Mail Order Bride: JUMBO Mail Order Bride 20 Book Box Set

by Hope Sinclair

  Daisy reached out and grabbed the first book she touched. She’d had enough of the “real world” and wanted to escape it for a bit, and she knew that distracting herself with a book would do the trick. It always did.

  Once she had the book in front of her, Daisy realized that it was a book of poems. She sat down at her desk, drew it closer to her body, and began flipping through the pages, in search of one of her favorite verses—and, as she was doing so, something fell from the book, onto her lap.

  Daisy picked up the item and smiled as she examined it. It was a letter from her friend Melissa, who’d gone off to Texas six months earlier to marry a sheep breeder. Daisy pulled the letter from the envelope and read over it again.

  Greeting from Saddle Point, Texas, Melissa wrote. I am now settled in and happily married to Jacob Lent, who is both a gentle soul and a hard worker. Daisy sighed at the thought of such a man and found herself slightly envious of her dear friend as she went on to read the rest of the letter.

  When she got to the end of Melissa’s letter, however, Daisy felt another emotion. The mild jealousy she felt was replaced with a feeling of hope.

  There are several unmarried men in our settlement who are looking for wives, Melissa wrote in closing. So, if you ever decide to look for a husband outside of New York, let me know, and I can arrange for you to exchange letters with one of them.

  As she reread those words for a second—and then third—time, Daisy smiled, looked up in the air, closed her eyes, and thanked her Heavenly Father. Then, she set the letter down on her desk, dropped to her knees in front of the bookshelf, grabbed another book, and started flipping through its pages.

  Lo and behold, she found another letter. This one was from her friend Jennifer, who’d moved to the state of Pennsylvania a year earlier, after her husband was relocated to work on the railroad there. In her letter, Jennifer had ranted about how hard it was for her to find new friends in her new home. But, she’d also noted that her husband, Henry, had had no trouble making new friends and had become great chums with two wealthy, adventurous men, who were brothers.

  Unfortunately neither of the brothers is married though, Jennifer had written, which means they have no wives to keep me company while Henry is with them.

  Daisy set Jennifer’s letter down on top of Melissa’s, then reached for another book and flipped through the pages. But, this one did not contain a letter from anyone. So, she reached for another, which was also empty, then another, and another, until she found one that contained a letter from her friend Camilla.

  Camilla’s letter made no mention of single, unmarried men. But, nonetheless, after reading it, Daisy set it atop the other two letters on her desk, then grabbed another book and flipped through the pages.

  Daisy continued searching through her books until she’d examined every single one of them. Once she was done, her collection of books was scattered on the floor in front of her, and she had a stack on eight letters from eight different friends on her desk—and, on top of that, she had a plan.

  Daisy carefully placed each book back on her shelf, then got up and took a seat at her desk. She collected the stack of letters and arranged them in an orderly fashion, then set them off to the side. Next, she opened the drawer to her desk; pulled out a stack of paper, pen, and inkwell; and massaged her wrist as she sat there, thinking.

  After a few moments of reflection, Daisy took hold of the pen, unscrewed the cap to her inkwell, dipped the pen in, and, shortly thereafter, began writing.

  THREE

  Daisy’s nostrils flared. She smelled the unmistakable aroma of bacon, and it made her stomach growl. But, despite her hunger, she remained seated and pushed forward. She was nearly done with what she’d set out to do, and she wasn’t going to let the promise of delicious strips of pig fat stop her from completing her task.

  “There,” she said a few moments later, scrawling one last letter. “All done.” She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and took a deep breath. Now, the smell of coffee mixed with the smell of bacon, and, although Daisy was not fond of that drink, it, too, made her stomach growl and caused her mouth to water, for she knew that it meant a fresh breakfast was about to be set on the table.

  Daisy opened her eyes again and, for the first time in several hours, looked away from her desk and appraised the room around her. She had been up all night, without even realizing it until just a few minutes earlier, and the morning light was now cascading in through her window, which made her oil lamp unnecessary at this point.

  Not that her oil lamp was giving off much light in any event. It, like Daisy, had worked throughout the night and into the morning, and it was nearly drained of all its fluid, just like the almost-empty inkwell that sat on the desk.

  Daisy massaged her wrist again, just like she’d done before she started writing. Only this time, the massage was much more needed. Her wrist was tight and hurt very badly, but, in her heart, she knew the pain was worth it.

  Though Daisy was just as tired, if not more, than her wrist, she shrugged off her physical feelings, stood up, straightened out her garments, and took a deep breath, preparing herself for what was to follow. She reached down on the desk and grabbed a stack of letters—not the ones her friends had sent her, but the stack she’d just spent the past few hours writing—and left her bedroom.

  As soon as she walked into the dining room, Daisy saw her father sitting at the table. He had a king’s breakfast set out before him and was reading the newspaper and gnawing on a slice of bacon. When he realized she had entered, he curled the paper down, glanced over it at his daughter, then grunted and resumed reading.

  “I hope a good night’s sleep has brought more sense to you,” he said as he chewed his food.

  “I didn’t sleep,” Daisy replied, walking over to the table.

  Mr. Robinson curled his newspaper down and looked at Daisy again. And, this time, he took in her total appearance.

  “You look it,” he laughed.

  Indeed, Daisy was wearing the same clothing she’d worn the day before, and it was wrinkled and hung somewhat sloppily from her body. She had several ink stains on her hands, and her eyes were a bit swollen from the strain of writing under the oil lamp for so many hours.

  No matter, Daisy ignored her father’s mean comment and sat down at the table. She set the stack of letters down in front of her as Mr. Robinson returned to the newspaper.

  “I’ve come up with a solution,” Daisy said.

  “Uh-huh,” Mr. Robinson responded. “And, that solution is… you’ll marry Marcus Taylor.”

  “No,” Daisy replied, matter-of-factly.

  “We’ve already been over this,” Mr. Robinson sighed. “You will either marry Marcus, or you’ll—”

  “I’ve found another option,” Daisy said, cutting him off midsentence.

  Mr. Robinson did not like being interrupted. He stopped reading the newspaper, folded it in half, and set it on the table beside him.

  “Oh?” he asked sarcastically. “And what option is that, dear daughter? You found another suitable, sensible man to marry and take over my business? Did you find one hiding in your closet or trunk? Did one show up in the middle of the night without our knowing? Or, perhaps you built one out of wood and wire, like in those useless books you read?”

  “No,” Daisy answered, refusing to let her father’s ill spirit bring her down. “None of those things happened. But, I did think of a way to find a better man to marry.”

  Mr. Robinson rolled his eyes and took a piece of bread from his plate. “Fine,” he said, taking a bite. “I’ll indulge you… Explain.”

  “It may be true that I have limited chances of meeting a suitable man here in New York,” Daisy said. “But, there are many suitable men outside of New York, many men who are looking to marry and engage in productive business—and, I’d like to explore those prospects before surrendering to Marcus Taylor’s proposal.”

  “And how do you intend on finding those men?” Mr. Robinson ask
ed with a spiteful grin, shaking his head from side to side. “And, even if you find them, how do you plan on convincing one of them to move here and take over my business?”

  Just then, Mrs. Robinson walked into the room carrying her own plate of food, which was meager in comparison to her husband’s. She looked at Daisy curiously, a bit startled by her disheveled appearance, then eyed the stack of letters as she took her seat at the table.

  “I’ve written several letters,” Daisy answered, “to friends of mine who are happily married in other places throughout the country. In my letters, I explained my situation to them and asked them to help me find a husband who was willing to move to New York and take over your business.”

  “Your friends?” Mr. Robinson chuckled. “What friends are these? And why should I trust their judgment over my own?”

  Daisy reached out and grazed her hand over the topmost envelope. All of the eight letters she’d written contained the explanation and request she’d just described, and each message was tailored specifically to its recipient. For example, the letter to Melissa inquired about the bachelors Melissa had referenced in her letter; the letter to Jennifer inquired about the wealthy, adventurous brothers; and the letter to Camilla was written more generally, asking if she knew of any single, potentially interested, and interesting men. Truth be told, Daisy didn’t know much about the men some of her friends had written about, and didn’t know if the others could find anyone ideal, but, all in all, she trusted their judgment more than her father’s.

  “I wrote to Melissa Parks, Jennifer James, Camilla Sinclair, Anabelle Corn, Mary Struthers, Elizabeth Leonard, Rose Johnson, and Bethany Miller,” Daisy replied, sifting through the envelopes. Mr. Robinson pushed his plate forward and leaned back in his chair. He recognized some of those maiden names from his dealings in business, as well as from church, and couldn’t quickly think of anything disparaging to say about any of them.

  “Those girls all come from good, respectable families,” Mrs. Robinson said, joining the conversation. “And, they are all reasonable young women, if memory serves me.”

  Mr. Robinson shot his wife a wicked look from across the table, and, with it, she stopped speaking, bowed her head down over her plate, and began picking at her food with her fork.

  “All I ask, father,” Daisy said, cutting through the tension in the air with her melodic voice, “is that you give me some time so hear back from my friends before insisting that I marry that pr—… before insisting that I marry Marcus Taylor. I figure it’ll take about two weeks for the post to deliver my letters, then a few weeks for my friends to inquire within their communities and reply. Just give me a few months to hear back from them… Please?”

  Mr. Robinson narrowed his eyes on his daughter, then he leaned forward, took hold of his plate, which still had a surplus of bacon and an untouched fried egg on it, and placed it on the floor beside him. Not even a second later, the family dog—a tiny, curly-haired thing—came over and stared feasting on his “scraps.”

  “Alright,” Mr. Robinson said with a crooked smile, leaning back in his chair again. “I will give you three months to hear back from your friends and find a suitable husband that meets my standards as well as yours. I will give you three months, to the day, no more… but only under one condition.”

  Daisy’s eyes widened and her cheeks bulged as she waited for her father to go on.

  “If, by the end of that time,” Mr. Robinson said, “you do not meet an appropriate man, you will marry Marcus Taylor without any further objection, and you will vow to be a loving, faithful wife and servant to him from that day forward… Are we agreed?”

  Daisy looked her father in the eye and nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “We are agreed.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Robinson replied. He picked up his newspaper again, unfolded it, and placed it in front of his face. Though Daisy and Mrs. Robinson could not see his expression, he was smiling a crooked smile again—and, this smile was even more crooked than the last. For little did Daisy know, he thought her “plan” was futile, and he already had a few tricks hidden up his sleeve.

  FOUR

  It was just over one month later when Daisy received the first response to her letters. It came from Jennifer James of Pennsylvania, which made sense since Pennsylvania was the closest state to which Daisy had mailed a letter.

  As Daisy held Jennifer’s letter in her hands, she hoped and prayed that it contained good news. But, no sooner than she opened it, she realized that it did not.

  I’m sorry, my dear friend, Jennifer wrote, but neither of the brothers I wrote to you about are available anymore. The older one moved abroad to Europe. And, the younger one married a shop girl from town. She’s a dull, unentertaining thing, and I wish you’d written to me sooner.

  Daisy sighed and frowned as she went on to read the rest of Jennifer’s letter. Then, after shedding a few tears, she collected herself and wrote a quick reply thanking her friend for taking the time to respond and wishing her well.

  Two days later, Daisy received another letter. This one was from Elizabeth Leonard, and it came from Boston. Again, Daisy hoped and prayed for the best before opening it; but, again, once she did, she was disappointed. Just as there was a shortage of eligible bachelors in New York, so too was there a shortage in Boston, and Elizabeth did not even know of any single men, she wrote.

  Daisy wrote a kind reply to Elizabeth’s letter, making sure that her tears did not fall onto the piece of paper and smear the ink as she did.

  A week later, another letter came for Daisy—and, no surprise, it contained more bad news. There are no suitable single men that I know of in my community here in Chicago, Anabelle Corn wrote. The only men I know of that aren’t married are old, stuffy, and strange, and I would not care to see you marry any one of them as they would surely make you even unhappier than your father’s associate would.

  Old, stuffy, and strange definitely were not features Daisy sought in a husband, and she thanked Anabelle for her candor when penning her response.

  Another week passed, then another—and, alas, Daisy did not receive any additional letters from the post. It was going on two months now, since she’d sent out her original letters, and she was starting to become very concerned and nervous. But, she tried her best to remain optimistic, despite her father’s frequent poking and prodding.

  “Found yourself a man yet?” he’d chortled at her on more than a dozen occasions.

  “I don’t see any suitors lined up outside of our door yet,” he’d cruelly quipped.

  “Maybe those so-called friends of yours are too busy with their own lives to take any interest in yours,” he taunted too often. “Perhaps you should’ve written to twelve of them instead of just eight.”

  And so on, and so on, and so on… Mr. Robinson took every chance he could to make fun of his daughter, her plan to find a husband, and her friends. And so too, he also took every chance he could to try and bolster his own proposition and promote Marcus Taylor as a promising husband. Though, the things he said about Marcus, if anything, only made Marcus all the more unappealing.

  “Marcus is such a shrewd businessman,” Mr. Robinson had boasted one night over dinner. “He managed to convince the hospital to sign an order that will bring us a substantial profit over the next four years. The fools didn’t even realize what they were signing! They agreed to pay 14 cents over the average price of linens… per linen!”

  “The talented Mr. Taylor has done it again!” Mr. Robinson had exclaimed when he arrived home from work, drunk and late for dinner, another evening. “He’s found a way to save us even more money. He fired six young men we had working in the factory and replaced them with six desperate, needy housewives, who’ll work twice as many hours for a third of the salary.”

  And so on, and so on, and so on… With each “good” thing Mr. Robinson had to say about Marcus Taylor, Daisy became more and more disheartened, and fearful of the possibility of marrying him. He didn’t seem shrewd o
r talented to her. He seemed ruthless.

  Finally, after not receiving any correspondence from her friends for some time, Daisy received not one, or two, but three letters in the mail one afternoon.

  As soon as she received them, Daisy held the letters close to her heart, closed her eyes, and pleaded with God, for a positive reply.

  First, she opened the letter from Melissa Parks of Texas. It opened with the words “Sorry, Daisy,” and Daisy shook her head as she went on and read the rest. According to Melissa’s letter, the “several unmarried men in the settlement who were looking for wives” had already found them, largely through mail-order bride periodicals, and, amazingly, were all now happily married.

  Next, Daisy opened the letter from Mary Struthers, and, as she started reading it, she saw a glimmer of hope, which was swiftly extinguished.

  I know of three single men here in Butte, Mary wrote from Montana. But none of them would suit you. One is a widower with seven male children, ranging from infants to teenagers. Another is slow-witted and cannot read or write, and, therefore, would not do well in business. And, the third is a loathsome type who I, personally, believe may be responsible for a series of unsolved robberies in our otherwise peaceful town.

  As Daisy opened the third letter—from Bethany Miller of Ohio—she held her breath and prepared for the worst. And, unfortunately, Bethany’s bad news was even worse than the “worst” she expected.

  My husband died in an industrial accident four months ago, Bethany wrote. Six weeks later, our daughter was born. Though I would like to help you find a husband, I cannot at this time, since I am currently looking for one myself.

  Daisy felt great sadness for Bethany’s predicament and swiftly penned a response, extending her condolences and wishing Bethany the best of luck. Once she was done with that letter—and, once she was done thinking of her friend’s feelings, rather than her own—Daisy wept uncontrollably for a great while before writing her other replies.