by Rose Jenster
“The room is just the thing I need, Mrs. Hostelman,” she said. “Thank you for letting me have a place to say until I am settled.”
“You’re welcome, girlie. I’ve heard you’re a dab hand at cooking. I may be enlisting your help in the kitchen tomorrow.”
“Any day you please, ma’am. I cook well enough, plain food though, nothing like you’d find in a restaurant,” she said.
“It’ll be a sight better than no help at all. My kitchen girl’s run off and got married or I’d not ask a paying guest. Fact is I’ll give you your board for no cost if you’ll help me cook.”
“That’s a deal, Mrs. Hostelman,” Charlotte said, delighted.
She wanted to be busy, to earn her keep. Charlotte knew Frank had business to do and could hardly spend all his time acquainting her with the townsfolk and landscape. It had chafed at her to sit idle in the last weeks in Albany when she was so used to employment. Mrs. Hostelman seemed well pleased and even offered to mind the little girl while the two women went to the newspaper office.
“I had thought he might call at the boarding house to meet you after your train arrived, but he is somewhat lacking in social graces. He is a good sort of man and very hard working, make no mistake, but you won’t confuse him with a proper gentleman from a cotillion,” Leah said.
“The last cotillion I went to wasn’t much to boast of. I think I’d rather be here.”
“It’s glad that you’ve come here. Only think, another Albany girl! We must get together with Tess this week. You can come to the quilting circle and meet everyone. Perhaps I could even press Felicity to come. She married the doctor.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know Tess or Felicity.”
“You will soon enough. They’re girls just like yourself, and like me. Brave girls who wanted something romantic and unconventional for themselves,” Leah said, squeezing her arm. “And Mr. Barton is anything but conventional!”
In the small newspaper office, a man turned his back hastily as the door opened. When he turned back around, she saw him. Dark hair still wet and combed back neatly, sleeves wrinkled from being rolled up and sharp dark eyes. He rounded the counter and reached for her hands.
“Charlotte. I mean, Miss Conners,” he corrected, seeming almost bashful.
“Mr. Barton,” she said.
Charlotte waited for him to look her up and down the way the men at the cotillion had seemed to, taking the measure of her. Instead, his eyes never left her face.
“The printing press is through here,” he said as he guided them.
Charlotte and Leah followed him through the doorway and found themselves in a back room with an enormous machine. Leah hung back near the wall, seeming bemused by the fact that Mr. Barton had chosen to show his future bride a machine during their first moments together. Charlotte pointed and asked questions and Mr. Barton indicated how the parts functioned. He presented her with a recent copy of the newspaper and she folded it to read later.
“I’d like to show you over the sitting room. It was completed only a few days ago. Then, if you are agreeable, we’ll talk over when to wed. Is tomorrow a good date?”
Leah spoke up to break the awkwardness. “We have a few arrangements to make before rushing to the ceremony, Mr. Barton. I am speaking up for my charge, for I consider Miss Conners to be my friend and my student.”
“As you please, Mrs. Rogers,” Mr. Barton said. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for introducing me to Miss Conners. Whatever you think is best in this matter, we will abide by.” His voice was strained and he was unfamiliar with what to do.
“Supper at Mrs. Hostelman’s is at six. Please see that Charlotte is prompt,” Leah said and took her leave.
When they were alone, Frank rolled up his sleeves.
“Beneath her stern eye, I was not at my ease. I had Luke build the sitting room and then I made some changes in hope of suiting your convenience. Will you come to see everything?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I would like a few days before the ceremony if you don’t mind. For the sake of—I don’t know, it seems rash to marry within hours of arrival. I promised to help Mrs. Hostelman with meals and I am to meet some friends of Leah’s, of Mrs. Rogers’.”
“Very well, only don’t let them talk you out from marrying me.”
Frank took a box from his pocket and offered it to her, right there beside the printing press. Charlotte opened it, expecting a wedding ring. It was a key.
“You thought me so crude as to give you your engagement present in a grimy newspaper office,” he said. “That is the key to the office. It also opens the door of my rooms. This way you may come and go as you like.”
“Thank you. I am eager to see your newspaper operation though I hope to not have the same tension with your printer,” Charlotte said with a grin.
“I did get you a present. It is in the sitting room.”
He led her through the back room and outside to an addition of several rooms. Unlocking it, he led her inside. The smell of new lumber and fresh paint struck her as she looked around. Cream colored paper on the walls was scattered with small blue flowers. A formal looking settee upholstered in pale blue velvet stood new and proud beneath a picture window. It looked for all the world like something that belonged in Laetitia’s house, not her own.
Charlotte trailed her hand across the blue velvet, fluffing the pile of it in the wrong direction so it looked a darker color, then smoothing it back down sleek. It was almost the exact color of the blue dress she’d had for her sixteenth birthday, the one they’d dyed black for her father’s funeral. She sat on the edge of the settee and laid her cheek against the plush for a moment, shutting her eyes. It felt like a dream. Frank Barton set a hand on her shoulder.
“Are you quite well?” he said.
Charlotte nodded and rose.
“Yes. I am a little overwhelmed. I have lived in some rather cramped lodgings that were…shabby. This is big and open and the window looks out at the mountains and I suppose I don’t know what to make of it,” she said by way of explanation.
“Your mother wrote that you played the pianoforte as a child and that the piano remained in the rectory when you moved.” Frank gestured to a small pianoforte standing against the wall, polished and ready, stacked with sheet music. “It is not the same one, of course. But I hope it will do.”
“I haven’t practiced—not in years!” she said, touching the keys reverently, trying a few notes. “This is too much, Frank! Mr. Barton, I mean.”
“You mean ‘Frank,’” he corrected, taking her hands. “May I?”
Charlotte nodded shyly, but instead of stealing a kiss as she expected, he folded her into his arms and hugged her.
“I’ve waited such a long time for you. I tried to rush you earlier, to make you marry me before you could have a chance to change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind, Frank,” she said against his shirtfront.
“But, we must speak plainly, Charlotte.” He released her and gestured for her to sit on the pretty blue settee. “I cannot father children for you. Does not every woman yearn for children of her own?”
“Not every woman, Frank. Of course I should love to be a mother, but it does not change how I feel for you. So many women in the church where I grew up came to my mother asking if it were wrong to pray that they would not have more babies. It was a terrible anguish—I confess I eavesdropped. These women knew they hadn’t enough money to feed the children they already had and some had lost a baby to the fever or cholera.. They were simply tired and spread too thin and could not think how they would manage another baby. They loved their children truly, but to have eight or ten of them—it is too much. I mean it would be too much for me.
To have one or two, as my mother had, would be lovely, but one doesn’t get to choose if and when babies come or how many. I hardly know what I am saying, Frank. Only know that you remain highest in my esteem despite the inability for having children. I came to Montana for you.”<
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“I wish it were not so. If—sometimes it happens that there is influenza in winter, the children have been orphaned. They go home to the east, to the mother’s family most times, or go live with a neighbor. We could take in children who need a home, if you’ve a mind to do so,” Frank said.
“I would love that. And I love best of all that you thought of it, that you would welcome a child to our home and raise him as our own. Though I do think it would be wrong to hope for influenza to wipe out our neighbors,” she said and he laughed, a short bark of a laugh.
“How irreverent of you, Charlotte. Of course one does not wish for an epidemic. I was speaking realistically. You surprise me exceedingly and I find I like you even better than expected. Your wit is very developed and delightfully mixed even with a serious topic. ”
“Here is the kitchen and a new cookstove. We have water from the well at that pump. And in here is the bedroom. I have asked Mrs. Rogers and her quilting circle to make us a wedding quilt. I hope you will choose the colors you like.”
“I will. Thank you. You have put a lot of thought into this and I am very moved.”
“I would like to join you for dinner at Mrs. Hostelman’s if that is possible, despite the food. Is that agreeable to you?” Frank buried his request in a joke.
“Yes. You may feel free to assume that any plan resulting in more time spent together is agreeable to me,” she said with a sly smile.
“Would two weeks be enough? One week? I am sorry to be so patient,” he said.
“I should think one week, though I’ll speak to Leah. It’s possible there are…rituals or something one must complete. I know I attended a good many for my new sister-in-law. I expect hers had something to do with her father’s prominent status, so it’s unlikely I would require so many,” she said merrily.
“Let us away to Mrs. Hostelman’s, then. I advise you to avoid the gravy,” he said.
“What if I am feeling adventurous? Ought I to try it?” Charlotte was curious about Montana cooking, though she didn't want to endanger her health.
“No. I plan to marry you and it isn’t likely you would have recovered your health in a week if you consume that gravy, unless your constitution is truly exceptional.”
“I like the pianoforte very much and truly want to thank you,” Charlotte said, shifting the subject.
“There is a ring for you also. Would you like to have it now or should there be a more auspicious proposal?”
“Now would be fine,” she said. Charlotte didn't want to wait another minute.
Frank took a paper parcel from a drawer and handed it to her. She untied the string and unwrapped the paper, layer upon layer until she found the ring, a slender circlet of gold set with small blue stones.
“Sapphires,” he said. “Do you like the ring ?”
“Yes, very much.” Charlotte was trying to fight back the tears of joy.
“Will you wear it then?”
“If you will put it on my finger,” she replied.
Frank removed the ring from the paper and took her hand in both of his.
“I want very much to be your husband, Charlotte. Will you be my wife?”
“Yes! Yes I will Frank Barton,” she said.
He slid the ring onto her finger and she stared at it in awe, at the bright circlet of gems on her plain finger, so recently stained with ink and unadorned. Charlotte was not used to seeing herself ornamented, chosen. She blinked at him, at a loss for words.
Frank kissed her then, lightly on the lips, and she stood there, astonished. When he drew back, searching for her reaction, she threw her arms around his neck and he kissed her again. She felt laughter rising in her throat, so happy to be there with him at last.
They walked to Mrs. Hostelman’s together and Frank asked her if she might be interested in contributing an article to the paper on occasion.
“Obviously most of your time will be taken up in the home and with the sewing group I’m sure,” he said.
“I have not spent a great deal of time in socializing with women friends, Frank. I'd rather be at the newspaper with you, working.”
“I hardly think that would be suitable,” he said.
Crestfallen, she set her hands on her hips. “Really? Which of us has two years working on a city paper then? Suitable? I should say it is very suitable as our interests and skills answer very well.”
“If you want to work on the news more, of course we can discuss that…” he said. “I want to provide you with a comfortable home. I would not have you think that I expect you to work for me!”
“I wouldn’t work for you, but for us and for the family newspaper, Frank! I like it and I can bring you more readers, women readers who have interests that your occasional recipe does not begin to cover.” Charlotte did not want to get upset and tried to hold her tongue.
“Here we are at Mrs. Hostelman’s. Let us table this discussion until tomorrow.” He knew she was outspoken, but was surprised this issue came up so quickly.
“Agreed,” she said.
Charlotte resisted the desire to thank him again for the ring and lean her head on his shoulder. She sensed this was a pivotal time for them and if she seemed too conciliatory, if her desire to make peace were too strong, she would not carry her point. Instead she would find herself stuck in that sitting room playing the pianoforte all day when truly wanted to be writing about a woman’s experience in the west and contributing to the newspaper.
The dining room was noisy and crowded, and full of the greasy smell of fried meat and potatoes. Charlotte ate potatoes and part of an appallingly hard biscuit. She knew she would need to rise early to aid Mrs. Hostelman with breakfast. It would be the work of only a few days to teach her a lighter hand with breads, and to use lard a bit more sparingly in her recipes.
Charlotte envisioned a weekly column in the newspaper about new cooking techniques, flavoring with a small amount of butter instead of a scoop of lard and related matters.She made mental note of the idea.
When Frank took his leave of her after coffee, he kissed her hand.
“I am sorry we quarreled over the newspaper. I do not wish it to be a bone of contention between us. If you wish to work with me, if you wish for us to work together, we shall find a way. It is not traditional but I venture that neither are we.”
“Are you concerned that your neighbors would think I had to work? That you forced me?” Charlotte was confused about his hesitation about this.
“A bit. I think I shall bear it though, knowing the truth of your interest.”
“I will make it known myself, beginning with Leah’s quilting circle tomorrow,” she said decidedly.
“Are you trying to protect my pride?”
“I shall make it my mission to do so,” she teased and he kissed her forehead.
“Sleep well, my Charlotte.”
Frank Barton left Mrs. Hostelman's and felt warmth in his heart that he didn't remember from any other time in his life.
Chapter 9
The next morning, after helping Mrs. Hostelman to make a fluffier batch of biscuits, Charlotte took her article clippings to the newspaper office to show to Frank.
“I’ve brought these for you to read,” she said. “I unlocked the door with the key you gave me.”
Frank looked up from a long page, removed his wire spectacles and regarded her with surprise.
“These are clippings of news stories I wrote over the past few years. The one on top is from the series I did on the dock strike. I’m rather proud of it,” she said. “I met a worker called Irv who had been loading at the docs since he was twelve years old. His story, his fight for safer conditions and better hours helped the movement.”
“Your story helped the movement,” he said.
“Yes,” she blushed. “It did. I have to go to the quilting circle in a few minutes, but I wanted to say good morning to you.”
“Good morning,” he said, setting the clippings down. “You run along to your sewing circle an
d we’ll see one another later. I have layouts to complete and then the press to run.”
“Very well,” she said and withdrew.
Charlotte felt subdued, a bit disappointed on her way to the rectory. She had hoped Frank would be more excited to read her work, more anxious for her to join him in his enterprise. Mrs. Gibson welcomed her and she seated herself between Leah and a shy-seeming woman in a beautifully made and embroidered pink dress.
“Charlotte, this is Tess Cameron. She is married to Luke who built your sitting room and also is from Albany, New York.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Cameron,” Charlotte said. “So you are the Tess of whom Mrs. Rogers spoke so highly. I have heard rumor you are a dressmaker.”
“I do a bit of dressmaking and some embroidery embellishments,” she said.
“Your dress is beautiful. Did you make it?”
“Yes. So is yours. Such a lovely shade of blue, Charlotte.”
“Thank you. I did not make it. I can put up a hem, sew on a button, follow a very simple pattern without much skill. I hope to learn from all of you. This is a rare treat for me to be invited among ladies to stitch,” Charlotte said and subsided as Leah and Tess spoke of something to do with sheep.
“Tess would advise you not to walk in the mountains at night,” Leah said. “She had a misadventure with a bobcat when she first came here.”
“Oh, my! How terrifying. Were you hurt?”
“Not much. Only frightened out of my wits. I have plagued Luke ever since about how he bullied me into going walking at night to prove how brave I was. I was not brave and the hike did little to induce me to cultivate courage. I thought I would die right on the spot. He saved me, of course, and I’m grateful, but if I had kept indoors as was my inclination, I would never have encountered the beast at all.”