Clara's Mail Order Joy (Home for Christmas Book 5)

by Natalie Dean

  “I am so sorry,” he told her as she prepared to board the train. “I should have managed better. I should never have let this happen. I should never have gotten into such a state of affairs that my daughters should pay the price.”

  Clara had privately been of the same opinion. She did not follow the financial news as Minnie did, and she had not Hazel’s tender heart and so, to her, it seemed very much so that Father was at fault. But a departure on a journey across the continent was not the time to berate him for his failure to provide the life for which his daughters had been brought up. “Father,” she had said firmly, “we must follow where God sends us. If it is His will that the Ellises must go West to bring culture and civilization to Colorado, then can we shirk our duty? Do not think that we are gone; think that we are missionaries.”

  Father had taken some comfort from that thought and so had Clara as she boarded the train and took her seat, her sketchbook and drawing pencil in her hand, for she meant to recreate the sights that she saw along the way. She was determined that one day, she would make the journey going in the opposite direction, when she was Mrs. Peter Edwards, the wife of the wealthy mining baron, returning with her husband and children to Boston. She would be positively laden with gems, she vowed, so many that it would be almost vulgar. But she would not be looked down upon by the matrons of Boston when she was rich. Her daughters would go to finishing school in Europe; her sons would attend Harvard before taking the Grand Tour. Then they would follow their father into business. Precisely what business was entailed with mining once the metal was dug out of the ground she did not know, but her sons would not be digging in a mine. They would own it. Let the people of Boston speak disparagingly about new wealth, the nouveaux riche, upstarts . . . just let them. Her grandmother, Grandmama as the sisters called her, was the daughter of a British earl and in her grandchildren’s veins, that blood would affirm their quality. She would return and Boston would clamor to welcome her back.

  That imagined triumph occupied her thoughts until New York. During that time, she had been able, thanks to Minnie’s generosity and the pawning of Grandmama’s sapphire bracelet, to eat tolerably well and sleep in a modicum of comfort, although to be certain, it was not a hotel. She pitied the passengers who traveled in the poorer section where comfort could not be bought and they shared space with people of all walks of life, and habits as well. At least in the section for passengers of quality, there was an expectation of service due for people, like herself, who merited better treatment.

  There was much to be said for Mr. Pullman, she thought as she surveyed her sleeping car with satisfaction; now that she was well and truly on her way, she could set herself to actually enjoying the journey. When night fell and the view outside her window turned dark, the curtains were drawn to keep out the blackened world beyond. Her seat was unfolded into a sleeping berth by a very solicitous porter who helped her prepare for bed and brought her a final cup of tea for the night. Tomorrow, the woman said, she would come in to help her dress.

  The woman, named Salcie, was as good as her word. As she styled Clara’s rich auburn-tinged brown hair, she exclaimed over its color and abundance. “You’re a lady, sure ‘nough,” she said, “and you’ll look like it when you ‘rive. Folks won’t know what to make of you.”

  “You are extremely talented,” Clara commented as she watched in the mirror while her hair took on a coiffure that would not have been out of place had her former maid been the one with the comb and hairpins. “Where did you learn?”

  “My mistress, I done this same style for her,” Salcie said.

  “Your mistress,” Clara repeated.

  “Yes’m. I was owned, back then. But I’m free now and I earn my own money.”

  “Indeed! Were—all of you on this train slaves before?”

  “Most of us, ma’am. Now we’ve got wages, not working for the master and mistress no more. Working on this fine train.”

  “It is very fine indeed.”

  “When you’re at the end of the journey, ma’am, someone will be there to make sure you look fine as can be for the folks welcoming you.”

  That would be excellent. She was already wondering how on earth she would manage to maintain her appearance so that, when Mr. Edwards saw her for the first time, he would be dazzled. He had said in his letter that he had always fancied brunettes; while it was a peculiar preference for a man to confess to in a letter, Clara was resolved to deliver him the image that he cherished. “Thank you, I am grateful to learn that. You see, I am meeting my—my fiancé when I arrive.”

  “Your fiancé! Why, ma’am, you traveling all this way to get married! You must be truly in love.”

  Had she been speaking to an equal, Clara would have maintained her reserve. But it had always been easier for her to speak more freely to her servants, for most of them seemed less judgmental than the ladies of upper class. “I have never met him,” she admitted.

  For a moment, the bustling hands stopped. Then Salcie resumed her work. “Never met him? It’s an arranged marriage, then?”

  “Yes,” Clara said. Arranged marriage sounded much better than mail-order bride and, it was not a lie. She and Mr. Edwards had arranged to marry. “He owns a mine.”

  “Owns a mine! Why, he must be rich as a king!”

  Mother always said it was vulgar to speak of money. But Clara had thought of little else in recent years.

  “I assume so . . . at least, he will be.”

  The hands paused again. “I’m sure he will be,” Salcie said encouragingly. “It might not happen overnight, but the good Lord will watch over you and he’ll take care of you.”

  Would He? Clara considered this question as she lay in her sleeping birth and the train continued on its journey. Would God deliver her from all the uncertainty that had plagued the Ellis family ever since Father’s businesses began to fail in the financial turmoil of the times? Would she and her sisters be restored to their rightful station in society? Was God concerned with such matters? It was said that the meek would inherit the earth, and Clara knew very well that she was not in the least meek, nor did she have any desire to be. An Ellis was not born to meekness; Grandmama had been Lady Giorgianna, daughter of an earl, and there had been nothing at all meek in her manner. How amusing Father had been when regaling the sisters about his courtship of their mother after he met her in Boston, and how her mother had not been impressed that her beautiful daughter was being wooed by what she described as an “American adventurer.” But in the end, she had relented; Jonathan Ellis came of a respectable bloodline and his family was highly regarded in society. And he had pluck. Mother always smiled when Father ended his anecdotes on that note. “Pluck!” she had repeated in her exquisite accent. “It was a quality Mama greatly admired and I am glad to say that all of my daughters have it as well; it is your gift from your father to you.” For it was understood that their beauty came from their Grandmama. Hazel resembled her the most, with her blonde hair and green eyes, but all the girls had inherited their grandmother’s womanly figure and her beautiful graceful hands; her flawless skin and mobile, full lips that smiled so readily . . .

  Clara thought of Mother and the way she looked in the sanitorium, so very thin and frail . . . but she would improve now, Clara reminded herself, with Father at her side every day to encourage her so that she would draw from his strength. And he, although in reduced circumstances, would not have to strive in vain to restore his business and could accept its loss. It would not be easy, for Father was an optimistic, energetic man who had genuinely liked the challenges of building a factory, hiring workers and manufacturing products that other people would buy. Perhaps, one day, when the times were more promising, he would be able to do that again. Colorado might offer opportunities that Boston no longer provided.

  Their destinies were in Colorado now.

  Chapter 3

  When Clara descended from the opulent railcar, her hair beautifully styled, her traveling suit pressed and clean, her sho
es shined, her hat impeccably positioned on her head, she was met with a shocking sight, one which she had not expected to view.

  The street beyond the railroad platform was unpaved. It was dirt, hard packed dirt which, in a rain, would turn to mud and in the dry summer, would give off dust. The buildings that she could see were of wood; only one appeared to be more than one story in height. The smell of horses and their droppings filled the air with an odor that even the most tolerant of travelers could not consider pleasant.

  Why, Colorado was filled with poor people! They must be poor, she thought, judging from their garments. The women seemed to have the very simplest of hats, except for one or two who had a bonnet of note. The frocks were sadly without embellishment. This was the land where they were to claim the future that belonged to them? This little town, less than a town, smelling of horseflesh and manure, this was now her home?

  Suddenly, her sisters were before her, laughing and rejoicing to see her, hugging her with an abandon that they would not have displayed in Boston, where one did not expose one’s emotions in public. But now, she was hugging them back.

  “We are all here!” exclaimed Hazel, who appeared to have adjusted to her new surroundings.

  Yes, Clara reminded herself. Hazel was a rancher’s wife now. A rich rancher’s wife. She was married to a man who owned more acres of land than were even available to purchase in Boston. And Minnie, not so fortunate in having a husband of means, but undaunted despite that, Minnie was smiling and exuberant as she held her sister tightly.

  “We have been so eager for you to arrive,” she said. “How was your journey?”

  “Very fine; I was well cared for. It was as fine as anything we would have seen in England.”

  Minnie smiled, and said nothing, remembering her own uncomfortable journey. She had made the right choice by purchasing the luxury tickets for her sisters. Maybe someday, she’d tell them that her journey West hadn’t included a berth that turned into a sleeper or maid service. But not yet.

  Out of nowhere, a man appeared behind Hazel and Minnie. He was very tall and lean; he had dark auburn hair and a trim beard and deep-set brown eyes fringed by thick dark lashes that gave his face a drowsy appearance. “If there’s hugging going on, then Peter Edwards wants to join in,” he said, opening his arms wide.

  “Mr. Edwards?”

  “You must be Clara,” the man answered. “You are a brunette, just like you wrote.”

  Clara did not recall stating anything of the sort, but Minnie had been the one to make the preliminary introductions by mail. “It is not something a woman would be likely to lie about,” she said.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised, Miss Clara,” he said, sounding as if he was serious.

  Clara was slightly put off by his familiarity; in Boston, she would still be Miss Ellis so early in the introductions. But then, she supposed, as they were engaged, doubtless Mr. Edwards felt it was permissible to address her with her Christian name.

  “Now, Clara, we have everything planned,” Minnie said. “You’ll be staying overnight with Hazel at the ranch so that you can rest up from the journey. Tomorrow morning, you’ll go to your new home.”

  “I’ll bring your duds along today,” Mr. Edwards said. “So that you have everything you need for the wedding. I’d surely love to show it to you now, but your sisters say you must rest.”

  “I feel quite fit and I should like to see my house,” Clara replied.

  “Don’t you want to look your best for the wedding?” Hazel inquired, guile undetected on her open features.

  “You look a bit drawn,” Minnie said, speaking up quickly. “You don’t want to go to your wedding looking as if you have suddenly aged.”

  Aged! Clara put her gloved hand to her face. She had looked perfectly fine in the mirror on the train, and the maid had assured her that she was beauteous. Had she only been speaking out of courtesy?

  “You look perfect to me, Miss Clara,” Mr. Edwards said enthusiastically. “I don’t see how you could look any better.”

  “Oh, but you don’t understand,” Hazel told him. “A woman wants to appear at her very best on her wedding day. She wants to present an image that her husband will treasure for the rest of his life. If even the slightest thing is out of sorts, a strand of hair, anything, why . . . “

  “Things like the lines of weariness forming—" Minnie supplied quickly.

  Clara’s eyes were wide. Obviously, the journey had taken more out of her than she had supposed. “I believe my sisters are correct, Mr. Edwards,” she said, giving him her hand. “I ought to rest before tomorrow.”

  “I was hoping to have a little time with you, Miss Clara,” he said, downcast. “We’ve not spoken and letters just aren’t the same as talking one to one. I’m likely to get tongue-tied, I know, looking at you and trying to talk to you, but all the same—"

  “Oh, Pete,” Minnie said brightly. “You have plenty to do before tomorrow.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course. You must—you must make sure you put the ring in a place where you’ll remember, and—just so many things,” Minnie said swiftly.

  “I don’t know what I have to do except say ‘I do’. And get dressed, of course,” he smiled. “I can’t rightly show up in my birthday suit.”

  Clara’s features appeared to have turned to porcelain, cold and immobile, at this statement.

  “Mr. Edwards, I hardly—"

  “Hazel, why don’t you bring Clara to the ranch with you, while Pete and I go over some of the things that need to be done. Pete, let’s go by the church and remind Rev. Mains that the ceremony is to begin at noon. And of course, Mrs. Mains is invited to the luncheon. Did you remember to invite her?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t know there was to be a luncheon—"

  But Minnie had herded him away from the train station and Clara, who had been steered in the opposite direction by Hazel, did not hear what her husband-to-be had said.

  After he had loaded Clara’s many pieces of luggage into the wagon and they were making for the mining camp, Pete asked Minnie a question. “Ma’am, what else do we have to do?”

  “Well, Gavin is at the cabin now, putting up the curtains that Hazel and I finished sewing last night,” Minnie told him. “I think we must go over everything and inspect it one last time, to be sure that it is perfect.”

  “It looked perfect to me,” Pete said. “I think that you and your sister turned it into a palace. Now that it has furnishings,” he added, “it looks mighty elegant.”

  “Yes, furniture does help,” Minnie said, hoping that Clara would be satisfied with the items that had been plundered from the Clifford guest bedroom and the Wyatt ranch in order to fill the rooms of the house by the Silver Belle mine. “There is something more . . . do you think it would be . . . it would make—things—much more attractive—in the privy . . . I think I shall put some lavender in there.”

  “You mean to take away the smell?” Pete asked. “It only smells for a bit after it’s been used. I dug the holes pretty deep so as to keep the stink away.”

  Minnie winced. She had learned that her brother-in-law to be had a kind heart and a warm nature, but what he did not have was the sort of refinement that for Clara was mandatory.

  “Mr.—Pete,” she corrected herself. “Clara, my sister is . . . you see, she is very delicate. Yes, delicate.”

  “Sickly? She looks healthy to me. In fact, ma’am, she looks like the sort of woman who could give birth to ten children and still look as beautiful as she does now.”

  “Yes . . .no, she is not sickly, not at all. She’s quite healthy. But she is delicate in another way. In a very ladylike way. Certain words upset her and she is used to being in the company of people who strive not to offend her with conversation that is too—let us say raw?”

  They had reached the house. Pete tilted his head back to admire his handiwork. He’d put the best of his effort into building it and he thought it was a fine piece of work, if he did say so hims
elf. Miss Clara’s sisters seemed to think so, too. They’d added some frilly touches that a man wouldn’t think of but a lady like Miss Clara would notice right away. He didn’t understand why the broom couldn’t stay by the front door; that was where folks would enter the house and it stood to reason that they’d track in dirt from outside. But Mrs. Wyatt had told him that the broom needed to be kept in the corner by the kitchen, even though it would have to be brought out to the front every time someone brought in dirt from outside. It made no sense to Pete, but if that was how it needed to be to keep Miss Clara content, why, he could come to terms with that.

  But lavender in the privy? He’d already made it as genteel as he knew how to do. It was good size, the holes were deep, he’d brought two thick catalogs to use and there was even a candlestick off to the side, so that if Miss Clara had need of the privy at night and forgot to bring a candle with her to see, she’d find one there. There wasn’t a finer privy in the whole mining camp; he’d already had folks coming by just to take a look at it.

  “Ma’am,” he said humbly, “if you think lavender in the outhouse will make Miss Clara happy, I’m grateful to you for the suggestion.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “I brought some with me and I’ll just hang it . . . somewhere inside,” she told him. She started to get out of the wagon; she had developed a very adroit means of jumping down from a wagon without an unseemly showing of skirts or petticoats. But Pete, with his long-legged stride, was at the side of the wagon before she had a chance to descend and he held her hand as she climbed down.

  “Thank you, Pete,” she said, thinking again how very gentlemanly he was, even if he lacked the outward showings of the type.

  “I guess I’m out of the woodshed,” he grinned.

  “Pete, you are far too charming to stay in the woodshed for long,” she said warmly. “I hope that, if my sister ever seems to be less than patient, or somewhat . . . high-handed in her manner, you will remember that she is new to Colorado and will, for a time, judge everything in terms of how it was handled in Boston.”