The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  Men ordered brides to be delivered by the mail? She had never heard of such a thing.

  Zoe opened her reticule. She withdrew the folded advertisement she had clipped out of the newspaper, then offered it to Mrs. Archer. “Will you read zis to me?”

  Mrs. Archer took it from her. “‘WANTED: Correspondence with a refined lady aged eighteen to twenty-three with a view to matrimony. The Montana Territory gentleman, aged twenty-two, conducts business in the city, enjoys an active routine, including the theater and fine dining, and faithful church attendance. Send inquiries and references to the Archer Matrimonial Co., Denver, Colorado.’”

  Zoe looked at Mrs. Archer in confusion. “Zere is no ‘finest kitchen west of ze Mississippi?’”

  She shook her head.

  “No chef wanted?”

  She shook her head again. “Miss de Fleur, I would be remiss if I didn’t ask if you can read English.”

  Zoe opened her mouth to confess her limitation.

  “I made it up,” Nico blurted out. “It was all I could think of to convince you to leave New York. Besides, you didn’t want to stay there and open a restaurant anyway.”

  Zoe stared at him, stunned. “I fail to understand why you would lie about such a zing.”

  “I had to.” A shadow fell across his features, literally from a cloud, perhaps, blocking the sun, and yet he looked weary and repentant. “Grand Central Depot refused to sell me a ticket. Said children had to travel with an adult. I was desperate, Zoe. Life will be so much easier for me if you keep pretending to be my sister. Please, please believe me when I say I did this for your own good.”

  “And yours,” Mrs. Archer murmured.

  He raised his chin. “Zoe, you said it yourself—carpe diem. You have to admit we’ve had fun. We’re a good team.”

  Zoe moistened her bottom lip. What fun it had been, meeting Nico at Grand Central Depot, and then starting West in hope of a grand future. It had been the first time she had felt eager expectation since Papa’s death.

  Carpe diem.

  She had seized the day and loved every minute of it.

  Her sketchbook contained drawings of the ladies who had traveled all or part of the trip to Denver, of a ferry boat on the Mississippi, and of bison in Kansas. She had seen the most glorious sunsets and sunrises over the plains. The farther they traveled from New York, the greater space between towns and homes and any sign of civilization amid the rolling hills and expansive grasslands. And the Rocky Mountains—

  Oh, to explore them as she and Papa had explored the Alps and Pyrenees and Vosges.

  After all the serenity she had seen—felt while traveling West—she refused to return to New York. Maybe this was how God was answering her prayers. Ever since Papa died, she had been alone. Until this trip. It would be nice to have a family of her own, where Nico could live as her brother.

  She wanted a husband. And children. And a pet dog . . . and a bird that talked.

  But to marry a man who ordered a bride like one ordered a dress from a catalog? To marry a stranger?

  She waited for her lungs to tighten, for her pulse to race, for the panic to strike her as it had at the Crane house when she thought of going to the bank to secure a loan.

  She felt no panic. She felt—

  Intrigued.

  “I wish to see Mr. Gunderson’s photograph.”

  Mrs. Archer placed the advertisement in the file, then withdrew a photograph. She gave it to Zoe, who immediately sighed with pleasure. With his light hair and strong jaw, Mr. Gunderson was a handsome man. Had he or his parents emigrated from Scandinavia?

  “Zis man is impressive.”

  “Indeed he is,” Mrs. Archer put in.

  Nico bumped against her shoulder. “He doesn’t look that impressive to me.”

  “His eyes are happy,” Zoe noted. Just like Papa’s had been.

  Mrs. Archer smiled. “Interesting description, and fitting. Jakob Gunderson’s references all described him as a happy man. Would you like me to read his letters?”

  Zoe hesitated, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. She was unable to correspond with him without dictating her letter to someone else. “Is writing to him my only option?”

  Nico stared gap-mouthed at her. “I can’t believe you’re considering this.”

  Zoe ignored him.

  Mrs. Archer did as well. “Written correspondence is usually the first stage in courtship. Seeing that you appear refined, intelligent, and have an interest in cooking, I believe we can move on to the second stage, whereby the potential bride—that would be you—moves to the client’s hometown, where he secures reputable boarding for sixty days, during which the two of you engage in a proper courtship. I would need to telegraph Mr. Gunderson first to see if this change is acceptable to him.”

  This seemed reasonable.

  “What if your client is a bad egg?” Nico asked.

  “That, young man, is a fair question.” Mrs. Archer looked at the grandfather clock, then at Zoe. “If at any time the potential bride, whom I shall refer to as you, feels pressured or threatened or realizes my client has not been forthright, you may return to Denver using the train ticket I will give you. I will then help you secure reputable employment. However, do know I have several other clients, men of great means, with whom you would be suitable. One of whom speaks French.”

  Nico pressed his lips into a peevish expression. “This all sounds fishy.”

  Zoe nipped at her bottom lip. Maybe she should be warier, like Nico.

  Mrs. Archer laid Mr. Gunderson’s file on the table between them. “I am an honest businesswoman. If necessary, I can supply references, including ones from the city marshal and the regional judge.”

  “I’d like to read them,” Nico answered, “if we were taking your offer seriously. But we aren’t.” He stood. “Come on, Zoe. I saw several chef openings in the newspaper.”

  Zoe stayed seated.

  “I’m serious.” Nico’s voice rose. “If you do this, I won’t help you. There’s no future for us in Montana.”

  Zoe studied Mrs. Archer. Nothing about the older woman seemed dishonest. But then, neither had Zoe suspected Nico had been anything but honest. He had lied repeatedly and too easily. Although she never would have left New York were it not for Nico. This was a new opportunity for them both.

  Jakob Gunderson might become a wonderful husband.

  She should give him a chance. If his courtship failed, she could return to Denver. She had options. Best of all, this was her choice. Not Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s. Not Nico’s. Hers. To seize what she truly wanted—a husband, a home, a family for her to love, feed, and cherish.

  She studied the photograph of Jakob Gunderson and his happy eyes. “Mrs. Archer, I would like zis man to court me.”

  Chapter Three

  Helena, Montana

  Friday, March 9, 1888

  Isaak Gunderson bounced his fingertips against his thigh while he waited in the wedding reception line to congratulate his employee, Emilia, and her new husband. What was taking so long?

  He tilted his head to the side. Emilia and Mac were nodding and smiling at Mrs. Simpson, a widow, who was holding up the line with a long discourse. Seeing her reminded Isaak to check on Mrs. Johnston, one of the widows in his church. He pulled a notebook and pencil from inside his coat pocket and added the task to his ongoing list. Perhaps he should have given up chairing the Widows and Orphans Committee when he decided to run for mayor of Helena, but the heavy campaigning wouldn’t kick off until May, and he didn’t want the church committee to return to its haphazard and inefficient ways.

  A quiet, “About time,” came from the man ahead of Isaak in the reception line.

  It took considerable effort not to reprimand the older gentleman for allowing a rude comment to pass his lips in the presence of ladies, but Isaak held his tongue as he took a small step forward. To answer rudeness with rudeness did no good.

  Isaak tucked the notebook and pencil back inside his coat w
hile glancing around the basement reception hall. His eyes snagged on Madame Lestraude standing near—but not against—a wall. Even though she was the groom’s mother, she didn’t belong here. Given the wide circle of open space around her, the other wedding guests agreed.

  Everyone except Emilia’s father, who stood chatting with the brothel owner who’d nearly succeeded in selling both of his daughters into prostitution. Mr. Stanek clearly ascribed to Emilia’s philosophy of showing forgiveness in the same measure as Christ meted out. Isaak honored them for their charity, but wasn’t sure he could be as forbearing given the same circumstances.

  The line moved again.

  He stepped forward to greet the bride. Emilia McCall glowed in a gown of creamy satin and lace.

  “Mrs. McCall.” Isaak lifted her hand with his right hand and bowed over it per custom, but he laid his left hand over the top and gave it an extra squeeze. “It was a beautiful ceremony. I wish you and Mac every happiness.”

  Tears filled her caramel-colored eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Gunderson. And thank you for everything you’ve done to make this day possible.”

  “It was nothing.” He took another step and greeted her husband. “You’re a lucky man.”

  Mac’s smile was filled with awed pride, and his handshake was stronger than usual. “I’m well aware.”

  Isaak wanted to say more, but his throat constricted with sudden emotion. Even though Mac was four and a half years older, he and Isaak had forged a tight bond over the past year. In fact, lately it felt like Mac was more a brother than Jakob was. Isaak squeezed Mac’s hand tighter in lieu of words. Based on the way Mac sobered and tightened his grip in return, he understood all the things Isaak wanted to say but couldn’t.

  “I’ll take good care of her.” Mac let go of Isaak’s hand and smiled at his bride.

  Emilia turned her gaze to her husband, and the look of love that passed between them twisted Isaak’s heart with unmistakable envy. He didn’t want to be married. Not yet anyway. He was only twenty-two with a long list of things he needed to accomplish before taking a bride, but the rationale didn’t loosen the knot in his chest.

  Isaak moved away from the formal reception line to where Luci Stanek was waiting for him. Like her sister, Luci was petite. Unlike her sister, she looked older than her years in a cotton print dress with a pink silk sash and small bustle in the back. Emilia had chosen it to make Luci feel fancy without being too sophisticated for a thirteen-year-old, and because it could be worn to parties at the Truetts’ or to church sometimes. Quite a practical choice.

  Luci threw her arms around his waist. “Hi, Mr. Gunderson.”

  He patted her back, then pulled away. “I hear you will be staying with the Truetts while your sister is on her honeymoon.”

  Luci nodded, her brown curls bouncing against her shoulders. “But not until next week. Roch is staying for a few more days before reporting to Fort Missoula. He and Da are going to ride there together, so I get to stay with Melrose until Da gets back.” Luci’s gaze traveled across the reception hall. “It’s a nice turnout, isn’t it?” She twisted her neck to look to her far right. “Even the mayor, the city marshal, and that other judge—the one that made Emilia and Roch stay in jail last year—are here.” There was a tiny hitch in her voice.

  Was she still affected by what her sister’s first husband—a man she’d never met—had almost done? Or by Edgar Dunfree’s near molestation of her? Both men were dead, and the scandal had died when a more sensational news item monopolized the front page: the murder of Joseph Hendry who had been a reporter for the Daily Independent.

  Isaak patted the girl’s back again to offer some consolation. He was about to ask if there was anything he could do to help, but Melrose Truett bounded up to Luci, pulling her arm and whispering in her ear about whatever thirteen-year-old girls found fascinating.

  He turned his attention to greeting friends and acquaintances, all of whom were eager to hear what he planned to do if he won the mayoral election in November. Mr. Palmer wanted less horse dung on Helena Avenue by making all the streetcars steam powered; Mr. Watson wanted part of the proceeds from the annual Harvest Festival to go to the school district; Mr. Truett wanted to get rid of the steam-powered streetcar already running because it belched smoke and was so loud it spooked horses; Mr. Cannon wanted stricter punishment for counterfeiters; Mrs. Danbury wanted to know when the red-light district was going to be shut down for good. After about ten minutes of informal campaigning, Isaak went in search of his brother.

  Jakob was near the back of the reception hall, pulling coins and penny candy from behind the ears of a small crowd of boys.

  Desiring a moment alone with his brother, Isaak turned the boys’ attention to the wedding cake and they all scampered off. “Seems like yesterday we were that young.”

  Jakob offered Isaak a piece of candy. “And Ma and Pa always made us wait until everyone else was served.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Isaak placed the candy in his mouth, tucking it between his teeth and cheek. “How are things going down at the new store?”

  Jakob reached in his coat pocket and withdrew a second piece of candy for himself. “Great. In fact, things are going so well, I’m taking tomorrow morning off.”

  Isaak crushed the candy between his teeth. This lack of focus on Jakob’s part was exactly why he couldn’t be trusted to make sure the new store opened on time. Isaak swallowed the shards of sweet. “I don’t recall you saying anything about needing to be gone before now.”

  Jakob looked out over the crowded hall. “It came up a bit ago.”

  “A bit as in an hour or a week ago?”

  “Does it matter?” Jakob’s tone was clipped.

  Isaak’s temper heated. “It does when it affects the schedule for the grand opening of The Import Company.” He dislodged a stray piece of candy from behind his molar with his tongue while telling himself to remain calm. “You’re barely keeping to the schedule as it is. How can you afford to take a whole morning off?”

  Jakob started walking, tipping his head to indicate that Isaak should follow. Once they reached a more secluded corner of the church reception hall, Jakob stopped.

  “This thing . . .” He paused and, for a flickering moment, looked nothing like his usual confident self. “It might not end up being anything.”

  Isaak took a slow, deep breath. “When you”—begged—“asked to be in charge of The Import Company’s build and grand opening, you promised to follow it through to the end. This past week you’ve spent more time with Roch Stanek than at the store, which set your work crew back by three days. Last week, you held things up for two whole days because you couldn’t decide on stain colors. And now you want more time off? I can’t keep covering for you, Jake. You have no idea how much work I have to accomplish in one day. I can’t afford to keep checking up on you to make sure things remain on schedule at The Import Company, too.”

  The tips of Jakob’s ears turned red. “First of all, it’s not your job to check up on me. Second, by your own admission, I’m still on schedule. And third, I don’t need your permission to take the morning off to meet someone.” His gaze shifted away.

  Isaak turned to see who his brother was looking at.

  Emilia.

  What did the bride have to do with meeting someone on a Saturday morning?

  Isaak tensed. No! It couldn’t be, could it?

  They’d talked about this. Months ago. After the Independence Day picnic when Jakob had asked what Isaak thought about a correspondence courtship. It was a nonsensical idea, which they’d both agreed on; at least Isaak thought they’d agreed on it because the topic never came up again.

  Until this morning at breakfast.

  Isaak looked back at Jakob. “I wondered where all your talk about how lucky Mac was that Emilia answered that mail-order advertisement was leading. You’ve ordered yourself a bride, too. Haven’t you?”

  “And what if I did?” Jakob patted his own chest “Why ca
n’t I have my chance at love?”

  “Because what happens if”—Isaak lowered his voice to keep the rest of the wedding guests from overhearing—“she turns out to be like one of those women who are out for money? The newspapers have been full of warnings for years.”

  Jakob smirked as though Isaak was the lunatic here. “I’ve been in contact with a matchmaker in Denver.”

  Was that supposed to make it better? Whether a bride-finding service was called mail-order or matchmaking didn’t change the basic fact that they were all scams. “How much did you have to pay this so-called Cupid?”

  Jakob pressed his lips together in a tight line.

  Isaak shook his head. “That much, huh? What if this woman shows up and she’s entirely unsuitable?” And she would be. In cases such as these, either the bride or groom turned out to be dishonorable—sometimes both. For proof, Jakob need only look to Emilia’s near-disastrous proxy marriage to a man who intended to sell her and her sister into prostitution, or to Mrs. Wiley, their housekeeper—who’d lied about her four children to a groom who’d lied about his prosperous farm.

  Typical Jakob—never considering the ramifications when it contradicted what he wanted to do.

  Isaak raked his fingers through his hair. “You’d better not expect me to clean up after you.”

  “And you’d better not pull your big-brother act and mess this up for me.”

  “There won’t be any need because tomorrow morning, when you meet this mail-order bride of yours, she’ll be closer to fifty than twenty. She’ll also be dragging along a relative she’s never mentioned who happens to need a little money to get back on his feet.”

  Jakob studied the floor. After a long moment, he raised his head and spoke in a composed voice. “In which case my contract states I can put her on the train, send her back to the matchmaker in Denver, and receive a full refund.”

  The rationale did nothing for Isaak’s temper. He glanced around the reception hall to give himself a moment to calm down. Hale Adams was looking their way with a censorious frown on his face.