An Unconventional Courtship

by Becky Lower

  George’s breathing began to return to normal, but his heart raced in anticipation of proposing to Charlotte. However, Mr. Ashcroft was not quite finished with him.

  “You are aware, are you not, that Charlotte’s mother is a bit unconventional?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. She’s a Revivalist is she not?”

  “And had a strange obsession with Thomas Jefferson. Frankly, I’m glad the man passed on. I was afraid if my wife ever did make the trek to Monticello, she’d become his mistress and never leave.”

  George was startled by Mr. Ashcroft’s statement but caught the amusement in the man’s eyes and relaxed slightly as the man continued.

  “Her revivalist tendencies don’t bother me, and I’m quite established in my business, so I don’t have a problem with my wife following whatever causes she wants and doing whatever she chooses. But, you might get some backlash about your somewhat unorthodox mother-in-law, since the banking business is more staid than the rough-and-tumble importing business. Are you prepared for it?”

  “Yes, sir. If Charlotte’s by my side, I can withstand anything. Her mother’s unique behavior is part of what has shaped Charlotte into the woman I love. How could I not be as in support of Mrs. Ashcroft as you are? May I see Charlotte, then, and ask for her hand?”

  “She’s in the parlor with her mother right now, probably wearing out the floor with her pacing as she waits for you. So, yes, go to her. I wish you luck.”

  George stood and shook the elder man’s hand. “Thank you, sir. You’ve made me a very happy man.”

  “I’m going to ponder your suggestion about incorporating women into the workplace. I guess there’s no real reason why one of my daughters can’t take over the company, although the business is a bit on the rowdy side. As for Charlotte, she has been the one to most closely resemble her mother, always a free spirit. She’ll keep life interesting for you; that much is for certain. Just pray there’s no Thomas Jefferson in your future.”

  George grinned, mirroring Mr. Ashcroft’s wide smile.

  “Go on with you now. It’s best not to keep your future bride waiting.”

  • • •

  Charlotte took a deep breath when George entered the parlor. This was the moment she’d been waiting for her whole life. George was the most handsome man she’d ever known, and she only hoped his conversation with her father went well.

  George paused at the threshold and smiled when he caught her eye. Then his glance slid to her mother. “Do you mind, Mrs. Ashcroft, if I have a few minutes alone with your daughter?”

  “Well, of course, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’ll just keep the door open a bit, for propriety’s sake.” Her eyes glistened with unspent tears as she took Charlotte’s hand and kissed her on the cheek before leaving the room.

  George circled the fauteuil chair with its open sides and fuzzy gold fabric to take up a spot in front of her. He gazed at her for a long moment and took hold of her hands before he cleared his throat and began to speak. “It’s true we’ve only known each other for a short time, Miss Ashcroft. But they’ve been the most exciting months of my life. I’m going to follow the advice of my dearly departed mother. When she was on her death bed, she called me to her side and told me someday I’d meet a woman who would change my life, and that, when I found her, I should never let her go. You are the woman she meant, Charlotte.”

  He released her hands and fumbled in the pocket of his frock coat, taking out a small box. Charlotte held her breath as George sank to his knees. “This is my mother’s ring. She took it off her finger the same night we talked, and she told me when I finally found the woman of my dreams, the one woman with whom I could see a future, I should give her the ring and marry her quickly. Will do me the honor? Will you marry me, Charlotte, and change my life? Provide me with children upon whom to dote?”

  Her eyes filled with happy tears, blurring her vision of the man she’d been dreaming about for months. “Yes, George, I will. Please stand up and kiss me.”

  He stood and placed the ring on her finger. “Why, it fits perfectly!”

  “Which signifies that we’re perfect for one another. Now kiss me, please.” Her eyes sparkled with glee.

  “It will be my pleasure.” He pulled her to a standing position and leaned in.

  “And mine.” She met him in the middle and decided life with George would always be as it was in this moment. They’d meet in the middle, regardless of what the issue might be. And right now, the issue was being kissed soundly. Her lips parted, and George’s tongue swooped in for the first time. She lost herself in the sensation of their tongues touching and teasing each other. If the rest of lovemaking was as pleasant as this, Charlotte could barely wait to get started on their life together.

  George broke from the kiss, but his mouth was only inches away from hers as he stared at her. “How soon can we marry?” Their foreheads touched, and she raised her fingers to touch his soft lips.

  “Mother will undoubtedly want a large wedding, but I don’t want to wait. What I want to do is begin our life together as soon as possible. I want a lot of children, George.”

  “Three or four will do nicely.”

  “Three or four? No, I want many more.”

  George kissed her again. “Well then. Let’s see if your mother can speed things up a bit.” He lengthened the kiss and pulled her closer to him. “Where would you like to honeymoon?”

  “I have given some thought to it since we talked yesterday. I’d love to attend the horse races out on Long Island. And I want to place a wager on the outcome, although you’ll have to do it for me, since women still aren’t allowed to bet.”

  “That’s a bit outrageous, even for you, Miss Ashcroft.”

  “Ah, but if we’re on our honeymoon, I won’t be Charlotte Ashcroft. I’ll be Mrs. Fitzpatrick by then. Mrs. Charlotte Fitzpatrick. Mrs. George Fitzpatrick. Doesn’t that have a lovely ring to it?” she asked and drew a breath, placing her hand on her heart. “And isn’t being unpredictable part of my charm?”

  “There is one little problem in a quick wedding, however.” George backed off a bit.

  “What might that be?”

  “I’m currently still living at my father’s home. We’ll need to find a place of our own.”

  “Don’t you worry. Mother and I will find a house by the end of the week, if need be, and we can marry soon after. I’ll make certain of it.”

  “I’ll leave everything in your capable hands then. Now, kiss me again before we go announce our intentions to your parents, and I’ll take you to meet my father. Then the excitement will die down.”

  Charlotte smiled at him. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, George. The excitement is just beginning.”

  More from This Author

  (From Expressly Yours, Samantha by Becky Lower)

  Missouri, March 1860

  If Samantha spent one more night in the tiny cabin belonging to her uncle, she would not be a virgin by morning. Even while she sat beside her aunt the previous evening, leaning over to hear her aunt’s halted words as she dictated a final letter to her mother, Samantha’s panic rose. Her hands shook as she wrote the words her aunt spoke, putting them down on paper to send to Hilda’s mother and Samantha’s own grandmother, who was close to death herself back in Massachusetts. Aunt Hilda had shielded her from Uncle Jack the best she could for the past two years, but her aunt would be of no help now. Before she’d exhaled her last breath, she had reached for Samantha.

  “Where is Jack?”

  “He’s in the barn, Aunt Hilda. Do you want me to get him?” Samantha sensed her aunt’s death was near. She dipped a cloth in cool water and swabbed Hilda’s brow in a futile attempt to give her peace.

  “No, child. Don’t bring him in here. I have nothing to say to him. But reach under the mattress, and be quick about it.”

  Samantha did as she was bid and pulled out a small bag of coins. Hilda placed it in Samantha’s hands.

  “Take this, my child, and leave here
as soon as you can. I’m sorry I ever brought you into this house, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “It’s not your fault, Aunt Hilda, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me. If not for you, I would have died along with my folks.”

  “Put a bit of that money out where Jack can find it. He’ll spend it on drink or a whore after I’m laid to rest. That should give you time.”

  “Please rest, now, Aunt Hilda. I’ll be all right.”

  Samantha stayed with Hilda until she died, and then prepared the body for burial. She informed her uncle of Hilda’s passing, thinking he might want some time alone with his deceased wife. Instead, he left the house briefly, to inform the cemetery workers that a new body would be coming, and then returned to the barn to complete the casket. The long night faded into dawn, and Samantha still had no idea what to do.

  The hasty funeral would take place this morning in the town cemetery.

  Samantha needed a plan, but her thoughts were jumping all over the place. As she prepared herself for the ride to the cemetery, she tried to calm herself and think of the most immediate things to do.

  She had to get away, and get away fast. And for that to happen, Jack needed to be kept occupied. Although he hadn’t said a word to her as she got his breakfast ready before they loaded her aunt’s body into the wagon his sidelong glances at her made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The first part of her plan came together as she cleared the table, leaving the pouch of coins for him to find. She had kept out enough to pay her way as she ran, and left the rest to keep Jack entertained this afternoon.

  The ceremony at the cemetery was hardly long enough to be called a service. The minister quoted a bible passage and said some nice things about her aunt, but her casket was lowered into the ground within a matter of minutes. Samantha hesitated at the gravesite, tossing a handful of earth on the crude casket as the graveyard worker pierced the mound of dirt beside the site with his shovel, and began filling the hole he had created the previous evening. The scraping of a shovel in the dirt and the scent of freshly turned earth would forever remind her of Aunt Hilda.

  Jack wasted no time at the gravesite and hurried to the tavern with his pouch of coins. Samantha took the letter containing Aunt Hilda’s dying words to the post office. She would accomplish this final act for her aunt, however futile it may be, since she fully expected her aunt and her grandmother to meet at heaven’s door at the same time. And then she’d be off, leaving this small town, and Uncle Jack, behind. But she still didn’t have a clue where she might head, with little money and no means of transportation.

  A sign at the post office caught Samantha’s eye. She feigned disinterest as she snuck sidelong glances at the poster about the new Pony Express, reading one line at a time.

  Wanted: Young, skinny, wiry fellows.

  She tore her glance from the sign and studied the customers queued up in front of her. Another quick look.

  Not over eighteen.

  She posted her letter and turned away from the window, catching the last of the poster’s message.

  Must be expert riders.

  Willing to face death daily.

  Orphans preferred.

  She was all of what they wanted, except for one basic and glaring fact. She might be young, skinny, and wiry, but she was no fellow. Samantha calmed her breathing as she walked away from the post office, but her mind was buzzing with possibilities. Her ticket out of the nightmare her life had become had just presented itself. She loved horses and had a good hand with them. All she needed to do was to hide her true identity—pretend to be a boy—and she was certain she could pull it off. Uncle Jack had enough money to keep him busy until after midnight. Samantha figured she had at least twelve hours to transform herself and get on the road.

  She stopped by Aunt Hilda’s grave once more. Her tears mingled with the fresh dirt. She picked up a handful of the loose earth from the gentle mound, kneading it in her hands.

  “There’s been so much heartache in my life, Aunt Hilda. First, Momma and Daddy died of the smallpox, I barely survived it, and now you’re gone. You protected me as best you could, but you can’t anymore. It’s up to me now.”

  She hopped up into the wagon and headed for the small cabin she had called home for only a few years. She’d take only one change of clothes—no dresses—since women traveling alone, even this far west, caused people to raise eyebrows. She’d bind her small breasts, wear men’s clothing, and cut off her hair. Her excitement mounted as the horse and wagon trudged along, and the plan she’d been formulating in her head began to take shape. She’d become the fellow the Pony Express wanted. Her idea might work.

  Back at the cabin, she picked up her scissors and grabbed a hank of hair. Tears came to her eyes again as the scissors hovered. Her hair had never been cut, not from the day she was born. Her mother had loved her hair, even though it meant extra work trying to keep it neat when Samantha was a child. She glanced at herself in the mirror, running her hand over her dark brown locks. If she cut her hair here, her uncle would piece it all together before she got to St. Joseph, where men were signing on to the Express. If she left no traces of her departure and her clothing still hung in the crude closet, it might take Uncle Jack a while to figure out she was even gone. At least one day. That was all she needed. But she had no doubt the minute he missed a meal or an evening without the funds to pay for a doxy at the local tavern, he’d come after her, mad as hell.

  No, she’d pack her scissors and cut her hair as she walked. Scissors would make a good weapon, anyway, should she need one. She found a length of muslin to bind her breasts and wrapped it around her. Then she dressed in the boy’s clothing she used when she had to clean out the barn, put on her heavy boots, packed an extra shirt, a change of underwear, and the only picture she had of her mother and father. St. Joseph was about twenty miles from the cabin. If she walked fast, she could be there in a day’s time and get hired on by the Pony Express. It might take a bit longer, since she’d stay off the main roads, but she’d get herself to St. Joe before her disappearance was discovered. Then Uncle Jack would never find her.

  • • •

  Ever since defying his parents by refusing to return to New York last spring after his vacation was over, Valerian Fitzpatrick had been planning. He just didn’t know for what. Now his course was clear. He was on his way from St. Louis to St. Joseph, Missouri with a railcar full of horses his brother-in-law was selling to the new Pony Express line. St. Joe was where the signing up was being held, and Val had no plans to return to St. Louis. He was going to become a Pony Express rider. He just hadn’t told anyone yet.

  He breathed in the scent of hay and horse—his two favorite smells. His brother-in-law, Joseph, softly crooned an Indian chant as he curried one horse. Val picked up a comb and moved to the mustang’s other side, running a hand over the horse’s neck. Joseph nodded at him and continued his chant. Valerian returned the gesture and remained quiet. He had learned in the months he’d been with Joseph not to interrupt the sacred Indian traditions. He waited for Joseph’s crooning to end.

  Joseph ran his hand over the horse’s flank as he finished with the grooming. “These mustangs are as tough as the country they will be racing through, so they’ll be good for the Express riders. And we have broken them pretty good.”

  “How many horses do you think they’ll need?”

  “William Russell told us they will need five hundred altogether, but spaced out from here to Sacramento and San Francisco. We might be able to send them another full railcar or two to get them started. But racing at a full gallop for ten or twelve miles will break a horse down if he is not in top shape. I expect the Pony Express operation will burn through a lot of horses. Good for us, but not good for the horses.”

  “Supposedly there are relay stations all along the route, every ten or fifteen miles. That’s where the riders will change horses. Are we going to be responsible for delivering the horses to the relay stations?”

>   Joseph’s gaze lifted from the horse to Valerian. “I will talk to Mr. Russell when we get to St. Joe, but I will offer to let you stay in town and deliver the horses to the relay stations while my brothers and I head back to St. Louis and gather up another train car full.”

  Valerian’s hopes rose along with his heartbeat. Things could not be working out better. The last nine months would serve him in good stead, since he’d been rounding up mustangs on the Kansas and Missouri plains along with Joseph and his brothers. He now was familiar with both the landscape and the route the stagecoaches and wagon trains followed through Kansas. He’d even navigated it at night more times than he cared to remember. He had a talk with Mr. Russell in his future as well.

  “Yep, I’d be happy to deliver these horses out to the relay posts. How many stations do you think we can supply?”

  “According to Mr. Russell, the first big home station is in Seneca at the Smith Hotel, and there are eight relay posts between St. Joseph and there. With one more railcar, we can supply four horses at each station. Five would be better, but I will have to talk to Russell about any more after these first two railcars.”

  “Can’t wait to meet the man. He’s organized the entire route, nearly 2,000 miles, in a matter of months. The amount of money he’s shelling out for horses means he’s got serious backing for his project.”

  “Not only for the horses. The Pony Express riders are being paid a hundred dollars a month.”

  Valerian’s mind quickly went to work. If he could ride for the Express, even for a year, he’d have a substantial sum of money to stake his claim in the West. Surely his family would have to applaud his ambition, wouldn’t they?

  But first he needed to get to St. Joe, impress Mr. Russell, and secure himself a job with the Express. And not only to deliver horses. He’d become a rider. He’d been grooming himself for the job since he first got up on a pony, years ago. He began composing his letter home in his mind. Maybe he’d even sign it Expressly Yours.