Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41)

by Debra Holland

  Frey wondered if he should admit that there wasn’t much of a budget.

  I am a large man, dubbed “Viking” by Seth Flanigan and, indeed, my Norwegian ancestors are said to have pillaged over much of the old world.

  He thought for a moment, wondering if the Viking reference sounded too violent, and hastily added, I, myself, am of a peaceable disposition and get along well with my fellow men.

  Tapping the end of the pen against his chin, Frey tried to put into words the type of wife he wanted. He figured he’d start with the easy part.

  I would prefer a pleasant-looking woman of medium to tall height. I have a big appetite and need a wife who is a good cook. Due to my type of work, I am hard on my clothing, so she would have to be able to mend and darn, and, if possible, make my clothes so I wouldn’t have to spend so much on ready-made garments, which don’t usually fit me well anyway.

  Frey thought of a discussion he’d had with the Flanigans and figured he’d take the couple’s advice concerning the start of his relationship with an unknown woman.

  I understand a woman is taking a risk to travel to a town, where all are strangers, including her groom. Such a life will be an adjustment for her. Therefore, she can stay as a guest at the Flanigan farm (their new home has plenty of room) for several days or weeks while she and I become acquainted and wait to marry. Or we can marry right away, or at any point, and live together at my house. I will purchase a second bed, so she can sleep in her own room until she feels comfortable about intimacy.

  Now for the hard part….

  I want to firmly state that I am a man of my word, and, if I give my pledge to my wife, I will honor my vows to the end of my days. I absolutely require a woman who will do the same. As much as possible, make sure she has a true and steady (not flighty) character.

  Sincerely,

  Frey Foster

  CHAPTER TWO

  September 1890

  Lawrence, Massachusetts

  The night after a fire destroyed the Brown Textile Mill, where she’d worked for three years, Grace Dickinson sat on her bed in the darkness, her wet hair in a towel, her arms wrapped around her knees. Across the single room of the tiny row house, elderly Shirley Rigal slept, her breathing the only sound except for the occasional crackle of the dying fire in the small stove and a steady drip-drip-drip. Earlier Grace had scrubbed her clothing free of soot and smoke and hung everything to dry near the stove.

  Faint moonlight gleamed through the two small windows in the front of the house. She couldn’t bear to draw the curtains and plunge the space into blackness or crawl under the covers and try to sleep.

  Although Grace had bathed and washed her hair in Shirley’s small barrel tub, using the rose-scented soap she hoarded for special occasions, the stink of smoke still lingered in her nose, and she wondered if she’d ever be free of the smell. As much as she tried not to think of what had happened today, she couldn’t stop the images leaping into her mind, bringing back the terror.

  Grace shivered, unable to forget the overwhelming sensations—how flames had appeared as if conjured from nowhere, the screams of the workers, the thumping of her heart, how their manager Roberta McDaniel had herded them through the factory, all of the workers choking on the thick smoke that obscured the rooms and made winding their way around the rows of machinery difficult.

  Think of Victor. Imagine him here, and I’m safe in his arms.

  She focused with all her might on her betrothed—his warm brown eyes, thick dark hair, short and neatly slicked back; his even features, compact body, and elegant hands; the dapper suits he wore. Victor stood just two inches taller than Grace, so he could easily lean in and kiss her and did so during the rare times they could be alone, usually-when they met secretly in the park and exchanged kisses that lately had grown passionate….

  How Grace wished he were here to hold her close and listen as she poured out today’s horrendous experience. Surely, if I put every terrifying minute into words, the nightmares in my mind will leave me in peace. But Victor was a traveling button salesman, making the rounds of factories in Lawrence, as well as cities all over Massachusetts. He wasn’t due back for three endless days.

  As if her longing had conjured him, a quiet knock sounded at the door, and she heard Victor hiss her name.

  Grace gasped. Unwrapping her arms, she stood, yanking off the towel and running her fingers through the damp strands of her hair.

  The knock sounded again.

  She tiptoed to the door and cracked it open. Her neighbors in the row house across the narrow street were still up and dim lamplight gleamed from their window, enough for her to see her betrothed.

  I can’t let him stand outside and risk being discovered. Without a word, Grace pulled Victor inside and quietly shut the door before throwing herself at him in uncharacteristic abandon.

  Just as in her imagination, his arms tightened around her. Tears came to her eyes.

  “I heard about the fire,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I could have lost you.” Keeping one arm around her, Victor brought his other hand up to cup her face, covering her mouth, cheeks, and forehead with kisses.

  The euphoria of his embrace made her almost dizzy. This is what I need to feel better. Victor will banish the nightmare.

  Forgetting she wore nothing but a nightgown, Grace burrowed against him. Feverishly, she returned his kisses.

  “My darling, darling Grace.” Victor’s whisper came out hoarse. He released her face and ran his hand down her side and over her hip, free from the confines of clothing and a corset. With his hands at her waist, he backed her toward the bed.

  A snore and a rustle from the other bed brought Grace to an awareness of their surroundings, and she put her hands on Victor’s chest and pushed him. “No, stop,” she said in a sharp whisper.

  He lifted up her hair and bent to kiss the side of her throat.

  She shivered, this time from the ticklish sensation of his lips instead of from fear. “We can’t. Shirley might hear us.”

  “Darling, you cannot refuse to let me love and comfort you,” he murmured in her ear. “After everything that happened today—almost being parted forever—please…you wouldn’t deny us the closeness of intimacy?”

  I haven’t had a chance to tell him everything that happened. I need to talk as much as I need his embrace.

  Grace desperately wanted to fall onto her bed with him, spill out the whole story, and allow his caresses to take her away from today’s shock. But she didn’t dare.

  If Shirley awoke and saw them together, the woman would turn Grace out into the street. Without a job, paying for food and lodging would use up her savings—the money she’d worked so hard to earn and save in order to contribute to the house they planned to buy once they were wed.

  “You must go.” She tried to wiggle out of his arms.

  “Please, Grace.”

  A sound from the other bed made her shove against his chest.

  He stepped back, eyebrows raised in displeasure.

  She stabbed a finger toward the door.

  Victor pulled her with him. At the door, he bent to whisper in her ear. “I cut out the appointments I scheduled for today in order to get here as soon as I could. I won’t be back for ten days.”

  “Ten days?” Grace didn’t dare let her voice rise in disappointment, but oh, how she wanted to.

  “I’m sorry, darling.” He kissed her forehead. “But when I return, I’ll rent a hotel room for us so we can be together. Can you make an excuse to Shirley and be gone for the night?”

  For two years, Grace had insisted on marriage before intimacy, while Victor required them to have saved sufficient funds to establish themselves before they wed. The impasse had proved difficult for them both. But today, she almost died, and that changed everything.

  Victor brought her hands to his lips and kissed them. He touched her neck, his finger dipping under the material of her nightgown to catch on the thin gold necklace he’d given her with a tin
y heart pendent engraved with a G and an L. With a hook of his finger, he lifted the necklace to rest on the outside of her nightgown.

  At his sweet gesture, she reached up and fingered the heart.

  “I have good news for you, dearest. Soon you’ll be able to wear this for all the world to see. For I just landed a big account! With that commission, we can afford to marry in two months, three at the most. So, you see, there’s no need to wait.”

  She bit back a gasp. Grace wanted to shriek with joy. Instead she bounced on her toes. “Oh, Victor,” she whispered, pulling her hands loose from his so she could throw her arms around his neck. “I’m so happy.” She squeezed tight to him.

  “Then you’ll meet me at The Brennen Hotel?”

  “Yes, oh, yes.”

  “Come at five o’clock. We’ll have dinner at this little romantic place around the corner, and then we’ll retreat to our bower of love, signing the hotel’s register as Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

  * * *

  Throughout the week, Grace’s moods fluctuated between excitement about spending the night with Victor and their approaching wedding, to the nightmare memories of the fire that continued to plague her. She been teary and tired and jumpy, unlike her calm, practical self. Without a job, time weighed heavily on her hands, and she spent the first day cleaning every square inch of Shirley’s house.

  She received free room and board for looking after the elderly woman, which usually amounted to doing the heavy cleaning and laundry, as well as toting buckets of water, shopping, and running errands. Shirley still enjoyed cooking and doing some of the cleaning herself, so Grace didn’t feel her duties were too arduous, but she’d have to find someone responsible who could take her place when she married. Maybe one of the other seamstresses will want the position.

  After her cleaning frenzy, when Shirley was visiting a friend, Grace brought out her heirloom family wedding gown, first worn by her great-great-grandmother, Abigail Richmond, which Grace had stored under her bed in an ancient cedar box original to the time of the dress. The bodice of the gown was a robin’s egg blue brocade with a pale gold lattice design on the sides and back. In the front, lace trim of falling leaves edged the square neckline, with the brocade pattern changing to roses, fleur de lis, and fern leaves, and ending in a squared-off V. The three-quarter length sleeves were edged with the same lace as on the bottom of the bodice, and the back laced up with cream-colored satin ribbons. The skirt was blue-green satin with a shimmery gold overskirt that was so thin the material underneath showed through.

  During the antebellum period, the dress’s original side panniers were carefully altered to make a hoopskirt for her grandmother as a bride. Now, Grace just as skillfully modified the full skirt into a bustle on the back. As much as she wanted a fashionable look on her wedding day, she was more concerned with preserving the dress for her daughter and granddaughter.

  Family tradition said the bride who wore the heirloom gown was blessed with a happy marriage. Will Victor love this dress as much as I do? Grace laughed softly to herself. Of course not. But I hope he’ll love seeing me in it. She hadn’t shared anything about the gown with him, preferring to surprise him and tell him the history afterward.

  We have to make an appointment to meet with a minister. She and Victor had never attended church together, and she wondered if they should use her minister or his. Either would be fine with her. We cannot wait, just in case I become pregnant right away. The thought of a baby gave her an inner glow.

  With her future progeny in mind, she used a soft padded bustle instead of a wire one, not as big but more far more comfortable to wear and easier on the fabric. As she sewed the tiny stitches by hand, missing the sewing machine at work, Grace tried to imagine her wedding day, but somehow the happy vision kept disappearing into smoke and flames and fear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Saturday after the fire, wearing her second-best dress, Grace walked with a swing in her step to the park to attend a meeting of the factory seamstresses organized by their manager, Roberta McDaniel. Gone was August’s humidity, and the sunny day held just a hint of autumn. A cool breeze blew from the direction of the river that bordered one side of the small park, carrying the scent of mossy rocks and withering grass. A few of the trees already displayed some leaves changing color.

  Just the thought of her fellow seamstresses brought back the images again. Blinded by the images from the factory, with screams in her ears, and the smell of smoke in her nose, Grace paused, blinking to clear her vision. Touching the gold heart she wore hidden under her shirtwaist helped steady her. Next to the precious wedding gown, the necklace was her most treasured possession.

  Feeling comforted, she turned the corner to the park and left the street to walk up the path leading to the area where several of the women had begun to congregate. Although she wasn’t close with most of the other workers, after what they’d gone through, she felt a kinship with them, and looked forward to seeing everyone and learning how they’d fared. Are they troubled by their memories of the fire, too?

  She glanced around for Madeline Nelson, the woman who’d worked on the sewing machine next to her. Tall, brown-haired Madeline was a widow who possessed a sense of humor and a feisty spirit, but the woman was just as private as Grace. They made perfect work companions, and Roberta rarely had to scold the two of them for talking.

  As Grace reached the group, Roberta signaled for silence. Of medium height, she was slender with blonde hair and brown eyes that often looked anxious or tired; not surprising considering she managed a factory full of women and dealt with Bob Brown, the obnoxious owner.

  Grace slipped through several women to stand near Madeline, exchanging uncertain smiles with the other seamstresses as she passed. Surely now that the factory was burned down, and she and Victor were about to be married, they no longer had to keep their engagement secret. He’d always been so concerned with proper public appearance for the sake of propriety because Grace could be fired if Mr. Brown or Roberta thought she exhibited loose morals, and Victor could lose the important account. They couldn’t do social activities like other courting couples such as stroll along the river promenade or have Victor call upon her at home under Shirley’s chaperonage.

  We have nothing left to lose, Grace realized with excitement. She leaned forward to whisper to Madeline, who looked tired and drawn. “I have exciting news. I’ll tell you after the meeting.”

  The older woman’s eyes widened. Her smile transformed her face into prettiness. She nodded. “I welcome hearing about something hopeful!”

  Her thoughts occupied, Grace only just caught Roberta’s announcement that the factory would not be rebuilt. In dismay, she realized some of the women would probably run out of money in the next weeks. Not all were savers like she’d been, and some had other family members to support.

  She made a mental note to inquire if Madeline wanted to live with Shirley. Perhaps, the older woman would consent to her new companion coming to live with them before Grace left. She could sleep on a pallet on the floor. Provided the old woman doesn’t kick me out for going behind her back with Victor. Shirley wasn’t a vindictive woman, but her feelings might be hurt.

  At that moment, Roberta mentioned the Grooms’ Gazette. This brought Grace’s wandering attention back to the meeting. Their former manager held copies of the periodical, explaining how the mail-order marriage system worked.

  Grace could barely suppress a shudder at the thought of traveling to another state to marry a stranger—no matter that their manager assured them the matchmaker in charge of the newspaper investigated the men as much as possible. Thank goodness I have Victor.

  In the past months, she’d grown impatient with her betrothed’s insistence on waiting to marry, but now, all Grace could feel was appreciation for her secure financial circumstances.

  Josephine Depardieu was the first to march up to Roberta for one of the newspapers. She wore a shabby gray dress that did not at all suit her honey-colored h
air, but she carried herself with elegance and spoke with an upper-class accent, which she sometimes peppered with French words.

  Grace wasn’t sure if the woman was brave or foolhardy. Maybe both.

  One by one, she watched many of the seamstresses take a copy of the Grooms’ Gazette—some eagerly and others with obvious reluctance.

  Madeline looked at Grace and wrinkled her nose, indicating what she thought of a mail-order marriage. She made no move toward Roberta.

  Grace nodded in agreement.

  Holding several newspapers, Josephine approached Grace and Madeline. “Come on, you two. At least take a look at the men who are available.”

  Madeline held up a hand in a stopping gesture and shook her head.

  “I have no need to.” Grace couldn’t help a proud smile. Victor had said two to three months, but she was feeling optimistic today. “I’m engaged to Victor Jones, and we are to be married in the next two months.”

  Madeline gasped, and her blue eyes sparkled. “I always suspected he was sweet on you. But, you clever girl, you never showed a hint of partiality.”

  “Mon dieu.” Josephine grasped both of them by the arms and pulled them out of earshot of the others. “Grace, you cannot mean the salesman Victor Jones who has…had the button account for the factory?”

  Grace beamed at them, glad they knew him, at least by sight. “Why, yes, he’s the one.”

  Josephine shook her head, a sorrowful look on her face. “Non, non, non,” she scolded. She leaned closer. “I’m so sorry, ma chérie.

  Grace’s stomach tightened. “What, Josephine? What is it?”

  “Victor Jones is married. He and his wife live near my cousin on the other side of town.”

  An arrow pierced her, the pain hot. “No!” Grace whispered, feeling dizzy. Not my Victor. She gave Josephine a pleading glance. “You must be mistaken.”

  “Non, chérie. I’m not mistaken.”