Mail Order Bride Tess: A Sweet Western Historical Romance (Montana Mail Order Brides Series Book 2)

by Rose Jenster

  I am being forward again, I know. Writing as if I were planning to come to you as—as anything really. When we are not known to one another and may not suit at all. Or else you may have another letter from another lady whose tastes and character appeal to you much more than mine. Perhaps she will know a great deal about agriculture and animals, while I can only vow to learn whatever I can. Perhaps she will be pretty, while I am only ordinary with plain brown hair and eyes and a little too tall for a woman. I’d like to report that I’m quite graceful and lovely but the word that my own mother uses to describe me, and has since I was eleven years old, is ‘weedy.’ Too tall and too thin, and, by implication, somewhat unseemly to look at, as weeds tend to be a nuisance.

  I suppose if this be not your best letter, it shall be the longest you receive at least. I have earned that distinction, I suppose, of rambling on. My given name is Teresa but everyone calls me plain Tess because that extravagant name does not suit me well. I hope to hear from you, to receive a letter. Do answer me, please. I will wait.

  Sincerely,

  Tess Sullivan

  Albany, New York

  Chapter 5

  ALBANY, NEW YORK, 1885

  The hours seemed to stretch out before her as she pinned up a hem for a lady from church. The dress had already been turned once to hide wear at the collar and cuffs and the woman was not buying a new one for want of finances. Mrs. Winthrop was not well pleased that Tess did alterations to gowns not purchased from the modiste, but she accepted the payment from the customers with only a slight sniff of condescension. The lady’s dress needed hemming because she had grown thinner recently, and her gown hung on her now too long. Tess was worried that the good lady was ill but did not know how to ask without being impertinent.

  Mrs. Winthrop came back to the workroom to inform her there was a new paying customer who wanted to speak to the seamstress about making some changes to a gown they had available off the peg, as it were. Excusing herself, Tess spoke to the young lady about the plaid walking dress, assuring her that, yes, they could edge it with black velvet ribbon and, yes, the buttons could be changed to something more ornate. Mrs. Winthrop swooped in again and started totaling the extra charge for the customization of the dress, and Tess returned to find the older lady racked with a harsh cough. Tess took her by the arm and settled her onto a stool, fetching the lady a cup of water from the pump.

  All the while, she tended to the woman and promised to have the hem finished by the next day, she thought how wonderful it would be to live in a place where one was self-sufficient…food from the garden, sturdy wool from the sheep to make one’s clothes, all needs provided for.

  Then there would be no superficial fussing over the ribbon on a dress or whether someone was too poor to afford new fabric. It all seemed so petty, so purposeless, when she thought of mountains, of survival in the near-wilderness and relying on oneself instead of depending upon shops to have the items you needed.

  She counted the days every evening, how long it might take to receive a reply. If her letter traveled at the average pace of the mails, he would have got it three weeks after she posted it. Then, if he replied that very day or the next day, it would still be three weeks after that before she could expect an answer. In six weeks, a great deal might have changed…some local coquette could have caught his eye or a letter from someone closer than the East Coast could reach him first and win his heart. She thought constantly about the risk of another woman’s letter arriving at his door before her own. She could only hope that he would wait, that he could be patient for the right woman and have faith that she herself was the right woman.

  A scant week after she sent her letter she found an unexpected missive on the table at home, addressed to herself. It was written in Leah’s hand. Tearing it open to read news of her friend, she found a handwritten copy of the very advertisement she had answered.

  Dear Tessie,

  I know I am an old busybody trying to match everyone I care about with a companion and helpmeet such as I have found for myself. I am not sure you know that I answered an advertisement like this one and came to Montana Territory to meet Henry. That is the secret of how we came to be married. I did not speak of it because I considered it a desperate hazard, but, in truth, there is a real shortage of women out West, and they have to be imported like good cheese (that was a jest, I hope you realize).

  In any case, the ad I’ve enclosed is one I helped to write for a friend of my husband’s. His name is Luke Cameron, and he is a carpenter as well as a homesteader with a burgeoning flock of sheep. He was widowed a few years back in the influenza epidemic and has decided at last to seek a wife and build a family. He is a hard worker and clever, though very reticent around myself, and I believe, other women as well. He admires Pearl enough to satisfy even a mother’s vanity, though, and I believe has a kind way with children, including his own two nephews.

  When I looked at his ad, I found myself thinking of you. He is like you in temperament, nearly silent much of the time but observant, alert to small details. He is attached to his mountains, his open spaces—a true outdoorsman with a bit of your beloved Thoreau to his character.

  In part, I suppose, I am selfish. I would dearly love to have you as my neighbor, having the kind of fulfilling life and happiness that I only dreamt of until finding my dear Henry. I could have my girlhood friend nearby and we could watch our little ones grow up together (see how I am racing on to the "inevitable" conclusion that I am right and you and Luke should marry at once!). That is part of my wish, but really, I wish for you to be as joyous, as blessed as I.

  Please do not be insulted that I am suggesting you answer an ad for a mail order bride. I know you are a timid sort, even worse than myself, perhaps, and I wanted to give you a little nudge, a bit of an advantage if you will. If you’re interested, please write to him, address it to me, and I’ll pass the note along with my own personal praises of your devout nature, your work ethic, your keen interest in philosophy, your lovely dark curls.

  Truly, Tess, do write to Luke. Trust me, dearest.

  Love,

  Leah (now Mrs. Henry Rogers!)

  Tess could not suppress a giggle. This was too perfect to be a mere coincidence. The Lord had a hand in this, in Leah helping with the advertisement and sending it directly to herself, in Tess being so attached to the ad before knowing it was Leah and Henry’s dear friend. A touch of magic, of divine intervention clung to the idea as she held the handwritten copy of the ad. She knew beyond doubt, beyond words, that she belonged with this man, in this place so far away. Her faith galvanized, she resigned herself to wait for, as Leah had said half-jokingly, the inevitable happiness that would come.

  Dear Leah,

  I am overjoyed to find that the writer of this advert is your husband’s friend as, you may believe I am earnest when I tell you that I had already written to the man who placed that ad! I felt bidden to do so somehow…I had thought it was the Lord’s intervention, but perhaps it was only the strong will of my matchmaking friend. At any rate, I have already written a lengthy, and I think rather awkward, letter introducing myself and pleading for a chance to correspond with him. I think, as you say, we will suit. I am grateful for the additional information you gave me, his name, for example, and his temperament. I think I shall write him again now, but I do take time to thank you, dearest, for putting me in the way of this chance. I am grateful for your happiness and your kindness.

  Love,

  Tess

  She tucked away the letter in a drawer and began a new message to the man—to Luke Cameron whose name she now knew.

  Dear Mr. Cameron,

  Though you have not received my first letter yet, and I’ve no way of knowing if you are still in search of a correspondent, I feel compelled to write to you again. You see, one of my girlhood friends, Leah Weaver, is now Mrs. Henry Rogers whom I believe is known to you.

  Mrs. Rogers has written to me, directing my attention to your advert with the belief t
hat she was urging me on to answer it against my bashful nature. Imagine how surprised she will be to find that I had already written to you. It seems so poetic, so perfect, that first your eloquently phrased advertisement called me to you and now a childhood friend as well.

  I felt quite excited to tell you that news and wanted so much for you to know of our friend-of-a-friend connection. She tells me that you are quiet, that you are kind to her baby daughter Pearl. I, too, am quiet and love children. I am being forward now and there is no excuse for it except for the fact that, if I had not told you immediately that Leah recommended you and your advert to me, I would have felt it to be a secret from you, something I kept back dishonorably. So make free to ask her what she can tell you of me in return. She will tell you that my middle name is Winifred which is rather awful.

  It is true, we had drifted apart in recent years since she became a teacher and I went into service as a seamstress. but she wrote me fondly on the occasion of her marriage, and we took up our friendship again. I have the greatest regard for her—her intelligence (she is always reading!) and her compassion and her lovely embroidery. So do tell her I wrote of her with the highest praise so perhaps she will forbear to tell you about the time when we were small, and I ate an entire jar of my mother’s raspberry preserves and was sick on her Sunday dress.

  Now that I know you are Henry’s friend, and as I am Leah’s friend, I feel that we know each other somehow, that we may be easy with one another and write freely as though we had been introduced properly. I would ask you to forgive my presumptuous writing of a second, more personal letter but I am not sorry, only terribly, painfully hopeful and eager.

  Tess Sullivan

  Tess waited, her heart full of expectation, for days upon days. The wedding preparations increased, with each new day bringing a congratulatory gift for the bride or the addition of some essential task such as the cutting and tying of peach colored ribbons on the forks for the wedding cake. They had borrowed dessert forks from practically everyone they knew and had about one hundred of them laid aside for the wedding breakfast.

  After work, Tess would measure and snip lengths of ribbon and tie them into tiny perfect bows so each fork had a festive garment for the occasion. She had tried to tell Rebecca that guests would dislike trailing ribbons through their cake and the bows would have to be removed to wash the dozens of forks afterward anyhow, but the bride wanted bows, and it was easier at that point not to dispute the practicality.

  Soon, the flurry of activity consumed her attention. The dresses were complete, the hats had been trimmed, and the proper gloves acquired. The finishing touches had been put on the towering fruit cake, and the groom’s mother had made her special berry cordial. Tess had saved money from her wages and purchased a white lace parasol for her sister’s bridal gift and braided peach ribbons around the handle. All dressed in her modest dove gray, she slipped into Rebecca’s room where their mother fussed over the bride’s hair, tucking tiny blossoms into the pins.

  Rebecca looked lovely, her light sandy hair striking with those dark eyes, and the happiness wreathed her face. Blushing proudly at the sight of her lovely little sister, Tess held out the parasol to her mutely.

  “Oh, thank you, Tessie! It’ll be perfect for the walk into the church,” Rebecca hugged her sister gingerly, careful not to muss her ribbons.

  “All the happiness in the world, Becky,” she managed a little tearfully.

  At the ceremony, she stood by her sister’s side, looking down at the tips of her boots and keeping her face hidden behind her modest straw bonnet as the couple took their vows. Everyone exclaimed afterward what a radiant bride Rebecca was, how happy they would be, and it was just as it should be.

  Tess tried to ignore the inevitable comments that she was the old maid sister, the spinster who would take care of their aging parents, perhaps help care for her sister’s future children as a doting, whiskered aunt should when she was past all hope. She tried to prop up her spirits during the breakfast as a shower of ribbons was pulled irritably off the borrowed forks so the guests could eat more easily. Tess stared miserably at those ribbons littering the tablecloth and thought of the hours she’d spent preparing them.

  More than anything, she wished Luke Cameron were here with her, someone she didn’t even know, but who might possibly understand what it meant to be so terribly lonely even in a crowd of people.

  Chapter 6

  BILLINGS, MONTANA 1885

  Luke shifted uncomfortably in the chair as Henry’s wife handed him the baby.

  “Here, just hold her like that where she can look around the room. There, you’re quite a natural. Now I did not ask my husband to bring you here just to admire our infant,” Leah said gently.

  “She told me to get you here. I was just following orders,” Henry joked.

  “I sent a copy of your advertisement to a friend of mine back east. Her name is Tess, and I believe you may get a letter from her in response. I’m imposing on you and asking as a favor to a friend if you would give her letter serious consideration,”

  “I plan to consider any letters I get,” Luke said, holding the baby gingerly.

  Luke with a rueful snort wondered why Leah handed him the child—he could not very well take offense at their interference and storm out while he was holding their baby. So she had a plan, much the way his sister Aileen had a plan when she tried to convince him to see if the Widow Smith needed any repairs around her property. He hadn’t much regard for scheming women, but he respected Henry, so he simply waited for her to finish.

  “My wife says that this girl does sewing and is a hard worker, Luke,” Henry said, clearly as awkward about the situation as Luke was and trying to support his wife’s recommendation.

  “I hope you won’t take offense at my gesture. It was well meant, though my husband tells me it might not set well with your pride.”

  “My pride?” Luke said, shooting a look at Henry.

  “You’ve always had your own way of doing things, not that your mother didn’t try to train it out of you.”

  “Have you been telling tales on my mother now?”

  “No, I grew up back east so I lack the sort of embarrassing stories about your youth that you seem to dread,” Henry retorted.

  “Please, Mr. Cameron, don’t let my—my meddling--set you against Tess. I’ve always been a romantic at heart, and I thought I saw a way to bring happiness to someone I care for,” Leah blinked back tears, “Don’t blame Henry, please. This was all my doing.”

  “Now, now,” Luke said uncomfortably, “I’m sure it was kindly meant, and I do thank you for helping with my advertisement. I suppose I owe you consideration for your friend,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “That’s very fair of you,” she said and took her daughter in her arms, “I truly do wish you happiness, whomever you find it with,”

  “Thank you,” he said quietly and withdrew.

  He had been busy with his garden the last few days and had not looked in to check his mail that week. Luke stopped in at the post office to see if he had any letters. A stack of five awaited him, to his surprise. After he watered his livestock, he settled onto his porch with the mountain to his back and read the first one.

  Dear Homesteader,

  Though I would prefer a house in town, a cabin will, I suppose, be adequate, though I am accustomed to my parents’ townhouse in Chicago. The boys here are often looking for a bit of fun more than a wife and family, so I have decided to search further afield for a real man. My friends and I thought it a lark to look in the matrimonial listings and we’ve each chosen a man to write to. You were my first choice.

  I am twenty years old with golden hair and no lack of suitors. My father owns a shipping line so I’m not without resources or dowry. I went to finishing school in Europe and on the Grand Tour with my parents and elder brothers, so I’m quite cultured as well. I have seen the Elgin Marbles and visited the Tower of London and consider myself educated.

  I’m
sure I have more to recommend me than the backwoods misses you are used to encounter in the wilds of Montana. If you are interested in a bride with culture and prosperity to civilize your surroundings and bring a tone of elegance to your life, do respond quickly.

  With best regards,

  Cathleen Moriarty

  Chicago, Illinois

  Luke squinted at her large signature, the flourishes and curlicues and concluded it was pretty clear that she thought highly of herself. He wasn’t sure that he wanted a tone of elegance or cared if he married anyone who had seen the Elgin Marbles—nor did he like that she thought it a game with her friends to answer ads and get men to propose. He dropped that letter carelessly to one side and opened the next. A fine, even script drew his attention.

  To Him Who Placed the Advertisement,

  I am a woman in want of a husband. I find myself fallen on hard times as I allowed my betrothed to take liberties, and now he has deserted me and ruined my reputation. It would be useful to escape the gossip of this town where I am now a soiled dove in the eyes of society. I have been trained to run a large estate, managing the staff and household accounts as well.

  If you have a suitable establishment, I would be happy to ensure your comfort by regulating your chef’s menus, your majordomo’s wardrobe selections, and the cleaning schedule of your chambermaids. I can prevent your having to contend with the melodrama of a large staff by keeping the scullions away from the stable boys and that sort of thing.

  Please contact me if you are in want of a wife who can manage your affairs admirably. I ask pardon for my past easy virtue, and assure you that I have been chaste as a saint ever since.

  Regards,

  Millicent Barbary

  Concord, Massachusetts

  He shook his head. He had no staff of dozens of servants, nor any need for the lady’s management skills. That letter landed on the porch with the first. The next letter was postmarked Albany and he knew with a sort of dread that this was Leah’s friend. He slit the envelope ruefully and began to read. The letter went on and on, by turns wistful and funny, until he found himself disappointed when he got to the end of it. She wanted to see the mountains and the stars, and he found himself wanting to answer her questions about Montana and about his interests, his tastes. He kept her letter beside him and opened the next one.