she was beginning to realize that running a fancy estate with servants was very different from running a farm house where the work would have to be done by her.
Slowly, she made her way to the parlor where Jimmy was leaning back in a comfortable looking chair, gently humming to himself.
His eyes were closed, and his head was thrown back on the leather seat. He looked as though nothing could upset him at that moment. Victoria stared at him for a moment, wondering if she should disturb him.
Finally, deciding that standing in the doorway was stranger than announcing her presence, she gave a small cough. That caused Jimmy to open his eyes.
When he did, they widened in surprise, and he nearly fell over himself to stand up from the chair. The effect was so earnest and adorably comical that Victoria had to stifle a small chuckle.
“Victoria!” he said. “I thought you were helping Mrs. Matthews prepare supper.”
“I was,” Victoria said. “But, Mrs. Matthews said she could take over. She insisted I come out to the parlor to keep you company.”
Victoria didn’t think it wise to mention the smoke she’d created in the kitchen or her ineptitude at cutting vegetables. And she was glad when Jimmy didn’t ask.
“I guess I should have expected that,” Jimmy said with a small smile. “Mrs. Matthews is always fussing over the girls who come through here. If she could have, I’m sure she would have made you go to your room to rest before dinner.”
“I’m glad she didn’t,” Victoria said finally appreciating the chance to be honest. “I don’t think I could sleep now anyways. It’s too exciting being here.”
“Is our little town really that exciting?” Jimmy asked with a little chuckle.
“It is to someone who’s never traveled without an escort,” Victoria said. “My father’s health never allowed us to travel outside of New England. We only went from our house in the city to our large estate in the country. Of course, the country estate was sold when Father died.”
A sinking feeling in her chest at the thought of that huge, mansion-like home outside of Boston replaced the feelings of inadequacy regarding her kitchen skills. Still, she was not certain which feeling was worse.
“I remember you telling me about the big house in the country,” Jimmy said. “That’s where you learned to ride horses, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Victoria admitted. “My father used to take me riding there nearly every day in the summer. It was my favorite place.”
“Well, there’ll be plenty of chances to ride here,” Jimmy said. “I’ve already bought four horses out right for the farm. I’ll be expecting a fifth once the barn is finished. Tomorrow I’ll take you out there.”
Victoria smiled, her spirits lifting at the thought that she would once again be able to ride.
“I’d like that very much,” she said, and, for the first time that evening, a genuine smile came across her face.
It remained there throughout dinner, even though she could feel Mrs. Matthews critical gaze occasionally landing on her. Victoria was used to feeling judged. And, she told herself, it was still better than the sometimes outright hostility she experienced at dinners with her sister-in-law.
Even when Mrs. Matthews refused her offer to help clean the table after dinner, Victoria found that her spirits did not fall. After all, now that she had eaten, she found that she was much more tired than s
he’d previously felt.
After she tried and failed to suppress a very un-lady like yawn just as she and Jimmy were rising from the dinner table, her need for sleep became clear to everyone else as well.
“Maybe I should show you to your room,” Jimmy suggested. “We’re starting out early tomorrow. You’ll need your rest.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Victoria admitted.
With a nod, he led the way down a dimly lit corridor with simple wooden doors on either side.
“Your room is at the very end,” Jimmy said. “It’s smaller than some of the others. But, I couldn’t afford anything too big.”
He looked down at the ground as he said this and his cheeks colored.
“I’m sure it’ll be perfectly fine, Jimmy,” Victoria said. “I’ve always preferred small rooms when I’m alone. The big ones seem cavernous and empty even with dozens of possessions.”
“I’m sure you had plenty of those back in Boston,” Jimmy said.
“And if I had missed any of them, I wouldn’t be here,” Victoria reminded him.
His eyes moved up from the ground, and he gave her a bright smile mixed with a hint of gratitude.
Strange as it seemed, Jimmy’s own insecurities about the simplicity of his life made her nearly forget her own fears. However, she knew her fears would come back when Jimmy inevitably realized that she hadn’t the faintest clue about how to run a house on her own, let alone a large farm.
Still, it was best to put that matter out of her mind for now.
“I suppose your farmhand John will meet us tomorrow,” she said as they came to a stop at the door of her room.
“Yes,” Jimmy said. “And I think I should warn you. John is a bit…odd.”
“How so?” Victoria asked curiously.
“Well, for one thing, he can’t seem to keep a job. Even though he has experience on farms,” Jimmy said.
“Is that so unusual?”
“Around here it is,” he answered. “Most farmers are shorthanded. They’ll do anything to keep a good hand on. Apparently, John has had a few accidents on ranches and farms.”