Mail Order Brides Collection Boxed Set: Felicity, Frank, Verity and Jessica, Books 3-6 (Montana Mail Order Brides Series)

by Rose Jenster

* * *

  “You wanted to see me?” Luke said. “Something the matter with the press again?”

  “No. I want some improvements to my living quarters before the snow falls.”

  “Your living quarters?”

  “Yes, I do live someplace other than the newspaper, Luke. I’m quite sure I’ve had you round for coffee.” Frank smiled.

  “Ugh. That burnt slime was not coffee. What you need is a percolator.”

  “I shall order one from the mercantile. In the meantime, I want to build on a room, a sitting room.”

  “Don’t you have one?” Luke was pondering this situation.

  “I have a bedroom and a kitchen. I sometimes sit in the kitchen.”

  “Are you looking to begin entertaining callers?” Luke asked.

  “No. I want to make provision for any future…guests.”

  “I expect any visitors would stay at Henry’s inn. They’re hardly likely to seek accommodation at the news office.” Luke replied.

  “You know what I mean.” Frank knew that Luke wanted him to spit it out.

  “You mean Charlotte Conners. You mean to have a sitting room outfitted so you look civilized if you can get her to hop a train to Montana.”

  “I had a better chance of it before I let my words get ahead of me.”

  “What did you do?

  “I said something bad about her brother. Several things, in fact.” Frank looked down and could not meet Luke's eyes.

  “Good heavens, Frank! Did you insult her mother and her church as well?”

  “I may have insulted her mother by association. I doubt I mentioned her church. I feel certain, in fact, that I did not mention her church in any offensive manner.”

  “Maybe you’ve saved that for your next letter,” Luke said ruefully.

  “I have no intention of offending her further.”

  “I can’t imagine why you did it in the first place.”

  “I was angry. I thought of something she’d told me, about her brother going off to college and leaving her to support their mother, and I wanted to throttle him,” Frank admitted.

  “So you told a girl that you wanted to throttle her brother? For going to college and bettering himself?”

  “For leaving all the responsibility for her so she had to take up a trade ill-fitted for a woman.”

  “That’s a bit hostile, Frank. Anyhow, what do you have in mind for your sitting room?”

  “Four walls. A window.”

  “Something a bit more specific. Would you like me to draw you out a couple of plans?”

  “Yes, thanks. I’d like you to start—soon.” Frank felt some hope for this project.

  “I think I can find time to work on a sitting room for your bride.”

  “I have no bride.”

  “You want one. That is a great deal of progress from the time when you would not consider it,” Luke said.

  “I have my reasons.”

  “A woman who wants you for a husband will not demur when you tell her about your health,” Luke said astutely.

  “I told her.” Frank knew in his heart he had to be truthful.

  “You’ve told her? Already? She is a maiden living in Albany. You mustn’t go round writing to her of such topics.”

  “You would have me wait until I have placed a ring on her finger and bound her to a holy vow before telling her the truth? What if she had her heart set on a large family of children and I robbed her of that with dishonesty?” Frank felt strongly about his sense of integrity.

  “What if you waited until you were seriously writing of marriage before you horrified her with a very indelicate private fact?”

  “I suppose I could have been more circumspect.”

  “Frank, you’ve insulted her family and written to her about—reproduction.” Luke whispered the last word as furtively as if it had been an obscenity.

  “Are you suggesting I should have gone to finishing school with my sisters?”

  “It might have helped,” Luke joked. “You could have learned the manners a man uses when writing to a lady.”

  “I think you’ve apprised me of the rules now. No insulting her family and no talk of breeding,” Frank said with a laugh.

  “You are incorrigible,” Luke said, as Frank enjoyed his friend’s discomfiture at the choice of words.

  “Why are you embarrassed? It isn’t as if you didn’t breed sheep for your flock.”

  “That is hardly the same thing and you know it. I’ll build you a room but I can’t promise it will improve your chances much.” Luke was not surprised by Frank's wording, yet wished to educate him.

  “If she still writes to me, I think we’ll have passed the most dangerous bit and I’m unlikely to frighten her off at that point.”

  “If she still writes you after you spoke ill of her brother and explained your health condition, I think it’s safe to say she’s in love with you,” Luke concluded.

  “Would that it were true,” Frank said.

  “You’re serious. I had thought you looked on this exchange as a sort of experiment. That you would see how much you might slight the girl before she threw you over entirely. I suspect with your building of the sitting room and your forgiveness that you may be more serious than I thought.”

  “I am serious about her. About the idea. When Mrs. Rogers approached me I thought it very presumptuous, but when I considered it, I recognized that it could be good at this time in life.”

  “I hope you use warmer language in your letters than or you will have no need for the sitting room addition,” Luke said ruefully.

  Frank thought of ordering some wallpaper from the catalog at the mercantile. Women liked wallpaper, didn’t they? The sort with flowers on? Shaking his head, he sat down to write. Not an article for the newspaper, but something far more vital to his future. A letter to Charlotte’s mother.

  Dear Mrs. Conners,

  I take the liberty of writing you directly as the post between Billings and the East is so slow. If I asked permission to write and then awaited a reply from yourself, and then, upon receiving permission wrote you a letter, it would be months before you found yourself with this communication in hand to approve or reject. As such, and in the interest of efficiency, of which I am a strong proponent, I have written thus.

  I have, as I am sure you are aware, exchanged a few letters with your estimable daughter, Miss Conners. With each missive, my esteem for her has grown. She seems possessed of a lively and clever spirit. As you know, she is a resourceful and practical creature as any God made.

  Before I received her second letter I knew, though I was loathe to admit it, that Miss Conners was quite necessary to my happiness. What care have you for my happiness? None whatsoever, as I presume you are as sensible a person as your daughter is. However, I flatter myself to suggest that I am capable of providing Miss Conners a comfortable home with scope for her adventuring interests and writing talent. I run a newspaper. I recognize her worth and her character. By consequence, I am arrogant enough to think that lends me some claim. I ask you for permission to marry her.

  I ask no permission to propose marriage because as a man possessed of my wits and independent of means, I consider it my own right to choose where I propose. It is however your province as her parent to deny me the ability to marry her by withholding your approval. I would not marry her against your wishes. Though she knows her own mind seemingly as well as any man (I mean no insult in that remark, certainly no insult to her femininity, for it is no detriment to her delicacy of mind to have a will of her own), I know how she values your judgment and approval. I would not be the agent of further grief to her by creating discord between you.

  I say “further” grief because I wrote something quite unkind about your son. He is a stranger to me and I had no right to sit in judgment upon him. It was an excess of feeling and, a rashness on my part. I wholeheartedly repent as it has given Miss Conners pain. I will be more careful with my words in the future. I am not of a sociab
le bent. I am, according to my closest friends, something of a misanthrope but you must know how highly I esteem your daughter. If I, who find so little to approve in humanity, prize her above all others, surely I must see her value and be in some small measure worthy of asking for her hand.

  Do not sport with me, I beg you. I care for her. I will write to her and plead my case. Tell me directly whether you consent or deny my suit for her hand. I am not perfect, but I will prove true.

  Sincerely,

  Franklin Barton

  He shook his head over the letter. For all the formal phrases he had chosen to couch his declaration, it was plain enough. Frank had thought the letter to the no doubt disapproving matriarch would be the hardest challenge, but he nearly trembled at the thought of approaching Charlotte about the serious question of marriage. Their courtship, he admitted to himself, had occurred largely in the quiet spaces of his day, in his mind. He told her things aloud and he kept a list of things to write in his next letter. Frank gazed down at that list and wondered if she were writing to someone else. Did she accept some other, better man at this very moment? He had to risk it, though he might wish the letter unsent or burnt to ashes in his grate.

  My dearest Charlotte,

  You answer all my fondest wishes in your words, your character and your very being. Above all else I wish not to lose you. -I wish that you might permit me to bring you here and to make you happy.

  May I have your hand in marriage? If not now, though I prefer now, then in one month or in six or in three years perhaps? I am not a man much addicted to hope, but I would not, I think, be able to give up hoping I might persuade you that I might bring you round to consider me with all my failings. A better man could not love you half so well as I do.

  Something in the writing of letters lends itself to a stilted formality and I am not a formal man. I walk round with my shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, with machine grease from the printing press staining my fingertips. Yet I wish to present myself with more refinement to you.

  I have written your mother. You may think I have no right, as I had no right to speak so of your brother. I cannot wait to be granted rights of which I am unlikely to prove worthy. I must seize such rights as I may and risk having them wrested from me. Just as I seize the opportunity to call you Charlotte, to write your name with my pen, to make the shape of it with my fingers and to feel that it is a private thing between us two. I say your name ten times a day to an empty room.

  When I am saying things to you, pretending that you were here, I am not in the grip of madness. I know you are not here. I only wish you were. It is not the delusion of a fevered brain, but the vain wish of a lonesome man that you would requite my feelings. I would like for you to join me here in Montana Territory and bring with you your voice, your fine mind and your lively opinions. I am a stodgy creature who could use some brightening up.

  I have hired a friend to build a sitting room for you. I know this sounds arrogant to believe I might prevail, and I want our home to be ready to receive you as such. So I will choose paper and a rug and place the chairs just so to welcome you here.

  Say you will come. I will buy a ring. I will wrap it in paper and keep it for you, to give you on the day we marry. I would share a life with you, if you will allow it.

  Yours in all things,

  Frank

  Chapter 7

  Charlotte's hands trembled as she opened the letter, settling the ruffles of her peach organdy party dress with irritation. Laetitia had made a gift of it, ready made, and Charlotte had thanked her sincerely. It was a fine fabric, with silk ribbons at the throat, and by far uglier than Charlotte’s thrice-mended black. Perhaps it was the profusion of finery after years of plainness and privation, or perhaps it was simply that the dress was not her own taste. Charlotte felt ill with the knowledge of her own ingratitude. So she wore it to the cotillion at the grange hall upon her mother’s insistence that she attend. She sat uncomfortably and sipped syrupy punch, fumbling with her glass because she was obliged to wear gloves. Charlotte smiled her best and it was only a bit brittle at the edges.

  She accepted dances with three men, only one of whom was young. The other two were widowers from the church and even they probably took pity on her. Perhaps the one with the bad front tooth wasn’t taking pity. Perhaps he genuinely liked the look of her, but she felt out of place limping round in a half-hearted circle in the warm building. When the young man asked her to take a walk and take the fresh air, she agreed. Charlotte laid her gloved hand upon his elbow and let him lead her outdoors.

  Phillip spent the entirety of their stroll asking if a blonde woman wearing blue named Pamela was looking their way. He had loved her, he said, since he was sixteen and hoped dancing with other girls would capture her notice.

  “When I saw you in that dress, I knew it was just the thing to catch her eye. She does love fancy clothes so she’s sure to watch you and see me squiring you round,” he said triumphantly.

  Charlotte felt rather sorry for him, depending on organdy and strangers to get his true love’s attention.

  “You ought to speak to her,” she said.

  “Whatever for?”

  “To tell her how you feel. There’s no sense going to assemblies and trying to catch her eye but never talking with her,” Charlotte advised.

  “Do girls expect that?” He seemed so awkward and child-like.

  “Yes. I’m afraid we do.” She patted his sleeve.

  “Oh.” Seemingly crestfallen, Phillip walked a few steps off and looked around helplessly.

  “Bring her out here. Show her the stars,” Charlotte suggested.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly,” she had assured him, wishing him the best, wondering at herself for having no interest in him.

  * * *

  Charlotte walked home and found the letter awaiting her on the escritoire. Perched on the edge of a chair, she opened it with trepidation. Her eyes traveled over the words, blurred with tears and she began again at the beginning.

  “Have you had a letter?” she burst out, leaping from the chair to find her mother.

  “Yes. As you have.”

  “Did you? Have you? Will you allow?” Charlotte stammered and was overwhelmed with many feelings.

  “We will discuss it in the morning. Put your dress on a peg so the wrinkles drop out somewhat,” her mother said briskly.

  Charlotte’s emotions were a tumult. While her mother hadn’t definitely ruled out the possibility of her marrying and moving west, she certainly hadn’t offered much in the way of encouragement either. Charlotte changed into her nightdress, unpinned her hair and combed it with shaking hands. She knew she must be patient and mild about it. She mustn’t press her mother for a favorable reply. Charlotte wanted to fling herself to her knees, drop her head into her mother’s lap and weep, to let her mother smooth her hair and tell her all would be well. She wanted to go west, to marry Frank in spite of his faults. Charlotte felt bound to him somehow. Although she knew it was a strange and risky choice, she trusted her heart. She trusted Leah’s judgment having known him for a few years.

  Her mother came in and sat on the edge of the bed beside her, took the comb from her hands and set to work, brushing and plaiting her daughter’s hair as she had throughout her childhood.

  “Did you have a nice time at the cotillion?”

  “It was fine, mother.”

  “I imagine your dress was much complimented,” her mother ventured.

  “It caught everyone’s eye.

  “It was most generous of Laetitia,” Charlotte said dutifully, feeling a pang at her disloyalty as she avoided looking at the organdy monstrosity on its peg.

  “Did you make yourself agreeable to your dance partners as I asked?”

  “I did indeed. I danced six times, with three partners.”

  “How nice! Were any of them…agreeable?”

  “One was Mr. Davenport.”

  “Ah. It is truly a shame about that front tooth.
He is a respectable tradesman, Charlotte.”

  “Yes. With five children. One of whom was my schoolfellow.”

  “Penelope?”

  “No, Penelope was older than me. Minna was my age. The youngest is just four now.”

  “An adorable age. You were so curious at that age Charlotte.”

  “I’m sure. And yet I do not wish to pursue any sort of courtship with Mr. Davenport though he seemed just interested in dancing.”

  “The other two?”

  “Phillip Trainer, who admitted to asking me to dance only because it might get the attention of the girl he really loves.”

  “So he is right out. And the third man?”

  “James Littlefield.”

  “Not him my dear,” Mrs. Conners said protectively.

  “Really, why? I didn’t find myself interested in him but I know he was part of Father’s congregation.”

  “Yes, and he beat his wife. You’ll find yourself locked in the cellar.”

  “I have no interest in him. We also have no cellar.”

  “A slight inconvenience. He would drag you to a neighbor’s cellar if necessary,” her mother said with a grim half-smile.

  “Thankfully that won’t be necessary.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Unless you intend to lock me up to prevent my going west.”

  “Tomorrow, Charlotte. It is late now.”

  There was a warning in her mother’s voice. Charlotte could respect her mother’s desire to put off what was certain to be a difficult conversation. She just had to temper her anxiety and her enthusiasm for the topic. Impulsively, she hugged her mother and then climbed into the bed, taking her spot against the wall. She liked the place against the wall. In truth, it was cozy.

  The following morning, she rose early out of habit, despite the fact she had no leads to seek out or interviews to conduct. She dressed and pinned up her hair and went to make breakfast. Her mother already had bread toasting and they had jam, the good sort her mother preferred. This was thanks to the allowance Roger had granted them thoughtfully. If Charlotte chafed at that, if Charlotte preferred to earn her own jam or go with a lesser brand, she managed to keep it hidden.