Mail-Order Bride Ink: Dear Mr. Comfort

by Kit Morgan

  Dear Mr. Comfort

  Mail-Order Brides Ink Book 3

  Kit Morgan

  Angel Creek Press

  Contents

  License Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Kit Morgan

  ANGEL CREEK PRESS

  Dear Mr. Comfort

  (Mail-Order Bride Ink, Book Three)

  by Kit Morgan

  © 2016 Kit Morgan

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher. All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or livestock are purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Angel Creek Press, The Killion Group and Hotdamndesigns.com

  License Note

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  Denver, Colorado, 1901

  Fantine Le Blanc stared in stunned silence at her eccentric employer.

  Mrs. Adelia Pettigrew placed her silver monocle over one eye, studying Fantine as one would some rare animal species. “Have you all your faculties, ma belle?”

  Fantine started at the question. “Oui, Madame Pettigrew. Of course.” Except that Mrs. Pettigrew had just told her the most fantastic tale, one that left poor Fantine in suspense. She had to know more about the Comfort family – six brothers and a sister who due to extraordinary circumstances had come west from Savannah, Georgia to the little town of Clear Creek, Oregon.

  The basics were simple enough. The sister, Pleasant, had become one of Mrs. Pettigrew’s mail-order brides and married a local. Her brothers had tracked her down, intending to bring her back home, but settled in Clear Creek instead. It was the details, the lunatic assortment of details, which had left Fantine in shock. “So what happened?” she asked in exasperation.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s brows knitted. “I just told you what happened, ma douce.”

  “But surely there must be more! What did the brothers do? How did they live?”

  “The men’s camp, of course, just as I told you. For Heaven’s sake, Fantine, didn’t you listen?”

  “Oui, oui. But that is why I am asking – what happened after?”

  Mrs. Pettigrew straightened and looked at her pocket watch. They were seated on cushions on the floor around a low table, with at least half a dozen dogs – plus a few others roaming the room or scratching at the French doors, wanting out. Who knew whom they belonged to, but Mrs. Pettigrew took tea with them most afternoons. It was one of her many eccentricities that made her mildly infamous in Denver society. “Oh dear, look at the time!”

  Fantine glanced at the clock on the wall. 5:30. “Tea is over then?”

  “Of course it is,” Mrs. Pettigrew said with a quick roll of the eyes. “And time for our guests to be getting home.”

  Fantine struggled up off her cushion, went to the doors and, having learned from past experience, got out of the way. The dogs raced for it, bumping and shoving their way to freedom and home. “Jusqu’á demain, mes amis!” Mrs. Pettigrew called after them with a wave, then, when the last one had departed, glanced at Fantine. “Well don’t just stand there, ma petite – close the blasted door!”

  Fantine noticed that for a moment, Mrs. Pettigrew’s French accent shifted to deep-Southern. She fought the urge to laugh, fully aware that unlike her own, her employer’s accent was fake. But she kept quiet about such things. She needed the job more than she needed to gossip.

  Besides, Fantine liked her. Mrs. Pettigrew’s fantastic stories of her clients fascinated her, and brought an odd joy to her unusual position as the lady’s assistant. She might be halfway round the bend, but she was kind, generous, and one of the wealthiest women – if not the wealthiest – in Colorado. So what if she wore a bright pink gown and a tiara just to take tea with a bunch of silly pooches? There were far worse vices.

  But enough of that. “The Comfort brothers, madame?” Fantine prompted. “You will tell me what happened to them?”

  “Oh yes, the brothers.” She held out a hand. “Help me up, will you?”

  Fantine rushed to her side and pulled the woman to her feet. “What happened to Major? Did you send him a mail-order bride?”

  “Ah, yes. Major Quincy Comfort, the eldest. I did send him a bride, come to think of it, but in a rather … qu'est-ce que c'est … roundabout way? Things didn’t go as I would have wished, but they turned out well – eventually. No one got hurt too badly, as I recall …”

  “Hurt? Who was hurt?”

  Mrs. Pettigrew waved her concerns away. “No, you misunderstand … well, perhaps you don’t. No one actually died ...”

  “Died?!”

  “Sorry – poor choice of words …”

  “What happened?” Fantine asked. “Is there a letter?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Mrs. Pettigrew’s eyes flicked toward her office down the hall.

  “Shall I fetch it for you?”

  “No need, ma belle – I’ll get it myself.” She left the sitting room and went straight to her office, Fantine on her heels. “Now, where did I put it?” she mused, looking over the multitude of framed letters that covered the room like patchy wallpaper.

  Fantine felt her heart sink. What if the woman couldn’t find it? She hadn’t had enough time to study all the letters – she was always too busy – but when she did have a moment, she liked to read a few. “Can I help?”

  “No, no – this particular letter is, how you say, unique. Really, I should say letters – I keep them all together in one frame. Though perhaps I should not – they are by different people. But there’s only so much room on the walls …”

  “How many?” Fantine interrupted.

  Mrs. Pettigrew shrugged. “Four, five? Maybe more I forget.”

  “Why so many?”

  “Aha – there they are!” Mrs. Pettigrew had stopped at the far wall, and was looking up near the ceiling.

  Fantine joined her. “Which one is it?”

  “Second from the left at the very top. The one with the royal seal.”

  “Royal seal?”

  “Oui.”

  Fantine, now more curious than ever, quickly scanned the room for something to stand on, but found nothing tall enough. That explained the layer of dust on the top few rows. “Do we have a ladder?”

  “Hmmm … somewhere,” Mrs. Pettigrew mused. “In the carriage house, I believe.”

  Fantine felt her heart sink. No wonder her employer had never made her dust the top ones. There wasn’t a convenient way to. But what else could she do? “I will get it right away,” she sighed, bobbing a cur
tsy.

  “Don’t be silly, you’ll break your neck. These are twelve-foot walls, ma petite.” Mrs. Pettigrew waved to the door. “That’s what we have Mr. Tugs for.”

  “The gardener?!” Fantine cried. “But madame, he is so … so old! He should not climb a ladder!”

  “You underestimate him, ma cherie. He was once an acrobat with the famous Clarke circus in London – traveled with them for many years.”

  Fantine could only stare. Mr. Tugs an acrobat? She’d suspected Tugs was a nickname – he could usually be found tugging on the rose bushes and shrubbery, claiming it was good exercise for the plants. Perhaps it was really a stage name. Nonetheless, he had to be over eighty years old. “What if he were to fall?”

  “He will not fall. He never does.”

  Fantine knew she wouldn’t win the argument, even if she brought up that Mr. Tugs shuffled along at a snail’s pace wherever he went. By the time the man got the ladder from the carriage house to the office, supper would be over. She might as well fetch it herself. “I will see what I can do.”

  “You will see what Mrs. Fraser is up to in the kitchen,” Mrs. Pettigrew countered. “I will have Mr. Tugs see to the ladder.”

  Fantine nodded, suppressing a groan as she left to do her employer’s bidding. At this rate, she’d never find out what happened to Mr. Comfort and his brothers in Clear Creek. And why would there be letters by so many different people? Shouldn’t there only be two at most, from the mail-order bride and her groom? As she hurried downstairs to the kitchen, she supposed she’d just have to wait to find out. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to wait too long …

  Chapter 1

  Denver, Colorado, October 1877

  “If it worked for Pleasant’s young man, then confound it, why shouldn’t it work for Major?”

  Phidelia Hamilton knowingly eyed her brother-in-law, Buford Comfort. “Calm yourself – you’ll upset everyone’s lunch.” They were in one of the nicer cafés in Denver. Several folks looked in their direction, one man in particular, as she took a sip of her tea and set the cup down. “Can’t your son find a bride on his own?”

  Buford’s face turned red. “Didn’t you read Pleasant’s letters? That backwards town is devoid of eligible women! How can the family line carry on if that boy doesn’t take a wife? I’ve got to think about the future of my dynasty!”

  She arched an eyebrow and tried to ignore the onlookers. “You have five other sons, Buford. One of them can see to it.”

  “Only if he has a wife! Besides, Major is the oldest. It’s his duty to go first!”

  “You make it sound as if he’s to walk the plank. Besides, don’t you think Major is capable of seeing to this himself?”

  “Major? Heavens, no!”

  Phidelia rolled her eyes. Ever since Buford lost his plantation, Comfort Fields, and came to live with her in Denver, he’d been a burden to live with. He’d tried to force his daughter to wed Rupert Jerney – a carpetbagging Yankee cad of the worst sort, but a carpetbagging Yankee cad willing to bail Buford out of a desperate financial situation in exchange for his daughter. Pleasant, the daughter, had not only refused the deal but fled to the other end of the country, finally landing in Oregon as a mail-order bride.

  So Comfort Fields was lost … except in Buford’s mind. He talked as if the plantation was still in its glory days. If one didn’t know the real circumstances, one would think he was still a wealthy man. Instead, he was penniless, surviving on the largesse of his late wife’s sister, guilt-ridden over how he’d treated his only daughter – and inclined to bombastic outbursts in public places.

  But, Phidelia mused, he was family, and thus her cross to bear. “I suppose I could contact Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  “Pettigrew?”

  “Yes, the matchmaker. She helped Pleasant find a husband well enough and comes highly recommended. She is, however, er …”

  “What?”

  Phildelia grimaced. “Odd.”

  “I don’t care if she stands on her head and sings ‘Old Dan Tucker’ as long as she can get the job done!”

  Phildelia nodded. “Very well, then. We’ll see her tomorrow. Now let’s finish our lunch in peace, shall we?”

  “Oh, very well.” He stabbed at the chicken and dumplings on his plate. “I miss my cook! I can’t wait to get back to Georgia!”

  Phidelia sighed and tried to hide her concern. There was no cook waiting for Buford back in Georgia – or much of anything else except creditors. He was going mad at a rapid pace. Best she humor him for now and let him believe that his dear Comfort Fields was still alive and well, until he either reconciled himself to the truth or slipped the bonds of sanity altogether.

  Clear Creek, Oregon, a month later …

  Honoria Alexandra Cooke was the name her parents had bestowed upon her, thinking it grand indeed. To Honoria, it was simply a mouthful. But she wondered what it would be like if it were, say … Honoria Alexandra Comfort? Hmmm … she might have to think about that.

  Major Quincy Comfort – “Major” was his Christian name, not a rank – was certainly a worthy prospect. He had a deep, smooth Southern drawl, lush dark hair, ice-blue eyes. He was of good antebellum stock – hadn’t his family owned a plantation before the War? And tall, too – she guessed the top of her head would just reach his nose. But she couldn’t be certain about that, having never gotten to stand close enough to him to check.

  Before Major Comfort and his five brothers descended upon Clear Creek last spring, she’d begun to despair of finding a husband anytime soon. But now she had six to choose from! Of course, after hearing a few conversations between her father and her Uncle Colin, only two or three were considered old enough to be husband material. The rest, in their opinions, were still too immature and unsettled. Unsettled, indeed – how could they not be? After all, their family fortune had been lost, and they’d crossed the continent to Clear Creek to retrieve their sister Pleasant, now married to Eli Turner.

  If not for a jailbreak in the middle of Pleasant and Eli’s wedding, Honoria wouldn’t have taken as much notice of the eldest Mr. Comfort as she had. As it was, she got as close as a single young lady was allowed in Clear Creek when Doc Waller asked her to help him patch the man up. Eli, Eli’s brother Tom the sheriff, and a posse that included the Comfort men had managed to round the miscreants up after their escape, but not without injuries. Major took a bullet from an outlaw that had managed to sneak up behind him, and suffered a broken rib or two besides.

  That had been late spring, though, and now it was an unseasonably warm mid-November, well past harvest time. Major should be long since healed up. But she hadn’t seen hide or hair of him or his brothers for months.

  She lay back in the soft grass, plucked a few blades and watched leaves drift down from the giant oak. The tree had been dubbed “His Majesty” decades ago by her grandmother Honoria, for whom she’d been named. It was massive, impressive to look at, and for some reason gave her a feeling of peace whenever she sat beneath it.

  She stared up at snippets of blue sky through the canopy of leaves. Soon the mighty tree would lose all its foliage, which she and her siblings and cousins would gather into huge piles, burying each other a few times before burning them. It was one of her favorite events of autumn, a Cooke family tradition, and she looked forward to it every year.

  She sat up, leaned back on the palms of her hands and stared at the creek for which the town was named. It flowed into a deep pool beneath His Majesty’s branches, and she contemplated whether or not to go wading into it. Finally she decided against it. With her luck she’d slip, fall in and get drenched. She certainly didn’t want to ride into town soaked to the skin.

  With a sigh Honoria got up, brushed bits of dirt and grass off her skirt and walked to where her horse Rowley stood munching on the meadow grass. Before she mounted, she looked at the spot her father and uncle had cleared for a cabin they never got around to building. It was supposed to be for her Uncle Duncan and Aunt Cozette to use when they
returned to Clear Creek to visit, but as the Duke and Duchess of Stantham, their duties in Sussex and London kept them so busy they hadn’t been able to come since she was twelve.

  Good heavens, that was six years ago! They were definitely overdue for a visit … or if she were lucky, she’d get to visit them. She’d overheard her parents talking of it a few months ago, but hadn’t heard anything since. The grate in the floor of her room allowed her to listen to everything going on in the kitchen, which was where most of the family conversations took place. She usually knew what was going on in the family long before anyone told her.

  Honoria chuckled at the thought, mounted her horse and adjusted her skirt. She was using her grandmother’s sidesaddle, and was proud she could use it to ride as well as any man. She’d like to see Major Comfort try that! Of course, if things kept going the way they were, she’d be lucky to see him or any of his brothers before she reached spinsterhood.

  She wasn’t sure if it was divine intervention keeping her from the Comfort men, or her father. It was well known in Clear Creek that Harrison Cooke could be zealously overprotective. Take today, for instance – her mother wanted her to go to the mercantile to pick up a few things, but her father insisted she go in midmorning … when the men in the camp outside of town (including the Comforts) would be busy laboring elsewhere.

  Oh well. Mr. Dunnigan at the mercantile was always a good source of gossip. Maybe she’d find out more today about how they were doing. She gave her horse a little kick and trotted across the meadow to the trail that led out of the canyon.

  By the time she reached town, she wished she’d gone wading. It was already hot and growing hotter, feeling more like July than November. Maybe Mrs. Dunnigan would have some lemonade on hand. She tethered her horse to a hitching post alongside several others, grabbed an empty satchel she’d brought to carry her purchases, wiped her brow and entered the mercantile. “Hello, Mr. Dunnigan. Did Willie bring the mail yet?”