The Blue Ribbon Brides Collection

by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene

  They all giggled with her.

  “Jennie, you’re right,” Lydia responded with a sorrowful sigh. “We must help him be sure of his choice. Don’t you think I should still invite my niece to come down? He couldn’t have had much time to meet her. I sent ahead and made sure my sister knew of the prospect. I do so want family near, if there’s a chance.”

  The smile slipped out. The ladies seemed so invested in their matchmaking project even if one or two had ulterior motives. She’d heard men outnumbered women in that fledgling state. If her parents wanted her safely married to a bright, successful man, she could always use that suggestion. Though she’d have a hard time keeping a straight face if she declared she was moving to Montana to have her pick of husbands. They knew she’d never dare move so far away, not after all they’d given her. Loyalty was such a small thing to give back to those who loved her wholeheartedly without expectation of repayment.

  Bettina put her hands behind her then remembered the missing glove. Her mother was a stickler for observing social custom. Tucking her bare hand into the pocket of her walking skirt, she focused full attention to the lines of the grain weaving. She shouldn’t be listening to what didn’t concern her. But her thoughts squiggled back like doodles on her sketch pad. So the man from Montana was already sweet on a gal. A little pang of disappointment hit her. She’d have liked to—oh, what did it matter? If not that girl, his cherubic matchmakers had another in mind already. Did he have days or weeks until ignorance changed to wedded bliss? She had no doubt these Montana ladies meant to take home as many winning medals as possible and a bride for Mr. Luke Edwards.

  How romantic to find a sweetheart at the Columbian Exhibition. Wouldn’t that make a grand story for future generations? The world to choose from, and two lovers find the one in all the earth meant for—well, it wouldn’t be her story. Not yet, anyway. Although, at the rate these ladies wanted to interfere, it may not be his choice, either, though he might think it was. She choked back a giggle, pretending a light cough, as several other visitors filled in around her.

  “Lydia, we’ve been remiss.” One of the ladies pointed to the gathering fair attendees perusing their pavilion. “We have visitors.”

  “Hello.” One of the women approached Bettina. “My name is Jennie Moore.” She offered a handshake. “This is Mrs. Lydia Fitch and Mrs. J. E. Light. This exhibit has been completely created and designed by the women of Montana.” The loving pride of both their handiwork and home state glowed all over them.

  “Goodness.” Bettina indicated the page she’d read about the bitterroot flower. “You’re the one who cataloged all these specimens so well.”

  Mrs. Moore nodded, a little flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “That one, the bitterroot, is a favorite of my friend Mrs. Mary Long Alderson of Bozeman. She’s nominating it for our state floral emblem, though it may take a while to happen.”

  “It would be a worthy choice. I believe I’ve noticed each of your names on the cards here and there.” And I may have overheard your conversation. “What an honor to meet all of you ladies.” She shook hands around the small circle. “I’m Bettina Gilbert.”

  “What questions do you have about our great state of Montana or the vegetation there?”

  “As a botanist, I’m impressed with the care given to the science, including the sequence. But the beauty of your display is something to behold.” She waved toward the enormous rows of braided grain stalks climbing the pillars holding up the gazebo-style cross-slat roofing.

  Mrs. Moore beamed. “We’ve been working on this since they announced the White City would be built. Dozens of us collected specimens from all over the state. One of our ladies even rode around the range toting her children in a wagon searching for seeds and specimens not yet discovered. She went farm to farm and town to town where the trains couldn’t go.”

  “That’s very much what I want to do—discover!” Bettina’s passion for the topic flared. “I’m hoping to work for the new head of Oberlin’s botany department. I’d like to integrate what I’ve learned in college to applied use—determine how to really help people with my abilities.” Images from her childhood, of dirty street water tainted by sewage and very little food, clamored in her head with the memory of not being allowed to kiss the cheek of the woman who birthed her. To say good-bye as her birth mother died in filthy rags, on a dirty mattress, in a room that stank of piled-up waste. Then she was gone from the pneumonia that chased typhoid all too commonly, the good doctor said. In all that grief and pain, Bettina remembered the intense hunger that cramped her belly. A feeling she hadn’t ever forgotten—along with the odors of garbage, sour breath, and death.

  “Clara should take her under her wing.” Mrs. Fitch suggested.

  “Lydia has worked tirelessly to produce seven hundred specimens here while our friend Clara McAdow—oh, there she is now.” Jennie Moore waved at her friend across the wide aisle. “Yoo-hoo, Clara, come meet this lovely gal.” She continued extolling Mrs. McAdow’s contributions. “Clara has worked on another display in the Horticulture building, but she rubs elbows with the likes of Reverend F. D. Kelsey. I believe he’s the one at Oberlin?” She waited for Bettina’s agreement.

  They knew him? Maybe Montana wasn’t the far frontier. “Yes.” Bettina nodded. “I’ve read his work but not yet had the pleasure to meet such an esteemed scientist. It’s his department I’ve applied to. But the referral letter from my professor didn’t arrive until just this week. I brought it with me hoping for the chance to pass it to him in person.”

  “We’ll get you introduced properly, then, shall we?”

  Mrs. Fitch enthusiastically added, “Who knows where that association may lead? I imagine assistants for his department are chosen from those he knows, don’t you?”

  Besides scientific interests, it seemed the Montana ladies had a talent for being well connected in society regardless of their distant homes. The world seemed a little smaller all of a sudden. Thank You, Lord! But what could she offer these mavens in return?

  Clara joined the growing circle as the passersby ebbed. The women buzzed at her like bees dancing with the hive queen and filling in what she’d missed.

  Clara shook hands with Bettina. “You’ll enjoy Reverend Kelsey. He has such a quick mind for Latin, being well versed in the language through his theological education. His mind snaps through the genus and species as if he’s conversing with friends at a dinner party. But then, everyone is his friend.” She turned to the group as a whole. “We’re in the running for another medal for our scientific botanical display! I heard the judges debating over at the Iowa booth.”

  “That would make seven!” Mrs. Fitch clapped her hands. “Now what will those men say when we mount those awards for all to see!”

  “I don’t know that we can beat the Iowa display though.” Jennie leaned against the table, hands bracing beside her hips for balance. “Did you see how many ways they managed to decorate with corn? Really, right down to rosettes out of husks. Colorado isn’t going to do well, not with those heavy frames sagging off their pillar.”

  “Of all the displays that shouldn’t win, I think it’s that man from Ireland claiming no good oatmeal can be made in America. Can you imagine the gall?” Mrs. Fitch plunked her fists at her ample waist and shook her head.

  “Our prairie farmers will just have to grow heavier oats.” Jennie Moore’s eyes twinkled as she tossed her head with a little snap, punctuating her words. “But first we women need to take home more awards than our men. They’re edging up on us with the mining and minerals.”

  “You don’t think they’re serious, do you?” Bettina tilted her head a tad and scrunched her nose. “A mining display is so different from a scientific botanical display.”

  “If those coffee-slurping, backslapping men think they can breeze in here and insult our efforts, then why not beat them and show those cowboys what we can do?” Mrs. McAdow pointed her finger all around the group, but her grin betrayed her. “Yo
u all heard the challenge when they laughed at us back home. Then giving us ten percent of the budget and keeping the rest. Do we put up with that, or do we stand up for all womankind?”

  In the next thirty minutes, well over a dozen Montana women hobnobbed about their plant studies, specimens, and chances for exposition medals. Bettina had a sense of belonging in the camaraderie, though the women had varying levels of involvement. For most it was about advancing Montana’s natural resources and establishing the state’s emergence into the national marketplace. Their common goals, scientific language, understanding of the world, and undeniably passionate interest in the botanical life God created burst from Bettina like the sun cresting the horizon. Even the merriment of a good-natured race against the men excited her.

  Bettina mentally counted around the circle, wanting to pinch herself. A dozen women talking her language, and not about whose blooms were the prettiest, as in her mother’s gardening club. The beauty of flowers notwithstanding, her fascination lay in the elegance of God’s infinite design and how to best steward it to help her fellow man. “I want to believe it’s possible to find a solution to the poverty and hunger in our nation. What if we could cultivate at higher yields or find new varieties of plant nourishment like your Lewisia rediviva?”

  For a girl who didn’t socialize much outside of her studies the last few years, Bettina couldn’t stop from asking more questions if she tried. “Mrs. Moore, I noticed the bitterroot is designated as edible, and the Indians believe it has some sort of medicinal value. Can we develop that into sustainable crops? Are there other Montana plants that grow naturally that might be helpful this way or grow in other locales? Are there great expanses of land rich enough for farming?”

  “You do have an inquisitive mind and a good heart. Bettina, is it?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Moore,” she nodded. “I hope to find answers to those questions. Answers that will make a difference in the lives around us. What if these new discoveries eradicated typhoid?” Still too common and rampant in Chicago even fourteen years after—she shivered away the image of a woman dying and brushed away the memory of tears on a cheek. “May I reference your work in my upcoming talk?”

  “You may.” Mrs. Moore leaned in and grasped Bettina’s hand. “And call me Jennie, please. Together”—she motioned to the group—“we’ll see what we can do to help you. But you simply must consider coming to Montana.”

  Was that a wink at the other ladies?

  “It’ll be a great pleasure to get to know you while we’re here.” Jennie looked around the circle of women. “Wouldn’t that be something you’d all like to do as well?” At their wholehearted agreement, she added, “It’s much better to have many different perspectives than to rely on only one acquaintance.”

  Mrs. Fitch nodded. “Call me Lydia. It’s settled, then. Come spend time with us here at our exhibit. We could use a knowledgeable volunteer.”

  Bettina couldn’t afford not to accept. These maven matchmakers had a penchant for connecting people. And she needed connections in her field to get one of the few positions at Oberlin or another university that would gain her access to grants and permissions for studies. That’s all they meant, right?

  “Miss Gilbert?” Luke Edwards rolled in a cart with several carved wooden chairs on it—and one no longer truant black bowler on his head.

  Jennie’s rounded eyes couldn’t look more surprised than Bettina’s—or Lydia’s. The rest of the gathered group tossed meaningful glances like popcorn.

  “Gilbert,” Lydia burst out. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I heard earlier.”

  Definitely not the kind of connection Bettina wanted the Montana women to focus on for her. O-h-h. Is that what Jennie’s invitation to Montana was about? Bettina wanted a career, not romantic associations. What if these ladies all thought her purpose was husband hunting? No, no, no. Better to extricate herself as quickly as possible and keep her prospects professional. “Mr. Edwards, good to see you found your errant hat. Nice to see you again.”

  “O-o-h,” said the three cupids collectively, looking one to another.

  “I did. A gentleman caught it for me near the stairwell. I also found your, er …” He noticed the odd looks from his doting supporters. He cleared his throat and pulled something from his vest pocket nearest his heart. “… glove.” Without taking his eyes off the trio, as if keeping them in check, he handed over the heavily stained accessory. “Although, I think my hat fared better.”

  “O-o-h,” they sang in whispered unison while gaping at the heavily stomped, no longer white, lace glove. The ladies who hadn’t been present for the earlier conversation in the pavilion expressed confusion.

  “I’m sorry for the condition,” he added, “further aggravated by my own shoe, I’m sure.”

  Bettina took the soiled glove and smiled through her discomfort at being the center of attention. She darted a glance at the ladies she’d been so at home with moments before.

  “I do hope it can be salvaged.”

  A sage nod accompanied by a long look between Lydia and Jennie drew Mrs. Light’s attention to the situation as she returned to the group. Lydia made a tiny head tip toward Luke Edwards and then Bettina. Mrs. Light responded with a slow nod in silent understanding, as did the rest of the circle.

  Was everyone in on the matrimonial prospects of Mr. Luke Edwards? And they thought she might be one? The vaulted ceiling that seemed a mile above earlier suddenly closed in on Bettina. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Though I’ve felt quite awkward with only one since.” She held up both hands and shrugged. “What can a girl do when she’s away from home? I best find another pair. Well, again, thank you.” She stepped backward.

  Luke stepped forward, waltzing into her retreat as he cupped her elbow. “I tried to catch you after the steamboat, but you’d gotten too far ahead of me.”

  If Luke Edwards was sweet on someone he chased from the steamboat, that meant—No! A hot flush stole up her throat.

  Then he offered another, more tangible surprise. An elongated, elegant, but very thin box tied with a purple satin ribbon. “I picked these up at the Spanish fashion counter to ease your distress. I used yours to match the size. I hope they’ll fit.”

  He replaced her gloves? Such a costly gesture, and an unnecessary one. “I couldn’t, Mr. Edwards, but thank you.”

  “Oh, what a shame. I suppose that means you don’t accept my apology.” He looked crestfallen.

  The circle of women gaped, first at the pretty box and then at Luke Edwards and then halting on Bettina, all in sync as if a string passed before a row of kittens. Their eyes fastened on her, watching, waiting. Would they pounce to protect their favored son?

  “Of course.” She rushed to soothe the group as well as the man. “Of course I accept your, uh, apology. I simply meant your gift is too—”

  “Small?”

  Their personal audience gasped, audibly and again in unison.

  Panic fluttered in Bettina’s stomach. She’d never experienced a gift so thoughtful—and romantic—at the same time a fear so palpable that she’d make a misstep.

  He untied the ribbon and opened the box, revealing delicate Spanish lace fit for a much more elegant lady than she could ever hope to be. “I’ll search for a different pair until you are satisfied if these aren’t to your liking.”

  “No, please.” She touched the beautiful paper, almost afraid to lift the precious gift. “They’re truly lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as the woman whose art I ruined and glove I stained under my shoe. Will you accept?” He gave her a questioning smile. “I do hope to be in your good graces here forward.”

  “I, uh, yes.” Her lips parted as she gazed into his shining eyes and took the box. “Thank you.” She backed away. “Ladies, it’s been a delight. I hope to see you again.”

  “Wait!”

  “Yes, Mr. Edwards?”

  He tugged at his collar. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at his champions. “Ladies, could you excuse us,
please?” If there was a little heavier emphasis on please, Bettina couldn’t fault him.

  “Of course, dear.” Lydia patted his arm. “We’ll just, uh …” She looked around. “We’ve other business to discuss.” They scattered around the pavilion salon, talking in twos and threes.

  “Miss Gilbert, would you do me the honor of allowing me to buy you one of those refreshing sodas?”

  “A soda?”

  She caught an interested peep or two darting over a shoulder here and there. Then a not-so-quiet whisper: “Could she be the one?”

  “Do you think?”

  “He hasn’t shown such passionate interest …”

  “Shush, they’ll hear us.”

  Bettina’s face burned. If she turned his invitation down, would she insult him and ruin her budding opportunity with the Montana women?

  “No expectation except that I’d like to enjoy your company for a few minutes.” He closed the distance between them, keeping his smiling eyes on hers. “I’d be honored if you’d accept.” He thumbed back over his shoulder. “And I think they’re rooting for me.”

  What could she say? “I—” If he worked with these women, he’d know soon enough they’d invited her to volunteer this summer and that she’d accepted. Might as well be on good terms with Luke Edwards, too. Good terms with Luke Edwards could easily become a problem if the uneven patter of her heart was a sign. Or the weakness in her knees that grew as he came closer. Or the fact that she loved the timbre of his voice.

  “Unless, of course, another day would be more convenient. I wouldn’t want to impose on any plans you might have already.”

  No one pretended to be talking anymore. Tiny nods of encouragement and a flutter of fingers from Lydia Fitch told her to go with him.

  She inclined her head. “I am a bit thirsty”—she saw Jennie’s nod telling her to accept—“for a soda.”