Dear Mr. H. Jordon,
I am writing in response to the advertisement you placed in The Matrimonial News of San Francisco.
My name is Amelia Westcott. I am 19 years old and a recent graduate of Mrs. Pettigrew’s School for Young Ladies. In addition to becoming well versed in social graces and the skills needed to run a well managed home, I excelled in mathematics. Perhaps I could also be of some use to you in your business endeavors, providing you are a man with an open mind regarding the emancipation of women.
While small of stature, I am in good health and quite strong. My family is well respected in the community and held in high esteem.
If my letter is of any interest to you, please reply to:
Miss Amelia Westcott
1816 Dunham Street
Somerville, Massachusetts
Please enclose a recent photograph.
Confidentially Yours,
Miss Amelia Westcott
So, little Miss Westcott was a suffragette, he thought, smiling. Well it wouldn’t do her much good yet, as Washington was still waiting for statehood. It also struck him that she’d signed her letter, Confidentially Yours. For some reason she did not want others to know she’d answered his advertisement. Well, no matter. He’d find out soon enough if she were hiding something once she arrived. There were certain matters a woman could not conceal from her husband.
He’d received sixteen replies to his advertisement. Apparently, women in the east were as desperate for husbands as men in the west were for wives. Apart from the lack of available young single women, he also had little time for proper courting. The massive demands for timber kept him and his brother extremely busy.
Well, he sighed. She was the pick of the litter, young, pretty and smart, all good qualifications. What more did he really want? The important thing was, she was available and not opposed to traveling across the country to wed, and he needed a wife.
According to his mother, it was time to produce some heirs and what his mother wanted, she usually got. Not that he was opposed to sharing his bed with a warm, sweet body. He had needs just as all men did, and as long as she was a well-behaved wife, they should get on fine. What he would not do was give his wife the upper hand as his father did.
In Hugh’s not so humble opinion, his father’s love for his mother had created a monster. A demanding, controlling, I’m going to get my own way come hell or high water, monster. If only his father had taken her in hand right from the beginning, they might not be in the situation they were. She ran their home like a queen on her throne, insisting on the best of everything and spending money like it grew on the tress they harvested and transported.
In a sense, he guessed it did. There was a fortune to be made in timber with the growth of industry along the Pacific coast. Hell, San Francisco burned down every other week and what didn’t burn was destroyed by drunken sea faring men. But the profit could better be spent on investing in the community and leasing more land.
He and Sam had built their own homes and moved out as soon as they were of age. While they loved her and their father, they’d both seen enough scenes to last them a lifetime. The first time his wife, whether Amelia or someone else, pulled something like that on him, she’d be over his knees so fast her head would spin and he knew Sam felt the same way.
“Have you made a decision?”
Hugh looked up and dropped his feet to the floor as his brother Samuel entered the office.
“Miss Amelia Westcott,” he replied, handing over the photograph.
Sam took a long look at the picture and smiled.
“Pretty little thing.”
“She is,” Hugh agreed, “If she wrote this letter, she’s well educated and from a good family. She’s also a suffragette.”
Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Seems to me she’s heading to the wrong part of the country for that. Might be she’d have better luck back east if she’s looking for a husband to put up with that nonsense.”
“No, I don’t think it’s anything to get worked up about. So what if she wants to put on a ribbon and parade up and down the street with her friends. As my wife, she’ll get the freedoms I give her.”
“If you say so. What are you going to do with all the other letters?” he asked indicating the papers on Hugh’s desk.
“I don’t know. I suppose I can have Clarence write them a short note of apology to say the situation has been resolved or some such thing.”
“Mother would say that was the proper thing to do,” Sam agreed. “Did you mention to her you’d advertised for a wife?”
“Of course not.” Hugh rose to his full height and scowled. “She’d have way too much to say about it to suit me. Clarence,” he bellowed scooping all the letters and pictures into a pile.
Hurrying into his employer’s office, Clarence smoothed down his hair and pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “Yes, Mr. Jordon.”
“Take these letters and reply to each one. You should probably return the photographs too. Just say thank you for replying but the position has been filled, or something appropriate.”
“Yes, sir. What about that one?” Clarence asked, noticing there was still a letter on the desk.
“I will reply to that one personally,” Hugh said, slipping on his coat. “Try to do it as soon as you can. The last thing I need is a hoard of women showing up expecting to be married. And Clarence, keep this between us. I don’t want anyone else to know about it.”
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
“For now, yes. Later I’ll have a couple of errands for you to run. Sam and I are going to grab a bite and then we’ll be heading up to Camp Five,” he informed him opening the door. “You know, maybe you better take care of this in here. Use my desk. That way there won’t be any interruptions or mistakes if you know what I mean.”
“I understand completely, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.”
“Good. Come on, Sam, I’m starving.”
Sitting at the massive desk, Clarence Henderson took fresh paper out of the drawer and began to sort through Mr. Jordon’s letters. It was only a matter of minutes before he recognized the value of what he had in his hands. Good grief, the letters were all from women, lonely women hoping to find love and marriage in the Northwest Territory.
He’d been only a boy when the last mail order bride debacle occurred. At the time, a thousand men had each paid a substantial fee to have a potential bride transported from Massachusetts to the Pacific Northwest. In the end, less than one hundred women arrived and Mr. Mercer had been tried and deported. The lack of marriageable women was still a huge problem and here were fifteen women willing to take a chance and it was his job to dash their hopes. Why he would gladly personally correspond with a good many of them himself.
He paired the photographs up with the corresponding letter and read each one thoroughly. Alice was a pretty blonde widow with one small child, pouring out her hopes and dreams in a three page letter. Sara, Lydia and Lucy were just eighteen and looking for a new life with a brighter future. All of them worked in a mill in New York. Martha was 25 and a dressmaker in Philadelphia. She wanted to find someone before she was too old to have children. Molly was a red haired Irish lass with a twinkle in her eye. She stated she was an excellent cook and wouldn’t mind working for a living if he didn’t want her for a wife.
Jane was older, 32, and suspected she was not young enough for Mr. Jordon, but wondered if perhaps he didn’t know of an older gentleman who wouldn’t mind a widow with two children. She stated she was an excellent housekeeper and currently served as a mid-wife for the town doctor.
Why she and Doctor Martin would make a wonderful couple. He’d been so very lonely since his wife passed two years ago in childbirth.
Looking at the pictures, Clarence realized that each one of them was pretty in one way or another. Perhaps he had rose-colored glasses, but he’d marry any one of them rather than return to his empty home every night. Could he, in good conscience, send
each of these women a letter of rejection, he wondered, when he knew so many men who would jump at the chance to find a wife?
Finally he read the letter his employer set aside. Was he going to write his own letter to Miss Westcott? She was lovely, but he had to say her letter wasn’t very forthcoming. Not like some of the others. Was she the one Mr. Jordon had chosen to be his bride?
Miss Westcott’s letter was quite cool and formal, not at all as moving as Alice’s, which he could swear was stained with her tears. How desperate the poor widow must be to write such a heartfelt plea. It must be difficult, raising her little daughter alone. How old did she say she was? Oh, yes, four. Little Delia was four.
No, he simply could not do it! He would not write the letters. He knew too many good men, himself included, to be able to complete this task. Gathering up the papers, he carefully folded each photograph inside the letters and left the office. Once at his desk he slipped them inside his leather case and placed it in the bottom drawer.
Tonight he would make a list of suitable matches for the women and soon he would speak confidentially with the men he decided on. If they were agreeable, he would help them compose proper replies. After that, he would wash his hands of the entire affair and hope for the best. Except for Alice, of course. The letter to Alice must come from him, personally.
For a moment he felt slightly sick. He could be dismissed for this and likely would be if Mr. Jordon found out. Was it worth the risk? What if Alice was agreeable but arrived to find him out of a job? He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he disappointed a woman who’d come so far to become his wife.
Clarence walked to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. He was getting way ahead of himself, as usual. He needed to slow down and take things one step at a time. Besides, he was an excellent clerk, one of the best in the business. Finding a new position shouldn’t be a problem at all if it came to that, and he had his savings, although it would take a substantial bite out of it to arrange passage for Alice and Delia. Clarence smiled and resumed his seat, taking up his normal duties. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to come home to a house full of light and laughter?
“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Francis asked, passing him a bill of lading to stamp.
“Oh nothing,” Clarence replied. “I’m just looking forward to some warmer weather now that spring is here.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes when it rains nearly every day,” Francis grumped as he walked away.
Clarence didn’t reply, but he did smile. Yes, a wife would make all the difference.
Chapter Three
It was dusk when Amelia sent the notes to Effie and Grace asking them to meet her in their garden the next afternoon. The letter from Mr. H. Jordon arrived three days ago, but she needed time to make her decision. It was very polite and formal, yet she couldn’t fault him, as her letter had been much the same. His photograph surprised her. He was a very handsome man with thick dark hair worn slightly longer than was the custom in the east. His eyes appeared light; his expression impatient as though the photographer was taking too long. She understood that too. He was, after all, a very busy man with a thriving business. Pulling the letter away from her chest, she read it one more time before she was ready to tuck it away in the small trunk under her bed.
My Dear Miss Westcott,
Thank you for replying so expeditiously to my advertisement. You appear to be acceptable, your photograph shows you to be a very pretty young lady and your letter clearly proclaims your intelligence. I see no reason that two people such as we might not make an excellent match. I have enclosed my photograph as you requested and it is recent having only been taken in the last week. I hope my appearance is pleasing to you.
I have been remiss in not advising you of my profession. My family owns a great deal of land and we harvest the timber for sale. Frequently, I am required to travel to San Francisco on business, so I think it’s best we meet there.
I have enclosed rail fare and traveling expenses to San Francisco for two should you desire to travel with a companion or you may opt to use the extra money for a private car, the choice is yours. Once you arrive, we will spend a few days enjoying the city, and if we suit, I see no reason why we shouldn’t marry there as well. Following that, we will travel to Seattle by ship where you will reside with me in my home.
If these arrangements are acceptable to you, please send me a wire confirmation of your expected arrival date.
Yours,
H. Jordon
While far from romantic, his ability to articulate exactly what he expected and desired appealed to her on some level. So many men of her acquaintance seemed almost effeminate in their desire to amuse and cajole her into accepting their interest. She always felt it was more her father’s money than her they were after.
At least Mr. H. Jordon had his own money and it was quite sufficient if what he said was true, and she had no reason to believe otherwise. He certainly hadn’t attempted to sweet talk her with empty promises of endless devotion. No, he was a man who went after what he wanted and she was much the same way.
At this point in her life, there didn’t seem to be many options for her. She was now on display, attending social functions and parties where she felt like a piece of meat at the market. Her toes had been stepped on, she’d fended off more than her share of over eager suitors and she was just plain tired of it all.
She wanted to travel, see new and exciting places. She wanted a home of her own where she could entertain or not, depending on what she wanted, not what was expected of her. And she was weakening, she knew it. If she didn’t do something soon, her father would wear her down and she’d end up married to some man who was no fun at all. He would go to his office everyday while she’d be expected to make the rounds of tea with the ladies and balls in the evenings. It was too much. She had the social graces to do all that, she just didn’t see the point. If she couldn’t change the world for the better, she’d be better off on her own, amusing herself with a garden, or playing the piano. It was certainly more productive than spending her days gossiping and talking endlessly about the latest fashions.
Tucking her letter and the bank draft away, she went down to dinner knowing it would be one of the last she would eat in this house. She would miss her father dreadfully, but she’d also noticed he’d begun to pay quite a bit of attention to Mrs. Castor, a widow who had recently come out of mourning. Maybe her friends were right and he was waiting to get his daughter settled before he moved on. At least Effie and Grace would understand and support her, even if they didn’t agree with her decision.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Grace demanded, flopping down on the quilt. “You have no idea who this man is. What if he’s not all he claims to be?”
“Then I won’t marry him and will return home,” Amelia replied calmly. “You read the letter. We’ll be spending a few days in San Francisco to see if we are suited.”
“Right and if he’s not satisfied, he’ll sell you to a brothel,” Effie piped up.
“Effie Lane, what could you possibly know about such things?” Amelia gasped. Laughter bubbled up at the absurdity.
“I have brothers you know, older brothers, and I’m not stupid,” she shot back, crossing her eyes.
“Oh, stop it.” Grace giggled, slapping her friend. “I’m not saying anything like that will happen, Amelia, but you are taking an awful chance going so far alone.”
“Do either of you want to come with me?” she asked before taking a bite of a crisp apple.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Grace said sadly. “My mother would set the Pinkertons on me. She wants me to marry Horace.”
“Oh gosh, you have my deepest sympathy,” Effie snickered, snatching up a handful of grapes. “He’s only the richest man in town and one of the handsomest.”
“But he doesn’t love me,” Grace revealed. “He wants me for, you know.”
“No, we don’t know,” Amelia and Effie replied, sitting
up and leaning closer.
“He wants me for the same thing that my brothers go to The Ridge for.”
“What’s The Ridge?”
“It’s a brothel over in Clearview. There are ‘fallen women’ there.”
For a while they were speechless as they digested this new information. Finally Amelia spoke.
“How do you know that’s what Horace wants?” she asked breathlessly
“Because he told me, that’s how.”
“Told you when?”
“Remember the ball at the Pickard’s a few weeks ago?”
“Yes,” Amelia said with a nod.
“Well, he asked me to dance. In fact, he put his name on my dance card more than is proper. Then during a waltz he whispered all the things he wanted to do to me.”
“What did you do?”
“I slapped his face, of course, and walked away, but he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“You should have told your mother,” Effie insisted, her face red with anger.
“She wasn’t there that night, remember. She had a sick headache. It was hardly the kind of thing I could tell my father about.”
“Well then, you should have told us,” Amelia insisted. “I would have given him a black eye to go with his slapped face.”
“And I would have given him a bloody lip,” Effie added, pushing up her sleeves.
Suddenly, they were all laughing, happy to know they had each other through thick and thin. When they settled down, Grace spoke.
“I love you, Amelia, and I don’t want you to go, but I’ll keep your secret and help any way I can.”
“Oh Grace, you are such a dear friend. I hope you’ll come and visit when I get settled,” she said hugging her close.
“I hate to see you go too,” Effie said, wiping away a tear. “And I will come and see you soon. Does H. Jordon have any brothers? He is very attractive,” she said.
“Gosh, I don’t know, but I’ll write you as soon as I find out,” she promised, wrapping her arm around Effie too.
Amelia (The Marriage Market Book 1) Page 2