A Bride For Finn (The Proxy Brides Book 5)

by Linda Ellen

  Her face was red with anger and tendrils of her long, mahogany hair had worked loose from its thick braid hanging in its customary place over her left collarbone. Flicking a look in her roommate’s direction, she crossed her arms over her middle and blew out an irritated breath, reliving the agonizing humiliation of seeing her ex-fiancé with his new wife. “Yes...along with her, of course!”

  Beth Ann put down the ladle she was using and turned fully toward her friend. “Don’t let it bother you, Char, honey,” she tried to soothe, using the shortened version of Charise’s name as she always did, pronouncing it like Shar. “Despite the fact that his father is rich old Ethan Breckinridge of Breckinridge, Collier and Prentice, Attorneys at Law—or maybe because of that—he’s a loser, not to mention a low-down skunk.”

  “I can’t help but be bothered, Beth! To think I almost married that...that slimy toad! But every time I remember standing in the bride’s room at the church, adjusting my veil, and having Mrs. D’Agostino knock on the door and tell me Ethan sent word that he was calling off the wedding—at the absolute last minute—I just want to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt in on top of me!”

  Charise jammed fisted hands onto her hips as she continued, “And now, to see him with that Celeste creature, strolling toward me on the street all lovey-dovey, practically looking through me as if I weren’t even there...it makes me want to chew up and spit nails!”

  Growling in frustration and grinding her teeth for a moment as if doing that very thing, she finally made herself consciously draw in a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly, shaking her hands for good measure, as if shaking off the mad. It was a method her mother had taught her many years ago and it never failed to make her feel at least a bit better. Glancing back at her friend again, she managed an impish smile. “Today, I nearly leapt at them to scratch their eyes out...only I couldn’t decide who to aim at first, him or her.”

  The longtime friends chuckled together at that and Charise wandered over toward the kitchen corner of their miniscule apartment as Beth Ann turned back to the stove and began dipping her delicious potato soup into bowls.

  “Well, come on honey, let’s eat supper. I managed to get some cornbread in the oven as soon as I got home, and it should be about done.” Opening the oven door, she grinned and nodded. “Yep, nice and golden brown.” Grabbing a potholder, she pulled the pan out of the hot interior and placed it onto the scarred wooden surface of their two-seater table.

  “Grab the butter, will ya, hon?”

  Working together, they soon had supper on the table and were enjoying their evening meal.

  After discussing a few innocuous subjects, Charise glanced at her friend in between bites and admitted, “Bethie, I just don’t know what I’m going to do, but I do know one thing...I can’t keep going on like this. It’s been six months since he jilted me, and every time I start to feel like I’m getting over it and making headway, WHAM, I see him again and it starts all over. I wish...” she paused, mulling over the words. “I wish I could just move somewhere else. But...I don’t have any money saved up and I wouldn’t have a clue how to move to a new town, find a job and a place to live, find new friends, a church, a new life—” she paused, a shudder of dread coursing through her body.

  “What you need is a husband,” Beth Ann stated flatly, taking a big bite of cornbread.

  “A husband?” Charise expelled a rather unladylike snort. Fat chance. “No man has even asked me out to dinner since it happened—you’d think I’ve been branded as a scarlet woman or something. There are no prospects of gaining a husband, even on the distant horizon, my friend.” A smidgen of jealousy made her add, “You don’t have to worry about things like that, since you’ve got your Stanley.”

  Beth Ann rolled her eyes at the mention of her long-time boyfriend, predictable, dependable...boring Stanley.

  The redhead gave Charise the eye and waved her spoon at her. “Listen honey, you’re a beautiful, smart, kind girl. Any man should be proud as punch to have you for a wife. What you need is a whole pot of men to choose from,” she added with a wickedly playful spark in her eye as she dipped her spoon back into her bowl and scooped out a big chunk of potato.

  Charise looked at her as if she’d lost her mind and began liberally spreading butter on another piece of cornbread. “And just where, might I ask, does one find a whole pot of men for the choosing?”

  Beth Ann swallowed her spoonful of soup and washed it down with a drink of tea before fixing her eyes on Charise. “In the newspaper.”

  “The newspaper?” Charise’s eyebrows scrunched, and then her eyes opened wide in shock. “You mean...you’re not talking about mail-order-brides, are you?”

  Beth Ann couldn’t hold back the grin any longer and it burst forth on her face. “Well—why not? Lots of girls have found their men that way. And from what I’ve read, the marriages usually turn out pretty well.”

  “Usually is a very important word in that sentence, my friend. My luck, I’d be the exception to the rule!”

  Beth Ann merely shrugged, as if she knew something Charise did not. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look-see, would it?”

  Before Charise could answer, her friend wiped her mouth on a napkin and hopped up from her chair, quickly retrieving what appeared to be several newspapers already opened and folded back at the matrimonial sections.

  Charise’s eyes widened as she took in the sight. She had known the Courier-Journal boasted a matrimonial column as she had heard it spoken of in passing, but she had never actually read any of the ads. Reaching for the stack, she saw they were the Louisville paper, as well as the Cincinnati Enquirer, the Chicago Tribune, and even the Boston Globe!

  “Where in the world did you get all these?”

  Beth Ann let out a mischievous giggle. “Old Mr. Hinkle across the hall. He has subscriptions and gets them every week. He let me have these after he’d finished with them.”

  “You didn’t tell him why you wanted them, did you?” Charise gasped. Her friend just laughed.

  “You worry too much, Char. Come on, let’s finish up and have a look, huh?”

  So, the girls quickly cleared their places, cleaned the dishes, and then sat down at the little table to see if they could find the proverbial pot of men.

  They had been pouring over the ads for an hour, laughing at some, and shaking their heads at others. Some were too young, while others were old enough to be Charise’s father. Several were widowers with a whole passel of children. One said he lived in Indian territory and his prospective wife would need to already know how to ride and shoot like a man, as he wouldn’t have time to teach her. A few came right out and plainly said they wanted what amounted to a housekeeper, but most seemed like honest, upright men looking to find the love of their lives—or at least a pleasant wife with which to spend the rest of their days.

  The girls had cut out the best sounding prospects and laid them aside for Charise to answer.

  From the Boston Globe, Beth Ann read aloud, “33-year-old man seeking woman for matrimony. She must be of good moral character, Christian preferred, age 21-35, not too tall or short, pleasant looking, and able to read and write. I am of medium height, have a trim build, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. Teeth are decent. I can provide a comfortable home. I live a clean, sober life and would make the right lady a good, faithful husband. Please reply with details about yourself to Phineas Maynard, Brownville, Nebraska.”

  “Hmm, that one sounds good...”

  “Yes, he does...” Beth Ann agreed, raising an eyebrow at her friend. “I think you should write to this one right now and get it in the mail in the morning.”

  Feeling an urgency that her friend was right, Charise gave an agreeing nod, gathered paper, pen and ink, and set about writing her first mail-order-bride letter. The girls batted ideas back and forth as her elegant script slowly began to fill the page.

  Dear Mr. Maynard,

  I saw your advertisement in the newspaper today and
thought I would write. To start off with, I am 25, a Born-Again Christian, am 5’4”, with a decent figure, dark hair, and dark brown eyes, and blessed with straight teeth.

  As you can see, I can write, and reading is one of my favorite pastimes, especially novels. I’ve never been married, although I was once engaged. I work as a seamstress and make my own clothing, and reside with a female friend in a small apartment. I can cook, and I love to clean. For personal reasons, I am looking to leave my hometown and start over, and was pleased to read that you lead a clean, sober life and pledge to be a faithful husband.

  Since you are 33, may I ask if you’ve ever been married or have any children, since you didn’t say specifically in your ad? As you requested a Christian, I’m assuming you are one as well, which is a relief, as that is also one of my requirements.

  If you feel we might make a pleasant pair, please reply back to the address on the envelope.

  Yours sincerely,

  Charise Olivia Willoughby

  Satisfied that she had said enough, but not too much, she blotted the ink dry, folded and inserted the pages in the carefully addressed envelope, and put the finished correspondence aside.

  For good measure, she wrote a similar letter to each of the ads she and Beth had torn from the papers. Once mailed, Charise knew she would be on pins and needles to receive return missives.

  She just hoped she didn’t have to wait too long!

  Chapter 2

  I t had been two months of letter writing and decision making. Charise had answered four ads and all four men had written her back within the first two weeks...or at least she had received letters from them. The first letter, from a man somewhere in the wilds of Wyoming, stated that he could neither read nor write and he had come into town on his once-a-year visit and had the bartender write the letter for him. The bartender explained that the man, Eustis Haymaker, wanted a smart woman for a wife that knew how to do all of the things he didn’t know. Charise politely passed on that one.

  The second letter was from a man who confessed that he hadn’t mentioned his five children in his ad because he was afraid he would get no responses, just like the other four times he had paid for ads. That, and the fact that he admitted he was 48 years old and declared he wanted a wife in name only, as he did NOT want any more children, caused Charise to pass him along as well. All prospect number three did was reply to Charise’s questions with one or two word answers and mention that he wasn’t much of a talker. Matter of fact—in his words—he was looking for a wife who enjoyed silent evenings by the fire when not a word would be spoken between them. In addition, he divulged that he lived a two-day trip by wagon from his nearest neighbor, which kind of put a damper on him. By that time, Charise was beginning to think Beth Ann’s idea was one of her worst. So much for her proverbial pot of men for me to choose from!

  And then, she received Finn’s reply.

  Charise immediately felt drawn to the way Mr. Maynard worded his missive, and she admired his neat, confident handwriting. His sense of humor had truly struck a chord with her, and she found answering his letters as easy as conversing with a friend.

  Due to the length of time it took for letters to travel the nearly 650-mile distance between them, they had only exchanged three letters each, and so they had put their hearts into each one. Finn shared his faith and a bit about his family, and Charise replied along the same vein. He described his small town of only a little over two hundred residents and mentioned some of the more unique characters; Charise enjoyed those sections and even read some of it aloud to Beth Ann. He shared with her that he was the town barber, and his brother owned the sawmill. She talked about her job and her roommate and what life was like in Louisville—a large and fairly metropolitan city of over one hundred ten thousand inhabitants, nestled along the falls of the Ohio.

  In his last letter, Finn had sent along a photograph. Although it was one taken years before, he assured her that he still looked much the same, just a bit older. From what she could see, he had a pleasant face and was a bit on the lanky side, but handsome in his own way. She found she liked his features.

  He had proposed in that letter and declared that if she accepted his suit, he would make the trip to Louisville to meet and marry her, without the expectation of her traveling all the way to Nebraska unescorted—as prospective grooms of mail-order-brides generally did. She wrote back with her acceptance and appreciation for his care and thoughtfulness, and included a photograph of herself. It, too, was an older one, taken of her family the last time they had been together. Charise hadn’t had the funds to have another portrait made since then. Although she was only fifteen in the picture, she assured him that she looked pretty much the same.

  On this day, the fifth of June, she stood in the doorway of the apartment, holding a telegram from Finn, which informed her of the date and time that her future husband would be arriving to meet and wed her, should they both find one another amenable. He had picked the nineteenth of June, exactly two weeks hence. The last line stated he hoped he was giving her enough time, but he was anxious to get their future on its way.

  Closing her eyes and pressing the folded missive to her heart, an excited shiver ran down the length of her body. Two weeks! I have so much to do in that time...let’s see, I have to finish my wedding dress and the veil...I want to put some finishing touches on my traveling outfit...I need to make sure all of my keepsakes are packed correctly in Mama’s old steamer trunk so that none of them break on the long trip... Oh my goodness—two weeks! Two weeks from today, I’ll become Mrs. Finn Maynard.

  Oh Lord...am I doing the right thing?

  Finn walked out of the depot after sending the telegram to Charise...Charise, I already love her name. I hope she’s as elegant and ladylike as her moniker...

  He had received her last letter, in which she had graciously accepted his proposal, and sent a photograph of herself, her parents, and her two brothers, whom he knew from her second letter were now all deceased. Although still quite young in the portrait, he could tell even then she had the makings of a genteel lady—the way she held herself straight, her hands folded just so, her dainty chin tilted up, the hint of a smile as if she was thinking of a secret, and her eyes focused on the camera.

  He liked what he saw there, very much. So much in fact that the image of her had spurred his determination to move forward with their union. A sense of possessiveness had unexpectedly seized him and he found he wanted to stake his claim on her before someone else snapped her up. Most of the men in Louisville must be blind, stupid, or both to have missed out on such a prize as Miss Charise Willoughby.

  Ah well, as they say—their loss is my gain!

  As he walked back to his barbershop, his steps light, he noted a few of his regulars had gathered outside the locked door and were waiting for him, so he quickened his pace. Unlocking the door amidst their grumbles about being kept waiting, he began preparations to shave old Cyrus Ames while they wandered inside. Charlie Grawemeyer and Cliff Fulton took their customary seats to wait their turns.

  He noticed they were grinning at him like three cats about to pounce on a bowl of cream—three gray haired, gap-toothed, wrinkle-faced cats, that is.

  Pausing in the act of snapping the cape free of hair from the last customer, Finn met each man’s gleam. “What’s got you three so amused this fine day?”

  Charlie and Cliff exchanged looks and snickered together as Cyrus cackled before answering, “When’s your lady love due to arrive from Ken-tuck-y, Finny boy?”

  Musing about the fact that there were no secrets in a town this size, Finn sent him a scowl. Fluffing the cape around the old man, he purposely tied the neck a tad too tight, causing the end of the cackle to come out a might on the strangled side. “I told you, old man,” he growled in mock anger, “stop calling me Finny Boy. I’m a grown man, not a wet behind the ears kid anymore.”

  Cyrus let out a snort. “Pshaw. Compared to me, sonny, you’re still a pup—and it remains to be s
een if you’re still wet behind the ears or not.” For good measure, he pointed a gnarled finger at Finn and spouted, “You respect your elders, you young whippersnapper!”

  They all got a good chuckle out of that one, including Finn.

  Some things never changed. Finn shook his head with a grin, knowing old Cyrus was just yanking his chain. He had known all three men since ’54, when he had been just twelve years old and his family had joined a wagon train along with nine other wagons. Each were following after Richard Brown, the man who had built the first log cabin in a choice spot along the Missouri River in Nebraska and had called his new settlement Brownville. A younger—but still old in a youngster’s eyes—Cyrus, had yelled at him and Sam as they chased one another in front of the old man’s team of oxen.

  Brown had predicted a rush of settlers would begin streaming into the area the following spring and come they did, either overland in wagons or floating down the river on flatboats. Cyrus had opened a gristmill, Finn’s father had established a lumberyard and sawmill, and the port city had grown by leaps and bounds; so quickly that it had even been considered as a possible location for the territorial capital. A post office had been established the following year—albeit in a corner of the mercantile—with Cliff Fulton as the first postmaster.

  Being in on the birth and establishment of a new town had been exciting times for the pioneers, including twelve-year-old Phineas Maynard. He still felt pride in what they had accomplished in such a short time.

  Snapping back to the present, he realized the old-timers were staring at him with twinkling eyes, waiting for his answer. Finn set to work lathering up Cyrus’ leathery cheeks as he had innumerable times before. Feeling the intense weight of their stares, he cleared his throat, knowing he might as well tell them his plans, or they would pester him until he did.

  “To answer you buzzards, I just sent her a telegram letting her know that I’ll be in Louisville in two weeks to meet her and marry her.”