A gust of breeze tugged at Grace’s hair, blowing a loose strand across her eyes. She couldn’t be bothered to brush it away. She felt ill….
Josephine reached up to tuck the tendril behind Grace’s ear. “I would not deliver such devastating news, my dear, if I were not sure. Victor Jones has a son about five years old who looks just like him. And his wife is expecting another child.”
A family! Grace couldn’t seem to breathe, and her knees buckled.
Both women grabbed her elbows.
Madeline gave Grace’s arm a little shake. “You must act normally or else the others may suspect something is wrong. You don’t want gossip to get out about this.”
“As long as no one mentions the crétin’s name, Grace should be fine,” Josephine assured them. “I believe we’ve all been experiencing the oddest emotional reactions from our experience with the fire and losing our livelihood.” She patted Grace’s shoulder and pointed her chin in Roberta’s direction. “Go and take a Grooms’ Gazette. I doubt you’ll want to remain in this town much longer.”
Consumed by her shattered heart, Grace could barely absorb the woman’s words, much less take her advice. She shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly.” All my plans….
“Now, Grace, Jo is right,” Madeline stated with her characteristic bluntness. She pulled on Grace’s arm to start her walking toward Roberta.
The gentle pressure of Josephine’s hand on her back pushed her to go on.
Unshed tears made Grace’s chest as tight as a vise; her heart beat slow and heavy with pain. She moved like a machine, giving Roberta a polite turn up of her lips and taking the newspaper the manager held out. Dazed and wounded, she couldn’t make out the blurred words.
“Best of luck, Grace,” Roberta murmured. “Keep me posted about what you decide.”
“Thank you. And to you as well.” In a daze, she shuffled back to the two women.
Madeline cocked her head in askance. “Do you want us to walk you home?”
I have no home. That place belongs to Shirley. She will be there, asking questions when she sees I’m upset.
In that moment, Grace realized she’d lost more than Victor. She’d lost her dream of a home and the life they would have made together—the inspiration for living through the dreary days and all the scrimping and saving she’d endured. In an instant, her once bright future had turned to ashes.
“Please, let us take you home,” Madeline prompted, frowning.
“You both are kind to offer, but I’d prefer to be alone.” Grace frowned at the newspaper. “To think. To read this. To make a decision.”
“I understand,” Madeline said. “That’s what I’d do in your place.” She leaned forward and kissed Grace’s cheek. “Send word to my lodging when you know what you’ll do. You are stronger than you know, dear Grace. All the best to you.”
“Oui,” Josephine said in fervent agreement. “We are all strong women and will prevail over these dreadful circumstances.”
“The best to you both as well. Good-bye.” Although grateful for their kindness, all Grace could manage was a faint smile. She turned and walked away from the two women. She regretted not becoming closer friends with them and promised herself to do better at forming friendships in the future. But the pain of Victor’s betrayal soon consumed her mind.
I’ve been such a fool. Without thought, she turned to walk along the river path, to a spot where she and Victor sometimes had met because bushes screened them from sight. She reached the tiny clearing and the fallen log where they’d sit, exchanging kisses and planning their future.
Her heart twisted at the flood of memories, and she turned to flee before stopping herself, knowing no other place where she could be private. She took a seat and forced herself to relive every encounter with Victor, starting from the first time they’d met.
In retrospect, she could see the signs of his deceit—the secret courtship, how she couldn’t write him letters, nor would he write to her. Grace didn’t know where he lived, because Victor had always said dropping by a men’s boarding house wouldn’t be seemly. She recalled the long trips when she’d believed he was traveling to his other accounts, but he’d probably been with his family. And worst of all, the physical intimacies he wanted without the sanctity of marriage.
And I almost gave in. Horrified, Grace dropped her face into her hands. What would I have done once he’d had his way with me? A marriage certainly wouldn’t have occurred! How could I have been so gullible? Her stomach clenched in shame, followed by a wave of anger at the man. Victor’s lucky he isn’t here right now!
What will I do? She knew from local gossip how few jobs for women were available in Lawrence. While she’d dilly-dallied since the fire, thinking herself secure with Victor, some of the other women had probably acted immediately and been hired. Without work, she couldn’t support herself, and the sewing trade was all she knew.
Fueled by her pain and anger, Grace straightened. She snapped open the Gazette and perused the pages, looking not at the men but at the states. My most important requirement in a husband is that he lives in the West, far away from Victor Jones!
Montana leaped out from the page. Grace knew nothing about the state except that she vaguely thought the place was full of cowboys and savages. I don’t want a cowboy for a husband!
But since she supposed the rest of the West also had cowboys, and they were better than a lying button salesman, Grace went ahead and skimmed the letter from Frey Foster, learning he most definitely was not a cowboy—another advantage. She noted the addition of the sentences underneath his signature added by a Mrs. Seymour, who by her words must be a matchmaker. The woman wrote that Mr. Foster was handsome, with a fine (although large) physique, a full head of hair, and all of his teeth. He was a hard worker and was, indeed, building a house.
Grace reread the paragraph about his fidelity, not that she could trust words—even written ones. Victor had broken the vows he’d spoken before God to remain faithful to his wife. Another wave of shame washed over her.
Frey Foster will do. Grace closed the paper so forcefully the middle tore. She stood, using anger to push her through the pain.
Now to go write a letter to the man, prepare to move to Montana, and become Mrs. Frey Foster. She could barely stomach the idea.
* * *
When she returned home from the park, Grace found Shirley standing at the stove and stirring a pot of what smelled like vegetable soup. She waved with the wooden spoon. “Come in, girl, and have something to eat.”
Grace pressed a hand to her stomach, where nausea still lingered. “I’m not hungry yet.”
“How did the meeting go?”
“The factory will remain permanently closed.” Grace handed her the Grooms’ Gazette. “Because there’s no work, Roberta gave out these, suggesting we become mail-order brides.” She shrugged. “Mr. Foster of Montana interests me.”
“Well, now. Let me see.” Shirley took a seat at the table and carefully poured over the pages. The old woman seemed delighted to read about the various potential husbands, cackling over some of the more unfortunate-sounding men, especially the one with twelve children, and selected two that she might have chosen if she were young.
Although Grace had smiled at Shirley’s comments, the effort to remain composed drained her. She couldn’t wait to be alone so she could stop pretending.
While Shirley amused herself with the Groom’s Gazette, Grace made a list on the back of a scrap of butcher paper, jotting down everything she needed to do before she left—assuming he chose her. She wasn’t about to write a letter to the man with Shirley looking on.
The old woman warned Grace that she’d heard Montana had longer winters than Massachusetts, and then scolded her, saying it was about time she replaced her worn-out old coat for one far thicker. So, buy coat headed her list, followed by make a satchel. She didn’t want to waste money on a leather satchel or carpetbag that she’d only use once, but she figured she could fashion
one out of burlap sacks.
Purchase new shoes. The soles of her only pair were worn so thin, she’d added cardboard to the insides.
Buy material for new clothes. She pursed her lips, wondering if she had time to make more than one new dress before she left. She spared a thought for the sewing machine she’d known so well and sighed at how long clothing would take to stitch by hand.
Shirley looked up. “Are you serious about this mail-order bride business?”
Grace nodded. “Will you be all right if I leave you?”
“I’ll be sorry to see you go. But yes, I’ll be fine. You’ve been a good companion to me these three years, and I’ll miss you.”
Tears came to Grace’s eyes.
Shirley shook her finger. “None of that now!” She tapped the ad. “I approve of this Frey Foster of Montana. I’ve always admired big, strapping men. My husband was such a one.” She smiled, as if remembering. “To this day, I miss the protective feel of his strong arms around me.”
Grace hid a shudder at the idea.
* * *
That night while Shirley slept, Grace sat at the table to compose the letter to the stranger whom she hoped to marry in a few weeks. Ever since learning about Victor’s betrayal, her chest had remained tight, and she wanted desperately to cry.
Grace bit her lip and dipped the quill of her pen into the ink. She scratched out a reply, carefully, so as not to leave any blots. She didn’t have extra paper to spare for a second attempt.
Dear Mr. Foster,
My name is Grace Dickinson, and I live in Lawrence, Massachusetts, where I have worked at the Brown Textile Mill for the last three years as a seamstress. Recently, the mill burned down, and we barely escaped with our lives. The owner has no plans to rebuild. After such a frightening occurrence, and having lost my source of income, I have no desire to live in Lawrence any longer and have decided to seek a husband.
Her vision blurred, and Grace paused to swipe a hand over her eyes before dipping her pen in the ink and continuing to write.
I have read your list of requirements, and I fit them well. I am five feet-six inches tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. I have been told I am pretty and poised.
Although the last line was true in all points, after Victor’s betrayal, Grace wasn’t at all sure her previous composure would return.
I’m a proficient cook and housekeeper, and, of course, would be able to keep your clothing in fine repair and replace your garments as needed. Addressing your mention of “as our budget allows,” I feel you should know that I am a frugal woman, who is well able to live on a small income. Hopefully, as we both work together for our future, that budget will grow.
Grace let out a long breath, thinking of the skimping she’d done to save for her marriage to Victor. Now, if Mr. Foster accepted her, that money would go toward a different marriage.
I appreciate the offer to stay with your friends. Provided we aren’t repulsed by the sight of each other, I would rather marry at once. But I will take you up on the offer of a second bed and time to become better acquainted before intimacy. Thank you for being so understanding.
Grace dipped her pen into the ink well, wondering how long before she could bear the thought of a man who wasn’t Victor touching her. Forever? Well, if necessary, she’d just have to endure the man’s embrace and everything that involved.
I, too, have strong views of the sanctity of matrimony. Grace had to swallow the lump that rose in her throat, just thinking how Victor had almost made her complicit in adultery. The whole thought of what she’d done to his poor wife—even if the woman didn’t know—made her feel ill. Mentally she added a line, I have seen the pain that violating the sixth commandment can bring. She shook her head, deciding not to put such a revealing detail into words, and continued to write.
If this match is to your agreement, please send a train ticket with your response. I’ll be arriving with few possessions—a portmanteau containing clothing, toiletries, and my small but cherished library, as well as a hatbox and satchel.
I look forward to hearing from you,
Sincerely,
Grace Amelia Dickinson
Her vision clouded with tears. Not wanting the writing blurred by moisture, she blew on the last words until the ink dried and folded the paper into threes. She couldn’t have tears marring the words. After tucking her response into the envelope, she addressed the front and left it on the table. Leaning forward, she blew out the lamp, welcoming the darkness.
With a sad sigh, Grace moved to her bed, climbed under the covers, and pulled a handkerchief from under her pillow. After the interminable hours since learning the horrible news, she finally welcomed the release of tears.
CHAPTER FOUR
On the morning of his wedding, Frey was up at dawn and already at work on his home. An unexpected job to lay the brick pathways in the park-like backyard of the Livingston mansion had sidelined his progress on the foursquare. Consequently, his own place wasn’t yet fit for a bride. At least with full pockets from Mr. Livingston’s prompt payment he could better afford a wife.
Although there was still much to do, especially with the house missing all the decorative molding and cabinetry and most of the furniture, Frey had one finishing touch to complete—a stained-glass window transom to be placed over the front door. He hoped the bright artwork would help Grace overlook what features his home lacked.
For this decorative touch, Frey had traded work with the stained-glass craftsman who’d made the windows for the Livingston mansion. He’d taken the train to Crenshaw to build some fancy brickwork walkway for the man’s home in return for the transom.
Carefully, Frey studied the rectangular window—a stylized white water lily with long, leafy tendrils ending with smaller orange lilies. Gold and green blocks containing filigree designs formed the border. Yesterday, he’d affixed the window into the jamb frame, installed the molding, assembled the whole unit, and then painted the wood to match the white trim on the rest of the house.
Today, he removed the temporary wood panel over the transom. Even though he’d built the door higher to accommodate his height, he could still reach to install the colored glass without standing on a ladder. He fitted the window into the slot above the door, applying the sealing.
Once Frey was finished, the sun was up. He stepped back to admire his handiwork for a moment before glancing down at Gertie, who was supervising from the corner of the porch. “We’d better clean the place and get on over to the bathhouse,” he told the dog. “The Flanigans will be here before you know it.”
Gertie tilted her head as if contemplating his words.
“I know. We have a perfectly good bathroom, here. And yesterday, I scrubbed every inch. I have no time to do so again.”
He knelt to hug Gertie. “You are about to have another person to love. I hope Grace likes dogs. I didn’t think to put that requirement in the letter. Or what if she likes dogs but doesn’t want you in the house?” He frowned. What if I have to part with my dog to have a happy wife? He couldn’t bear the thought. “Just in case, I’d better leave you at home. Consider this a Sunday, same as when I’m attending church.”
Gertie’s ears drooped.
“Ah, now.” Frey lowered himself to one knee and called the dog over, fondling her head and ears, and receiving a friendly lick for his efforts. “Come on, girl.” He got to his feet and entered the house.
As if sensing the coming changes, Gertie stuck close while he swept the floors and dusted the windowsills and what little furniture he had. The new bed in the guest room was made up with crisp sheets, plump down pillows, and thick woolen blankets. He wondered how his bride would feel about the lack of furniture in the house.
Frey thought of the three important pieces he’d managed to obtain before Grace’s arrival—a sofa, the extra bed, and a surprise he’d bought for her locked in another room—and his lips curled in a smile. I’ll unlock that door when the time is right.
After he’d fi
nished and his home looked as presentable as possible, he and Gertie hurried to the bathhouse. The Woods, the owners of the business, were fond of dogs and didn’t mind her tagging along. In fact, Gertie was welcome in most places in Sweetwater Springs, including Hardy’s Saloon. Frey had never tried to bring her inside the mercantile, though. He could only imagine how the owners would react. Mrs. Cobb would probably take after Gertie with a broom—take after both of them with her broom, which is why he’d left the dog behind yesterday when he’d gone to the store to buy Grace a simple gold band.
Just as he was wandering home, his hair loose and damp and his beard and mustache closely trimmed, he saw the Flanigan’s wagon, with Seth driving, pull into his driveway. Three-year-old Anna was perched between her parents, clutching a rag doll. Baby George sat on his mother’s lap.
With a happy bark, Gertie raced to meet them.
Frey moved toward Mrs. Flanigan’s side, noting the crates and baskets packed in the back, and glanced from her to the laden wagon. “Don’t tell me you folks are thinking of moving in? I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to build you a nice house, and my own would be finished by now.”
She shook a finger at him. “I’m very familiar with the state of a bachelor’s home. I thought to spare your bride the shock, although we’ll have to tell her right away what we’ve lent you, so Grace doesn’t think everything belongs to this household.”
“I know I’m missing some furniture and all, but those boxes don’t look big enough….”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Furnishings are up to you to provide. We brought dinner. A lace tablecloth. China settings and silverware, some pots and pans, and serving pieces.”
Frey leaned over the side of the wagon and peered into a slatted crate.
A beady black eye glared back.
“Are you lending me chickens?”
Mrs. Flanigan laughed. “No. That’s our wedding gift to you both. There are five—a rooster so you have dinner for next Sunday and four hens. And, I have a bag in there somewhere with seed packets for your garden.”
Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) Page 3