by Rose Jenster
After the first year, Charlotte answered an advertisement in one of those day-old newspapers for a features reporter. This was not the women’s pages with recipes and tips for canning pickles or removing stains and retrimming bonnets. It was real stories such as factory fires and dust-ups down at the lumber market. She’d sent in writing samples under the name C.W. Caulfield, keeping her own initials but giving no other clue that the ubiquitous and daring C.W. Caulfield was really the dutiful Charlotte Worth Conners.
Charlotte spent a deal of time in the library. The explanation that she told her mother was that she was looking up old-fashioned recipes for fish stew and mash turnip. In reality, Charlotte pinned her hair under a hat , donned a pair of Roger’s old trousers and went walking down at the docks or in the brewery and foundry yards during work breaks.
That was where the news began, not with the lawmakers or with the neat publishing houses, but with the workers who could tell the pulse of a place. She introduced herself as Charlie and called herself an apprentice, a sixteen-year-old boy working his way up to be a newspaperman. People talked to her, when she was dressed as Charlie. She was on their side, scrappy, hardworking and hungry, like they were.
She liked being Charlie and valued the checks for the articles and regular columns she wrote. But Charlie’s time was up. Roger had finished law school, gotten a good position in the law firm of one of his professors, and engaged himself to the professor’s daughter as well. Roger had bade his mother and sister to come live with him once he and his bride were established in their new home on smart Fairweather Lane.
This meant that Charlotte must give up her newspaper job, lest she be discovered and cause a scandal that harmed her successful brother’s chances. Her mother was animated at the prospect of living with Roger and his new wife in their townhouse where she would have a bedroom of her own instead of having to share one with her daughter whose feet were always irksomely cold.
Mrs. Conners even suggested that once they were at Roger’s, Charlotte might take a secretarial course and get a job in a little office somewhere respectable such as a church or a ladies’ charitable society.
Charlotte had all she could do not to pull a rude face at the idea. Although she didn’t dare own it, Charlotte was the person who’d exposed the unsafe conditions in the Toll Brewery and prompted an inspection that prevented a devastating fire. She was the person who reported on the workers’ strike down at the docks and helped to bring public opinion round to the side of labor with her sympathetic stories.
There was no chance that Charlotte would be happy keeping files on the mailing addresses of charitably-minded fancy ladies, sending out solicitation letters and watering some dismal houseplants installed to make the office seem nicer. She could not picture herself making cups of tea for potential donors and congratulating them on their liberal-mindedness. It sounded so dull, especially after the adventurous double life she’d been leading.
So, as she settled herself at the escritoire in the cramped front room of their lodgings, Charlotte composed two letters. One, printed in careful grammar school lettering, was the resignation of reporter C.W. Caulfield, late of the Albany News. The second letter was trickier and more challenging. She could be perfectly candid about her true identity. But, this second letter was going to Montana Territory into the hands of Leah Weaver, the former teacher who had reassured her on one of the worst days of her life. Charlotte hoped fervently that once again, Leah might give her the gift of hope for a better, nobler life.
Leah had traveled out west as a mail order bride. Charlotte heard this from the gossip at the church supper two years back. Prim, bookish Miss Weaver had fled her brother’s house for a life on the frontier with a virtual stranger. Before that happened, Charlotte had thought the idea to be nothing more than a desperate hazard, a last resort for spinsters. She had thought it was for scrawny old maids who had moles and couldn’t attract a husband face to face.
Then, when the sweet and clever teacher with her quiet way had found a husband out west, Charlotte began to view it as a different sort of adventure. It was a way for an unconventional woman to lead a fulfilling life with fewer constraints. Leah’s choice had surprised her, but looking back she thought it possible that Leah had always been a sort of rebel with her humanitarian opinions carefully guarded. Maybe now, she was free.
It seemed such a tempting notion now to Charlotte since Roger would be taking care of their mother. Their financial worries would be relieved. Charlotte considered throwing her lot in with Montana Territory.
She set pen to paper with trepidation. For a girl who had written to earn her daily bread and butter,, this should have been an easy enough task. But there was so much to worry about. Would Leah think her terribly forward for writing in such manner? Would Leah’s husband judge it improper and forbid her to reply? She must try to present her idea as rationally as possible, couched in the most genteel terms.
Chapter 2
Charlotte wrote and discarded two drafts before coming to her last sheet of cheap paper. Sighing, she began again.
Dear Miss Weaver (the former Miss Weaver),
My name is Charlotte Conners of Albany, daughter of the late Rev. Charles Conners and a former student at the school where you taught. Once you were very kind to me. I had written a composition about abolition and the headmaster was displeased at my impropriety. You consoled me with gentle words and I remain grateful for that encouragement.
My dear father died an early death shortly thereafter and I withdrew from school. I have spent the last three years working to support my mother and my brother who was at college. Now I find myself most happily without such responsibility as he is established in business. My current occupation is not of the most genteel and I wish to embark on a different sort of life.
You may wonder at my writing you so candidly on such a slender acquaintance as ours. You may think me grossly improper. I hope you will be merciful to me now as you were once when I was sixteen. You were, I think, not much older in years but miles ahead in compassion and wisdom. I write with the intention, the great hope of securing your advice in a matter of utmost personal importance.
Due to the strange sort of life I have led these last few years, I find myself unsuited to the conventional occupations open to women. I have no wish to take a teaching certificate, nor do I like the idea of being a secretary for some ladies’ organization. I haven’t the accomplishments nor visage to recommend myself to young men who might have considered me had my life taken a different path. I have read a number of penny novels about cowboys and Indians and the Wild West. Do not think me foolish or whimsical, but I think my destiny lies beyond the mountains. Very well, you may think me whimsical, only help me as well!
I have been writing for the city news these two years under the pseudonym of a man. I know it is improper. It was also necessary as writing was the only skill I possessed that might keep body and soul together during hard times. Forgive my boldness, ma’am, but I felt you needed to know this rather shocking bit of my background in order to consider my plea.
I think, with my somewhat headstrong temperament and my custom of being both practical and rather independent, I would be suited better for frontier life than the polite society of Albany, which is unlikely even to admit me anyhow. I know that you answered an advertisement in the Matrimonial Times and I aim to do that as well. I am curious as to what advice you would give me with respect to particulars, which sort of ads to respond to and how much to say in my initial letter.
I am, as you see, apt to be overly candid and do not wish to make so negative an impression on a potential husband as I have likely made upon you. I do apologize for imposing upon you thus and I entreat you to consider my plight, if I may call my situation by such a melodramatic term. Any information you provide will be most welcome and useful to me as I attempt to sort out my options.
Thank you for reading thus far and for anything you feel comfortable discussing with me on this admittedly sensit
ive topic. Please know that I mean no disrespect and think of you with all fondness and admiration.
Sincerely yours,
Charlotte
She proofread it carefully, addressed and franked it. Then Charlotte took out her one serviceable black dress and sponged it. She would have to wear a shawl to keep warm because the temperatures were growing colder and it was a light dress. It had once been a pretty pink sprigged fabric but it had to be dyed for mourning upon her father’s death. It had survived the reduction in prosperity and was the only dress from that period which had not grown rusty, proving the quality of the fabric it had been made of.
It occurred to her as she sponged at the hem carefully that the dress was not unlike herself. Once she was a frivolous thing, but well made and able to withstand transition with fortitude. She smiled grimly at the thought and hoped that Leah would write back to her cordially with practical suggestions.
Charlotte vowed not to seek out a copy of the matrimonial papers until after she had heard Leah’s counsel. In the meantime she had events to ready herself and her mother for. The engagement party for Roger and his future bride, Laetitia Shaughnessy, was approaching. Certainly Roger would have purchased material for new dresses, but Charlotte did not have time to make up two new dresses herself and it would have embarrassed her to ask him for the help.
It was perfectly acceptable, she thought, for him to assume care of their mother once he was married and possessed a comfortable home. In the meantime, it was her job to keep up appearances and not infringe on his new bounty. She would clean and mend their dresses and endeavor to keep from looking too shabby at the party. Charlotte fetched her mother’s best dress, a serviceable merino wool, also dyed black, and brushed it with care.
They did look shabby, it turned out. Charlotte knew perfectly well when she looked in the glass that despite the fact she was scrubbed clean and her hair pinned back neatly, she looked like someone’s poor relation, right down to the proud set of her firm little chin. Her mother had agreed to attend the party. She seemed blessedly oblivious to their disadvantaged appearance, apart from expressing irritation when Charlotte claimed to have misplaced the seed pearl pin that might have looked nice on her dress.
“It’s good that you’ll never have diamonds, Charlotte, as you’d be apt to mislay them, careless as you are. As I have told you time and again, you really must take better care of things. Why, only the other day you forgot that parcel of cheese I sent you especially to get,” her mother reproached.
Charlotte had never purchased the cheese, knowing they couldn’t afford it. It was simpler to pretend incompetence than to force her mother to face their poverty. It had become a habit, pretending to be careless when she in fact shepherded carefully each nickel they had. It was hard for her mother, who had grown up a prosperous tradesman’s daughter and married a minister with a comfortable living.
She was not accustomed to the indignities of economy and Charlotte could do little enough to protect her. She’d grown used to getting the rough side of her mother’s tongue over small privations, because it was better than letting her mother grieve over the little luxuries she missed. Better her mother should think her daughter a wasteful little fool, she reasoned.
At the party, in the spacious home of the bride-elect’s father Professor Shaughnessy, Roger and Laetitia greeted them both affectionately. Charlotte had never met her brother’s fiancée but the girl, with her lovely pink dress and shining golden hair, took Mrs. Conners’ hands and kissed her cheek warmly.
“Oh, I’m so happy you’ve come,” Laetitia said. “I hope to depend on you a great deal in decorating our new home, as you know my dear Roger’s tastes better than anyone.”
Mildred Conners smiled at the girl and Charlotte felt herself relax. The young lady did not look askance at their attire and was friendly and welcoming. Roger, for his part, was full of his plans for a wedding trip and for outfitting the house with gas lights. The room they stood in was brilliant with gas lights in sconces on the walls and Charlotte felt a surge of covetousness. She could read and write well into the witching hour with such facilities, she thought ruefully.
“I say, Charlotte, I’d be obliged if you’d take mother shopping for the wedding. If I let Laetitia take her, she’s apt to wind up in something with scads of ruffles in a bright shade of pink,” he said.
“I’ll do that, Roger, but as for shopping—”
“I quite understand. Do not give it a thought. Have the bill sent to my office. You need some things for yourself I’d wager, after scrimping for years. I’m grateful, truly, for all you did to keep mother comfortable while I did my degree. I plan to return the favor and—this is hardly the time or place to speak of it, but I was given a special bonus at work this week.”
“That’s splendid, Roger,” she said, feeling a bit awkward that he was speaking of money and at his own engagement party.
“I intend to settle part of it with you, so you will have your own portion.”
“I don’t know what to say, Roger. You should keep the money you’ve earned.” She blushed and was surprised by Roger's generosity.
“You’ve worked as hard as me and then some, Charlie,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Don’t think I don’t know, sister dear. I'm proud as punch of you in the bargain. I think it’s quite impressive.”
“Please keep it from mother,” she said urgently.
“Of course, don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. It was dreadfully brave of you to do it.”
“I appreciate that. It was also foolish, probably, and I think mother would comment on the foolish side of the issue.”
“Doubtless she would. Will you consider giving it up when you move in with us? For the sake of appearances…”
“I’ve already resigned. I’ve no intention of jeopardizing your situation, Roger. I love you too well to risk your happiness.”
“You’ve done everything to make my happiness possible and I mean to do the same for you. You will always have a home here with us. I hope the settlement I’m making on you will make up in a small measure for everything you’ve had to do without on my account these last few years.”
“That wasn’t your fault! If Father had saved more money—oh, but I shouldn't blame him either. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Many people are worse off, living in penury but without the comfort of their loved ones as I’ve had.”
“It’s good of you to say it, Charlotte, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t credit it.”
“Just as you please, Roger. You’d best return to your bride. She’ll wonder why I’ve stolen you away.”
“Do have a champagne,” he urged. “I think mother could use one as well, though I doubt she’ll drink it. You know how father was about temperance.”
By the time Charlotte rejoined her mother, she found Mildred draining her champagne glass. Merrily, Charlotte took a glass herself.
“Don’t you think Laetitia is an absolute dear?” her mother said.
“A dear, yes,” Charlotte agreed, enjoying the strange, sparkly feeling of the bubbles in the tart wine.
“It will be so nice to be settled in a better neighborhood,” her mother mused.
“Yes, it’s by far the best thing. And so good of Roger to take us in.”
“What else should he have done? We’ve spent years in privation for his sake, Charlotte,” her mother said.
Astounded, Charlotte gaped at her.
“It’s true. He’s had all the benefit of it and it’s time he did his part,” Mildred said decisively. “I expect nothing less of your brother.”
Charlotte thought it rude to mention that she herself had wondered once or twice if he might not leave them in the slums on his meteoric rise to riches. As he stood beside his soon-to-be father-in-law and his elegant bride-to-be, Charlotte took in his handsomely fitted suit, the gloves, and the shine on his new shoes.
She wore an old pair of her mother’s because when she’d outgrown her own
boots there had been no money for new ones. Charlotte reminded herself that tomorrow she would go get a new pair for herself, something sturdy and durable. For her mother, she'd get a pair that were the opposite, something soft, impractical and pretty just for a treat.
The party was lavish. They ate oysters and sampled a baked Alaska. Everyone was merry and music played for dancing. Charlotte stayed by her mother’s side, enjoying how happy Mildred seemed. The change in their fortunes would do her the world of good.
For Charlotte’s part, she had no wish to be beholden to her brother. In fact, she was grateful for the chance to seek her own happiness, while her mother could be so happily settled with Roger and Laetitia. If only Leah would write back.
Two days later, she received a missive from Montana Territory and nearly split her seams from excitement. She tore into the envelope right there at the post office, dropping onto a bench to read it. Unfolding the pages, she was anxious to begin.
Dear Charlotte,
I do remember you and your quiet bravery on that day when the headmaster punished you for your choice of topic. It is, I must admit, seen as very unseemly for a woman to take interest in abolition, suffragism or any other social concern. We are much better trading receipts for pickling vegetables than concerning ourselves with the world we will leave for our sons and daughters, I suppose. I have never been of that opinion myself, but you must know that I took my escape in novels.
I recommend to you instead of your sensational cowboy stories, the novels of Mrs. Edgeworth and Ms. Austen. Stay away from the Brontes…they are nothing but trouble for a fanciful young lady such as yourself. I do think you whimsical, to believe that novels are anything like life at all.
I came to Montana Territory, it is true, on a romantic impulse. I am every day thankful that I made the journey although I hardly know how I had the courage to do it. This is not a decision to take lightly. While my own situation has been of the happiest, I believe that my marriage is an exception rather than a common occurrence. Think of the young men you knew at school. You would not have chosen one at random, having never carried on a conversation, and agreed to give over your entire life and all that was familiar to marry him in some faraway place. Stranger yet is to make such a promise to someone whose face you have never seen.