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

by Debra Holland

  Grace half-listened and nodded, but her mind was on the man walking behind her and on her uncharacteristic teasing. Beyond an occasional quip, she couldn’t recall ever having exhibited a joking kind of humor with a male before—not even with her father, and certainly not with Victor.

  As the only child of solemn intellectuals, loving, yet reserved people, Grace had expected to finish her education and become a schoolteacher before eventually marrying. But the early death of her mother and the subsequent stroke and lingering deterioration of her father—which meant she had to stay home from school and care for him—had wiped out the family finances, leaving her penniless at his death.

  I suppose my life has always been so serious up to this point. With an unexpected sense of excitement, Grace wondered what else she’d discover about herself.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A nudge and a tilt of Trudy’s head to the opposite side of the street brought Grace’s wandering attention back to the present.

  “Hardy’s Saloon.” Trudy tossed a teasing smile over her shoulder at her husband. “Before we married, Seth spent a lot of time in there.”

  Seth groaned. “I haven’t set foot in the place for four and a half years.”

  Grace eyed the weather-beaten, false-fronted building before stopping to look at Frey, wondering if she needed to worry about him having a problem with drunkenness. “What about you?”

  “Yep,” he said cheerfully. “But like Seth, here, my days in Hardy’s have just passed, although they were quite memorable at the time. One of these days, I’ll regale you with tales, at least the tales that are fit for a lady’s ears.”

  Grace chuckled and exchanged a knowing glance with Mrs. Flanigan, who lifted her chin, indicating to continue walking.

  They reached the white wooden church. Sunlight illuminated the bell tower with a cross on top.

  Two horses hitched to a wagon were tied up at a post. Mrs. Flanigan tipped her head in that direction. “That’s ours. After the wedding, we’ll bring your things to Frey’s house. He lives in town. His place is not far from here. Not like our out-of-the-way farm.”

  The group walked toward the small parsonage situated behind the church.

  An older couple sat close together in rocking chairs on the small porch. She darned a sock, while he read a book. They looked engrossed in their tasks, an air of quiet serenity between them.

  Seeing the group, the man dressed in a worn black suit, closed the book, set it on a narrow table, and stood. His full head of hair and his beard were almost entirely white, his features austere, and his eyes—clear blue and penetrating—surveyed Grace.

  If not for the kind smile, she’d feel judged and found wanting.

  “Miss Dickinson, I’m Reverend Norton, and this is my wife Mary.”

  Mrs. Norton had a sweet, wrinkled face, and her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She threaded her sewing needle into the sock, tucked it into a basket near her feet, rose, and stepped off the porch, holding out a hand to Grace. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs, Miss Dickinson. You’ve found Reverend Norton and me in a rare moment of companionable quiet.” She smiled lovingly at her husband, who’d joined her. “At least until the wintertime.”

  Reverend Norton nodded. “The sermon is written, and no one has dropped by in need of counsel or aid. So we have spent some time in thought and prayer on the institution of marriage, especially yours.”

  Grace was touched by his words and the obvious concern for her and Frey’s well-being. In an unconscious gesture, her hand crept to her chest to touch her necklace. When she didn’t feel the bump of the gold heart under her fingertips—she had buried it at the bottom of her portmanteau—pain stabbed her. She hastily lowered her arm. I must break that habit.

  Mrs. Norton clasped her hands in front of her. “Miss Dickinson, I’ve been curious ever since I heard you are from Massachusetts. Are you by any chance related to the poetess Emily Dickinson? One of our parishioners—” she glanced at Mrs. Flanigan “—Mrs. Walker, another former mail-order bride, lent me her book of poetry.”

  “A distant cousin. But I never met Emily. She was very reclusive but corresponded with my parents. But I have that book, too. The volume wasn’t published until after her death. We have some of her letters.” Victor had scolded Grace for being so extravagant as to spend money on a book of poetry by an unknown author, even if she was a relation. With a stab of bitterness, she wondered why he’d perpetuated the charade to such a degree. If he never planned to marry me, what difference did it make what I did with my own money? She brought her attention back to Mrs. Norton.

  “How marvelous to be connected to her, Miss Dickinson. I’ll confess, I didn’t understand some of the poems, but others were lovely.” She placed a hand over her heart. “So touching.”

  “Perhaps at another time we can compare which ones we like best,” Grace offered.

  “That would be lovely. Now, we must get you ready for your wedding.” Mrs. Norton made a shooing motion at Frey. “You put that in the bedroom, the second door down the hall. You men run along to the church, while Mrs. Flanigan and I see to Miss Dickinson.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Frey hurried into the house.

  Grace held in her amusement at the sight of the small woman bossing around the big man.

  As soon as Frey returned, Mrs. Flanigan handed the baby to him.

  Grace watched wide-eyed as he lifted George high in the air, and the baby bellowed with laughter. Her husband-to-be obviously appeared comfortable with the boy, which boded well for when they had children.

  Emotion caught in Grace’s throat. She’d never seen Victor interact with children, or even appear interested in them. Nor could she imagine the man playing with a babe like Frey just had. Yet, he had a son of his own. Is Victor an attentive husband and father? She doubted it.

  Frey lowered the child. The chubby boy who looked so big in his mother’s arms seemed tiny when held against Mr. Foster’s broad chest.

  She wanted to look away, but the sight of the big man carrying George mesmerized her and made her heart squeeze.

  “Come along, dears.” Mrs. Norton motioned the two women to follow her. Once inside, they walked down a narrow hallway, past a closed door, and into the opening of a bedroom. “Are you hungry, Miss Dickinson? I could bring you something to eat.”

  “No, thank you. My stomach’s too nervous for me to eat a bite.”

  “I remember the feeling,” Mrs. Flanigan murmured. The small room held only a four-poster bed, washstand and chest of drawers, with clothing hanging on pegs along the wall. A bouquet of white roses and chrysanthemums in a glass Mason jar on the washstand sat next to a pitcher and ewer. A matching satin ribbon tied the stems together. The sweet fragrance of roses wafted their way.

  Mrs. Norton picked up the pitcher. “I’ll be right back with hot water. I put some on to boil as soon as I heard the train whistle.” She left the room.

  Mrs. Flanigan reached up to pull two long pins, with fat crystal beads on the end, from her blue hat, and lifted it off to toss on the bed. She dropped the hatpins there as well. With a sigh, she massaged two places on her scalp. “Thank goodness. They were jabbing me so.”

  Without the hat, Grace could see Mrs. Flanigan’s blonde hair had a reddish tint. She took off her own hat, wishing she could discard her corset as well. Her practical black one also had ribbons attached under the brim that she could use to tie if a breeze kicked up. But for her journey, she’d tucked them up underneath the crown. She’d chosen hatpins instead because, if need be, she could use them to defend herself against unwanted attentions,

  Mrs. Norton returned with the pitcher of hot water and placed it on the washstand. She gestured toward the bouquet. “Mrs. Flanigan made this for you and dropped it off earlier. So pretty, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Grace couldn’t believe how these ladies had welcomed her, and she hoped they’d become friends.

  “White roses—the bride’s flower,” Mrs. Norton said with a lilt in
her voice. “For unity, purity, and a love stronger than death.” She touched the edge of a blossom. “And, in addition, you have chrysanthemums for fidelity, optimism, joy, and long life, with the color white standing for truth and loyal love.”

  As if caught in a spell, Grace stared at the flowers, a lump forming in her throat, the words echoing in her mind…. Joy, truth, fidelity, a love stronger than death.

  Mrs. Flanigan chuckled. “Mrs. Norton, you make the bouquet sound so poetic. I’m afraid I can’t take credit for such a romantic arrangement. I chose the only white flowers still blooming in my garden.”

  Such a thoughtful gesture of friendship. Grace swallowed enough to speak. “They’re beautiful. I shall press some between the pages of a book…in fact, I’ll use Emily’s poetry to preserve them.” Will there come a time when I’ll feel truly sentimental about having wed Mr. Frey Foster?

  Mrs. Flanigan nodded in apparent approval. “I did the same with a few roses from my bouquet.”

  Grace opened her portmanteau and lifted the smooth cedar box onto the bed. She removed the cover to reveal the heirloom bridal gown. She took out the bodice and laid it on the bed, straightening the lace at the square neckline.

  Mrs. Norton touched a reverent finger to the skirt, which Grace had left in the box.

  To think I was so happy when I altered that skirt.

  Mrs. Flanigan leaned over the bed for a closer look. “Miss Dickinson, this is so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it old?”

  “Very. Dates back to colonial times. All the brides in my family have worn this and have experienced happy marriages. I know white or cream is the preferred style for bridal gowns, but I couldn’t bear to wear anything but this.” Even if I’m marrying a man I don’t love.

  Mrs. Norton shook her head. “Of course you wouldn’t want any other dress.”

  Mrs. Flanigan held up the bodice to Grace’s chest. “And the color will become you better than white or cream.”

  Mrs. Norton glanced at Mrs. Flanigan, a happy smile crinkling the wrinkles on her face. “And to continue a time-honored tradition for my mail-order brides…. I’ll go iron your dress, while you wash up.” She tilted her head. “If you trust me with such a special gown, that is.”

  “You are so kind.” Grace briefly touched the woman’s arm. “I couldn’t possibly break tradition.”

  The older woman blushed. “My dear Miss Dickinson, it is absolutely my pleasure to welcome new brides to our town.” She picked up both pieces of the gown and, with her arms full, whisked out of the room.

  Mrs. Flanigan stared after her with a fond smile playing about her lips. “This brings back such memories. I was the first mail-order bride to come to Sweetwater Springs,” she said with pride. “But not the last. And I’m gratified to report, we all have happy marriages.” She reached for Grace’s hand and squeezed. “Frey is a good man, Grace…may we use given names, for I hope we’ll be friends?”

  As soon as she was able, Grace slipped her hand from Trudy’s and nodded permission. Somehow she doubted Trudy had to cope with a broken heart when she married Seth Flanigan. So much easier to fall in love with your husband if your heart is whole and your intentions are to do so. But still, she was curious. “Why did you become a mail-order bride?”

  Trudy moved to the washstand and poured water into the ewer. She handed Grace a washcloth. “I was bored with my life in St. Louis, and I wanted adventure.”

  Adventure? Grace couldn’t even imagine having such a dream, which seemed as opposite as could be from hers—wanting a husband and her own home. “Did you find it?”

  “Many would say life as a farm wife isn’t adventurous—a lot of mundane hard work, unless you count the cow getting loose in the garden yesterday. I was furious!” As if remembering the past, Trudy’s whole face lit up. “But yes, coming to Sweetwater Springs, marrying Seth, was a grand adventure. It wasn’t easy, mind you, as I’m sure you’ll find out for yourself, but I still feel my life has plenty of excitement—maybe a quiet kind; loving and peaceful. Like the time George first smiled at me—the way he grins with his whole face.”

  “Your baby does have an infectious smile.”

  Trudy waved a hand between her and Grace. “Take us being here, for example. This is an adventure.”

  Grace tilted her head in askance. “This is my adventure. But how is it one for you?”

  “In St. Louis, I had a set circle of friends—people in the neighborhood, women I’d gone to school with, the adult children of my father’s friends. Most I’d known for a long while. Sometimes, a new person would marry or move into the neighborhood or something, but meeting in the way you and I have….”

  Their circumstances were definitely different, although Grace supposed if the stroke hadn’t rendered her father unable to continue his work as a schoolmaster, her upbringing would have been similar. “I guess you’re right.”

  Trudy gestured between them. “And the two of us have an instant bond in common. After all, very few mail-order brides can be found in this country, even if there are a disproportionate amount in this area.”

  “Well, there are about to become far more, about fifty if I judge correctly. For I had a large group of acquaintances who elected to become mail-order brides.” Grace brought herself up short. Now isn’t the time to explain about the factory. She wanted to focus on more pleasant thoughts. “A story for another day,” she said lightly.

  “That’s right, Frey mentioned the fire. How very dreadful. And how sad you all couldn’t go to the same community—or at least several of you to the same place. What a comfort it was to have Lina and Darcy—two other mail-order brides from the same agency—join me. I’m sure my friends will soon become yours, too.”

  “You said your marriage wasn’t easy. Would…would you be willing to tell me in what way?” Maybe if I hear difficulties can be overcome…

  “Seth loved, or actually, thought he loved, another woman, who married someone else. I didn’t know that, and when I found out….” Trudy shook her head. “I up and left.”

  Grace gasped. “But….”

  Trudy laughed and hugged her. “It’s a very dramatic story, and someday, when we have more time, I’ll tell you. But now, we must prepare you for your wedding.”

  Somehow, Trudy’s words gave Grace’s spirits a lift. The thought hadn’t occurred to her that she could love again—indeed, discover a deeper love with another man, and for a moment she had hope. But what if Frey Foster’s not that man? What if I marry him and fall in love with another? I’ll be trapped.

  * * *

  If anything, after meeting his bride, Frey was even more nervous about his wedding. He found himself liking her—not just experiencing the attraction he’d hoped to feel, although there was plenty of that. Grace seemed to understand his sense of humor and jumped right in with teasing him back—unusual for a woman, at least one who wasn’t a sister or a friend who’d been around him since tadpole days.

  As he and Seth, each carrying a child, walked around to the church entrance and inside the building, he mused about his wife-to-be. Frey could see the two of them becoming friends. Before today, he’d never considered friendship to be important in a marriage. But now he realized the Flanigans and other happily married couples also possessed that quality in abundance.

  I could love her.

  Somehow, he felt Grace had upped the marriage stakes. Now, I have so much more to lose if she’s not happy and leaves me.

  The two men sauntered up the aisle. Earlier, they’d all stopped by the church so Trudy could set her flower arrangement of marigolds and such on the altar, which was covered with a white brocade cloth and adorned with a simple cross.

  “Your bride…” Seth was the first to break the silence. “I like her.” He crouched, and Anna slid from his arms.

  Once free, the girl waved her rag doll and ran to the altar, where she lifted the edge of the cloth and crawled underneath.

  Seth stood and reached to take baby George
from Frey. “Lately, Anna’s favorite place to play is under the table. The first time she did so, she fell asleep, and Trudy couldn’t find her. She was frantic, about to run into the fields for me when her screaming Anna’s name woke the child, and she emerged from her hiding place.”

  Frey chuckled.

  Seth patted George’s back. “Let’s not forget my daughter is under there, and then have her pop out in the middle of the ceremony.”

  “If we don’t remember—” Frey said dryly “—her mother probably will notice a missing daughter.”

  “Children sure do keep you running.” Seth rubbed the baby’s head. “A year from now—” he said, his tone more serious “—you might have one yourself.”

  Frey gulped and held up a hand. “One change at a time. I have enough to handle with marrying a woman I’ve just met.”

  “Right. When I think back to my wedding day…” Seth shook his head. “I’d never been so scared in my life.”

  “That’s hardly comforting,” Frey grumbled.

  “Don’t worry—”

  “I know, I know. It will get better and better.”

  Seth’s grin taunted. “Nope. Gets worse.”

  “Worse!” Feeling as if he’d lost his stuffing, Frey dropped into the front pew and sprawled out. “You trying to make me run for the hills? Better not because Grace will end up livin’ with you.”

  Seth crossed the open space in front of Frey to settle in the pew next to him.

  Looking heavy-eyed, George laid his head on his father’s chest.

  Seth rubbed the baby’s back. “Worse because you care. If you think you know love because of your feelings for your parents and sisters and brothers, wait until you have a wife and family. Wait until she’s in danger.” He shuddered, and his gaze became unfocused obviously remembering. “Wait until she’s laboring to bring your child into this world, and you don’t know if she and the baby will live or die.” He swallowed with an audible gulp.