The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride Becomes A Lady

by Iris Kelly

  Virginia put the letter away uneasily. Her own life was so full to the brim with contentment, but knowing someone who was going through such hardship did create a cloud over her own blissful circumstances.

  *****

  Avery decided to pay a visit to Virginia Carlyle, and he hoped that her husband, his good friend, Lewis Carlyle, would not be at home, because if he was, Avery was going to be in for his share of mockery and ridicule. A self-professed cynic regarding romance, he was now seeking advice on how to order a bride by mail. Yes, he was most likely in for a good ribbing.

  As luck would have it, the circumstances were ideal. Lewis was not there, but Virginia’s aunt, Lydia Cooper, was. The two mail order brides. He would have to throw himself at their mercy.

  “I’m very happy to find both you ladies here today, for I have an enormous favor to ask of you.”

  “Mr. Martin, we would be delighted to assist in any way we could,” Virginia reassured.

  “Indeed, Mr. Martin, how can we help you?” Lydia concurred.

  “I’m certain that you’re aware that I have hopes of running for office in a few years’ time.”

  “You have mentioned it once or twice, Mr. Martin. And you may be assured you have our votes,” Virginia said.

  “You have the full support of the Coopers, without a doubt,” Lydia added.

  “Much appreciated. But there is a more urgent matter that concerns me.”

  “Anything within our power,” Virginia said.

  “I need to become politically viable.”

  The two ladies were gratified to be consulted on a matter of such importance, but they were still in a state of confusion. Avery swallowed his pride.

  “I need you to help me find a wife.”

  This announcement was greeted by such a commotion of laughter and merciless teasing that Avery knew he had not been spared by Lewis’s absence.

  “Politically viable. You are a shameless romantic, Mr. Martin. What woman could resist such a tender appeal to her heart?”

  “I am not interested in hearts, as you well know. I fully admit that I have seen evidence of them, and I understand how you are both blindly disposed to put faith in them, owing to your own outlandishly happy marriages. I have far more realistic aspirations with regard to matrimony. I need a domestic partner for public social functions, to stand by my side and support my political objectives. And to provide me with children so that I can successfully embody family stability. To that end, I . . . wrote an ad for a mail order bride some two months ago.”

  Again, Avery had to wait for the laughter to die down.

  “How many responses?” Virginia asked.

  “None.”

  “None! Mr. Martin . . . may we see a copy of your ad?” Lydia asked.

  He was prepared for that request, and he pulled a folded newspaper out of his bag. He handed it to Lydia, who read it silently with Virginia perched over her shoulder. They exchanged a wry look.

  “You forgot the tiara,” Virginia noted.

  “The what?”

  “Were you going to provide a tiara, or were you expecting her to bring her own?” Virginia said.

  “Mr. Martin, I have read my fair share of these ads. I read them voraciously, as some people read novels. And I must tell you, I have never read a more demanding or intimidating list of requirements. I wouldn’t have dared to answer such an ad,” Lydia said.

  “But . . . but . . . those are all important things. I need a lady of the highest caliber, and I know that such a creature must exist, for Mr. Carlyle and Mr. Cooper were able to find ladies who would have satisfied my requirements in every degree.”

  Virginia and Lydia were duly flattered, and ultimately, they were so fond of Avery that they would like nothing better than to see him in a happy marriage.

  “Did you want our help in rewriting your ad, Mr. Martin?” Lydia asked.

  “I need something more direct and reliable. I was hoping that between the two of you, that you might . . . know someone back East. Sister, cousin, a very young aunt, or a close family friend. Surely, with your history and social circles back in Boston, there might be someone who comes to mind, who has these qualities that I’ve described and who might enjoy a position out here in Cheyenne as my wife.”

  “Oh, Mr. Martin, I do wish we could be of some assistance there,” Virginia said. “There was certainly no shortage of acquaintances—fashionable, certainly. But a desire to live out West? An interest in political life? Those are some very particular qualities, and I doubt that we know anyone who would fit the bill.”

  “Of course we do,” Lydia said. “Cousin Beatrice.”

  Virginia’s eyes widened in shock. Lydia gave her a warning look.

  “Cousin Beatrice! Are you . . . quite sure?” Virginia managed.

  “Quite,” Lydia declared. “She is intelligent, well-read . . . she reads in French, as a matter of fact. She takes a great interest in national politics, is most impressed by Wyoming’s strides in women’s suffrage, and she has had a great deal of exposure to the expectations of the well-to-do. Wouldn’t you agree, Virginia?”

  “Oh, certainly. A great deal of exposure. But . . .”

  “She is a distant cousin on the Bellamy side. Virginia and Beatrice are nearly the same age. They were raised alongside one another as children until Beatrice was about eight years of age. Then her mother died, and well, we saw a great deal less of her.”

  “So you have not seen much of her in recent years?” Avery inquired.

  “Just recently, yes. The few years before our move to Cheyenne, we both saw a great deal of her. Virginia and Beatrice even traveled to Europe together.”

  “We did. We certainly did,” Virginia agreed, mind still reeling.

  “And is she . . . is she . . .” Avery stammered.

  “She is lovely. You will not be disappointed on that account,” Lydia assured.

  “Not an important thing, of course,” Avery said.

  “Of course not,” Lydia said.

  “And you think that she would agree to be my wife?”

  “I think we might be able to talk her into coming out here and considering your proposal. And the intervening time might best be used on brushing up on your romantic talents. She must be wooed, Mr. Martin. She must be wooed.”

  Avery sighed with resignation. But this opportunity was too good to pass up, and he could certainly rise to the occasion. He thanked the ladies profusely and made a hasty departure. Virginia listened to the sound of his steps descending the stairs and the slam of the door behind him. She whirled around in disbelief to face her aunt.

  “Cousin Beatrice!”

  “We prayed for an answer to lift Beatrice out of her terrible difficulties, and our wishes could not have been fulfilled in a timelier manner. We have both found wonderful lives out here, and she can too.”

  “But she is a maid. And he is expecting a Boston lady.”

  “And a Boston lady he shall get. I know she is up to the challenge. We will see that she has the wardrobe. Her speech and her education will not give her away. She always had more enthusiasm for study than even yourself. She always wanted to better herself—to prove herself, as much as she could, in a setting where all improvements were seen as distasteful evidence of a servant who was getting above herself.

  I watched her grow. And when her mother died, I hoped the Bellamys would take her in as their ward, protect her and look after her future. Instead, she was turned into a maid. This is her chance, Virginia. Her only chance out of misery. Will you help?”

  This was a deception of extraordinary magnitude. Beatrice wasn’t really their responsibility. And yet, Virginia could see in an instant that she would be haunted for life if she turned her back on this chance to help her.

  “I’ll get a pen and paper. You dictate.”

  Lydia sighed with relief. Now, there was only the small matter of convincing a very humbly situated Boston girl that her destiny was to become First Lady in a western state.
r />   CHAPTER THREE

  Boston

  “Table eighteen.”

  When the table number that she was working at was called, Beatrice rose dutifully to join five other women in the line for the bathroom. This was a twice-a-day occurrence, mid-morning and mid-afternoon.

  Of course, lunch provided a third opportunity for relief. But it was a thirty-minute break, with precious little time to do much beyond getting to the break area and wolfing down one’s cold meal as quickly as possible. A dash to the bathroom at that time was certain to result in a tardy return to work, which was punished with a loud tongue lashing from the shift manager, a change of assignments to the irritating portions of the dress assembly, and a possible reduction of pay.

  Best to stick with lunch and keep water intake to a minimum. Beatrice also appreciated a maximum lunch period, because she had a friend to talk to—not Abigail. Unfortunately, they were on different eating shifts. But she had taken notice of another young woman in the lunch room, a few years younger than herself, who she noticed holding a book in one hand and her lunch in the other—a kindred spirit.

  “What are you reading?” Beatrice had inquired.

  “Treasure Island. Have you heard of it?” Molly asked.

  “I’ve read it at least twice. Those are the best kinds of stories, those about places far away from Boston.”

  “Have you ever been out of Boston?” Molly asked hopefully.

  Beatrice could see that Molly came from modest circumstances. This was not the time to brag about the wondrous places that Beatrice had seen when the Bellamys had required a maid to accompany them on their travels. Perhaps just a small disclosure.

  “I have been to New York City.”

  “Oh! Was it wonderful? What was it like?”

  “It feels as if you can’t move two feet in either direction without running into someone. It was more people than you can imagine. Can you envision a place so large that it makes Boston feel small? Even so, it was nothing compared to . . .”

  “Compared to what?”

  “To London,” Beatrice confessed reluctantly. Molly’s mouth had dropped open so far that an explanation was in order. “The family I worked for as a maid sometimes needed me to come along on their travels.”

  “I always wondered about a life in service. Perhaps I should still consider it.”

  “You have to live in the house, you know. Wouldn’t you miss your family?” Beatrice asked.

  “I suppose I should, shouldn’t I? But I don’t think I actually would.”

  Molly’s father was a rough, unkind man. His cruelty had pushed Molly’s mother into an early grave. And her three brothers took their lead from their father, poking fun of Molly’s cooking and confiscating her paycheck for their own entertainment and private expenses, and returning only a small allowance to her.

  “But I knew they were going to do that. So I told them that I was only getting six dollars a week from the factory, when I’m actually getting nine. I put aside that extra money—it’s twelve dollars a month. I’m gonna save it and save it until one day . . .”

  “Yes,” Beatrice commiserated. “One day . . .”

  Later that afternoon, Beatrice made the mistake of asking a question of the girl next to her. She just wanted to make sure that she wasn’t assembling a blouse incorrectly, and it was as brief as a question could be, but it was enough to attract the ire of the supervisor.

  “Is it gossip that we’re paying you for?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry. I just had a question about the buttons,” Beatrice said.

  “Buttons? Simplest thing in the world. If someone tells me that they’re having trouble with the buttons, I know that they’re either stupid or lying.”

  His booming voice carried a long way, and more than a few workers glanced over in sympathy. Beatrice knew silence was the only option, because if she spoke at that moment, she would be fired for sure. Abigail had certainly warned her, but this was about as insulting and demeaning as she had ever been treated. Everything she had hoped to escape from.

  But she wouldn’t hold it against Abigail. During her time in the boardinghouse, and on Sunday afternoons, the divorcee had proven herself to be a stimulating companion. They set out for museums together, and Beatrice was finally in the mood to don one of her nice dresses on again and share the story of her clandestine outings with Abigail.

  “Hmm. I had to sneak around myself. I pretended to be shopping for clothes or running silly errands. My husband never allowed me to go to museums,” Abigail said as they wandered through The Museum of Art.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because he knew how much I loved it.”

  Beatrice was baffled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Marriage can be a kind of servitude, compared to which our loathsome employer and your former position seem rather benign. I have little respect for the institution. It provides a façade of security, particularly marriage to a rich man—ball gowns, jewels, parties and fine wine—but from the very beginning, it was a vicious bear trap, and I was willing to chew my own foot off to get out of it. I chose to leave everything, lose everything and have nothing. And now, I am without any sort of position in society. I work a hard sixty hours every week. But I go to the museum every Sunday.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “I’ve never been able to make my mind up about marriage. My friend, Mrs. Maxwell . . . well, she’s Mrs. Cooper now. And I suppose I shouldn’t call her my friend, but she was so good to me . . . Her first marriage was very unhappy. Fortunately, he died and left her a lot of money.”

  “A stroke of luck if ever I heard one,” Abigail said, somewhat enviously.

  “But her second marriage sounds awfully happy, and her niece, Virginia Bellamy—now Carlyle—she’s happier than I ever thought anyone could be. So perhaps marriage is not all bad.”

  “I suppose I can’t say there aren’t a few admirable ones. Perhaps one in ten, and I call that very bad odds. You’re not thinking of getting married, are you, Beatrice?”

  “Well, I was going to accept one of my dozens of suitors, but you’ve talked me out of it.”

  “That is cause for celebration. Shall we check out the custards in the tea room?”

  Beatrice was happy to concur. It was nice to spend Sunday with a friend. It helped push to the back of her mind the dreariness and humiliation that filled the lion’s share of her new life.

  *****

  About six weeks after she had begun her new job, she returned home to find a letter from Wyoming waiting for her. Ordinarily, this was always a welcome event, but today, she felt a bit wary of what she would find inside. She had told Lydia of her dismissal and her new job. She had tried not to make it sound too terrible, for she didn’t want to be the object of pity. What would Lydia have to say?

  She finally tore the letter open and, far from some bland pleasantry, was greeted with this:

  We have both found great happiness as brides here in Cheyenne and are certain that you can as well. Our friend, Avery Martin, is a lawyer with big political ambitions. In a few years, he hopes to run for political office, and he wants a wife and family to be at his side. He wants a cultured and well-educated lady from back East, and he asked for our assistance in finding the lady.

  So we told him there was a distant cousin in our family who might be perfect for him. Cousin Beatrice. He is now most anxious to meet you.

  On reading this, Beatrice’s knees crumbled. Thank goodness she had been leaning right up against her bed.

  Some might regard this as an unpardonable deception, but we think it is in service of a greater good. He is the smartest man we know, and underneath his lawyer’s rationality, you’ll find evidence of a big heart. He has the refined manners of a gentleman and a professional, but he has a warm nature on closer acquaintance.

  He need never know that you were a maid. We have full confidence that you can address him as an equal. You certainly weren’t shy with us. It’s the chance for a new life
. Please consider it. We know it seems a monumental step. Just come out and meet him first, then make your decision.

  Best regards,

  (Hereafter) Cousin Virginia and Aunt Lydia

  Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears and they would not stop. It wasn’t the opportunity of marriage—which left her in such a state of disbelief that she didn’t know what to think of it—or the fact that she was being asked to engage in a jaw-dropping deception. It was that the family of her former employers—ladies who had known her as a lowly maid—believed that she was worthy of such an important man. That they were willing to claim her as family. Cousin Beatrice. The trickle of tears turned into a flood.

  *****

  Marriage! Beatrice had to admit that her opinion of the institution had dropped precipitously since meeting Abigail. What would her friend have to say about this bizarre and unexpected offer?

  They sat together for the boardinghouse’s dinner, as always, but Beatrice was so uncharacteristically silent that Abigail was worried for her.

  “Let’s take a walk after dinner,” Abigail suggested.

  Beatrice agreed. She needed fresh air and she needed an opinion, although she could guess what it would be. They settled down on a bench.

  “You have often told me your bad opinion of marriage. But I’m wondering, isn’t there at least the chance for real security and real affection?”

  “You know marriage by reputation. I am acquainted firsthand. It is a tragically flawed institution, and women will always come out on the worse end,” Abigail declared.

  Beatrice sighed and handed Abigail the letter, whose curiosity was aroused to the boiling point. She devoured it quickly, and when she looked up, she looked almost as stunned as Beatrice had felt. They stared at one another a long, long time, and then Abigail gently took Beatrice’s hand.

  “When are you leaving?”

  Beatrice choked. “Really? Do you really think so?”

  “I think that these two ladies care about you, that your welfare is a great concern to them, and this gentleman has their good seal of approval. It is a gamble worth taking.”