“Nonsense. Ione.” Mother’s brows flew high, and she shot pointed glances at an empty chair. “Sit with us like I asked. Soon, you’ll be hosting little teas like this in your own home.”
Home? Heat stabbed the backs of her eyes as she thought of the little house on Walker Street Bradford had shown her just last week. He’d explained how the one-story, light green house with white shutters and porch posts would only be temporary. Once he took on enough of the medical practice’s client load, they’d move into a much grander house. She’d loved the scrollwork details under the eaves and the wide-branched maple tree that shaded the entire yard in the afternoon. In her mind, she’d already arranged the furniture they’d ordered into the perfect configuration to make the parlor inviting.
Her pulse raced, and the conversation sounded like chittering hens fighting over corn tossed in a farmyard. She sagged onto the padded seat.
“How long is the veil?”
“Will you wear short or long gloves?”
“How many petticoats will you have to wear?”
Tightness grabbed her throat. The news she had to share weighed on her conscience. “Mother, I need to speak with you, please.” She grabbed the edge of the seat cushion to keep herself from jumping to her feet.
Viola Forrester gave a haughty look down the length of her nose. “But, Ione, I’m entertaining.”
“Two minutes are all I’ll need.” She pasted on a smile and glanced at the other three women, now sitting with their teacups poised in the air. Pinkies uplifted, of course. “A slight family matter has arisen. The matter includes a bit of urgency.”
“Not now. What I asked was for you to share about the fitting. My friends are eager to hear the details.” Her gaze rolled toward the other women then she straightened. “Or the place cards.” Although she was already sitting erect, at the mention of the last two words she stretched taller and gained half an inch in height. “Did you meet with the printer regarding the engraving?”
Ione took a deep breath, hoping the air might still the jumpiness in her belly. She really had no choice. Mother was not taking her hints. After a swallow against the lump growing in her throat, Ione stood, hands fisted at her sides. “No, Mother, I did not meet with the printer.”
“Oh, perhaps I should have gone.” Mother lifted an eyebrow. “Some tradespeople can be difficult with someone of your age.”
The other women nodded and murmured to one another.
“Age has nothing to do with why I didn’t go.” She extended her hands, palms up, in front of her body. “I am calling off the wedding.”
“What?” Viola screeched, and the teacup slid onto the upholstered davenport.
Wincing at her mother’s most unladylike shriek, Ione lifted her chin. I cannot waver. What I witnessed was unacceptable. She squared her shoulders. “I will not be marrying Bradford Whittington the Third this Sunday or any Sunday.”
With a moan, Viola slumped to the side in a dead faint, her body covering the cup.
If only I could escape so easily into such blessed oblivion.
Chapter Two
Morgan Shipley stepped back from the chair he’d been oiling, giving the top ladderback slat a final polish. Four chairs completed—two more to go. Receiving orders for tables and chairs provided him with a steady income, but he had the most fun when crafting specialty pieces. The ones adding artistry to functionality. The ones allowing him freedom of expression. The ones making him believe he was a master carpenter.
For a moment, he let his gaze wander over the variety of items for sale in his shop. Carved headboards and footboards, a cradle, chest of drawers, cupboards, wall shelves, two sizes of dining tables, picture frames, and several styles of chairs. Tucked inside his portfolio were designs for more intricate and larger pieces like bureaus, armoires, four-poster or canopy bed frames, and—when needed—coffins.
What he wanted was for someone special to be nearby when he finished such a piece. A woman to whom he could turn and ask an opinion. Everyone wanted a little praise, not too much to produce a swelled head, but enough to know his, or her, efforts received notice.
Pounding hoof beats and the rumble of the afternoon stage sounded down Main Street. He glanced at the distinctive red with yellow trim of the Bain and Company stagecoach, idly wondering if anyone might be disembarking in Dorado, Texas, or if the stage brought only the mail from San Antonio. Right now, he had no outstanding orders so the northbound stage held little interest.
He carried the finished chair toward the back of his shop and placed it in line with the other three. Only a moment did he spare in admiration of the tight grain of pecan wood and chair legs with a carved pattern he’d worked on the new lathe. Then he moved to a nearby shelf storing his lumber selections. Always striving for faster ways to finish his orders, he’d pre-cut the seats, backs, and legs for the set of six. He picked up a cut round to take back to his work bench. First, he’d—
The door opened with a whoosh. “What are you running, Shipley? A sweepstakes of some kind?” Henry Demmon swung a small leather bag imprinted with ‘Property of United States Mail’ off his shoulder. The stage guard’s blue handkerchief hung under his bearded chin.
With a narrowed gaze, Morgan eyed the leather pouch. “What do you mean by sweepstakes?”
“Dunno. Just know all the letters in this here pouch are addressed to you. Where do you want ʼem?” Henry’s too-long hair brushed the tops of his shoulders as he tossed a look around the carpentry shop. His cheeks were still reddened from riding through the chilly air.
All? Morgan straightened and leaned a hand on the work bench for support. Mrs. Turnbull at the Bexar Bride News said he might get multiple responses to his advertisement for a mail-order bride. But an entire mail bag? That men vastly outnumbered women in most western states and territories in 1878 was a circumstance he’d witnessed. In some places, the imbalance amounted to ten or fifteen men to every woman, and in others the discrepancy numbered much higher.
“Hey, Shipley? Stage has a schedule to maintain.” Boots scraped the wooden floor as Henry shifted his stance.
“Oh, sure.” Nodding, Morgan straightened and contemplated where to store the letters. On the workbench sat a wooden tray that held his selection of oils and stains. Quickly, he emptied the bottles and tins onto the bench with a clatter, and then extended the tray toward the driver. “How about this?”
“Got anything bigger?” Henry glanced around before walking toward a small table inlaid with opposing light and dark squares. “This’ll do.” He upended the well-worn satchel and shook out the contents.
A cascade of envelopes of various sizes and colors fluttered down and created a small mound.
The sound of a metal buckle hitting the wooden table brought Morgan out of his gawking stupor, and he winced. “Careful, Henry. That table’s for sale.” He hurried across the workroom floor, raising little puffs of sawdust, and leaned down to inspect for damage. A dent probably only he would notice. He made a mental note to add another coat of linseed oil.
“G’day, Shipley. See you again with your next supply order.” Henry pulled open the door then flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Or with the next mail delivery.”
“Thank you, Henry.” Absently, Morgan raised a hand in farewell before turning back to the letters. So many letters. He set about arranging the haphazard envelopes into some sort of order. Within a few moments, three stacks formed a line down the middle of the table—long skinny envelopes, shorter envelopes, and paper folded into fat squares.
Curiosity kept his feet planted in place. What about his ad could have engendered this volume of responses? He lifted the long envelopes and flipped through the stack, amazement growing as he noted all the locations indicated by the postal cancellation mark—New York, Massachusetts, Virginia, New Hampshire, Maine, Rhode Island, Vermont, Illinois, Ohio, Kentucky.
Unable to resist, he tore off the end of the top long envelope and shook out the single piece of stationery—buff with a g
old-flake border. A faint scent of lavender tickled his nose. Bold scrawling letters held the following message:
January 27, 1878
Dear Mister Shipley,
I have always wanted to travel to Texas. Raised in Boston, I am twenty-three years old, with red hair and green eyes, and am possessed of a healthy disposition. My household management skills are good as I’ve been keeping house and raising my six younger brothers and sisters for the past five years. Now that Father has remarried, life in our six-room apartment has become a bit crowded.
I am most anxious to turn my attentions to a home of my own. To this end, I have spent every spare moment away from chores adding items—linens, towels, doilies—to my wedding chest. I’ve heard everything is bigger in Texas, and I am anxious to decorate a large house with many bedrooms. As a master carpenter, you must make some beautiful furniture that I can’t wait to see.
I so look forward to your response.
Sincerely,
Miss Imogene Franklin
Morgan rubbed a hand over his chin, hearing the rasp of stubble that he hadn’t had time to shave this morning. Re-reading the line about decorating a home, he pictured his room at Treadwells’ Boardinghouse. Sufficient for his needs, it held a bed, bureau, washstand, his trunk, and a small table with a chair. Not much space to decorate. He picked up the next letter, noticing the words marched across the page like soldiers, as if a ruler was used while writing.
January 28, 1878
Dear Mister Shipley,
You neglected to include your church-going habits in your advertisement. I am a good Christian woman interested only in a pious man who lives by the tenets of the Bible and who won’t come home stinking of cigars or whiskey. I have a small inheritance that I bring to this union. For my part, I’ve been told I’m a reliable sort, and I know my way around the kitchen. My household will be kept clean and tidy.
If you are not a Godly man, don’t bother to reply.
Cordially,
Miss Hortense Bottomly
Could someone feel a reprimand from the written word? With a shudder, he dropped that one as soon as he finished and went on to the next envelope. The handwriting was crude and on cheap paper.
1/29/78
Dear Mister Shiply,
Please consider me as a wife. I am short but have strong arms. I work as a washerwoman. Yer clothes will be cleen and repared. My hair is red, my eyes is blue, and I have freckles.
I’m not much for books, but I can read and write good enuf. I cook okay.
Doreen MacDonnell, widow
P.S. My daughter Abigail is almost three years.
Slow steps carried him to the work bench, and he dropped onto a leather-padded stool. Only three letters opened, and already he had in mind the type of woman he didn’t want. Not too eager, or too religious, or uneducated. Reading through the remainder could prove to be quite an education. Maybe he should start a list.
Heavy footsteps stamped outside the door a moment before it opened, bringing in the fresh scent and pattering sounds of a rainstorm.
Morgan jerked around toward the front window and stared at the water falling onto the already muddy street. When did the rain start?
“Afternoon, Morgan.” Fitz Saunders removed his hat and shook it to the side, flinging water droplets to the floor.
A good customer like this rancher was always a welcome visitor. “Good day, Fitz.” Morgan stood and moved to block the game table, the correspondence making him feel defensive. “How can I help you today?”
The dark-haired man stepped close and glanced at the remaining stacks of envelopes. “Pulling postal duty to help out the Othmanns?”
“Believe it or not, these here”—he waved at the table and then toward the bench—“and those are all responses from women wishing to be mail-order brides.”
Grinning, Fitz ran a hand through his hair then chuckled. “All those, huh? Quite a group of letters.”
“Did you have this type of response?” Before him stood the first man he knew who’d entered into such an arrangement to gain a wife. From the times Morgan had seen Fitz with his wife, Tavia, and the orphaned girl who’d created their instant family, he judged the marriage seemed to be doing well.
“No, but I was faced with a short deadline.” A frown tightened his lips into a straight line, and he shook his head. “No need to go into my situation. I had Mrs. Turnbull preselect her three best matches that fit my requirements.”
That would have been a helpful tip when first the men talked about this mail-order bride business a couple of months earlier. Morgan held tight to his frustration. Plus, this man seeking a bride had been a different type of candidate—a rancher with a nice house to offer a woman. “I see. Well, I know how I’ll be spending my evenings for a while.” He gave a rueful chuckle. His mind raced with the complications all these letters brought. But he clasped his hands in front of his body and put on his best proprietor expression. “Now, what can I do for you today?”
“Tavia wants to order a small chest for storing little Angela’s outgrown clothes.” Fitz dug a hand into his shirt pocket and drew out a slip of paper. “Here, she wrote down some specifics.”
Morgan accepted the sheet and glanced over the requirements. “Measurements, fittings, type of wood, design for the lid. All very thorough.” He glanced at Fitz and nodded. “I can have this completed within ten days or so.”
“No real hurry. My wife likes being prepared.” Fitz tapped a finger on the closest stack. “You know…I heard a couple of the cowhands at the Star S complaining about the lack of single women in Dorado. Must be other bachelors on surrounding ranches who feel the same way.” He looked up and scratched his chin. “Why not share the bounty? Pass along the letters from those women who don’t interest you.”
At first, Morgan wanted to decry the suggestion. His ad had provided the specifics about who he was as a person, the fact he owned his own business, and a few details of what he had to offer, and these women responded in good faith. But a glance at the big stacks reminded him he couldn’t possibly respond to them all. Not to mention any more that might arrive in subsequent days. “That is a right fine idea, Fitz.” He extended his hand and gave a grateful handshake.
Their business concluded, the men said goodbye, and Morgan followed Fitz to the door, standing where he could watch the rain dancing in the thick muddy puddles.
Maybe, just maybe, he could help other men who were in the same lonely situation. He’d sorted the piles based on envelope size. Couldn’t he as easily sort the letters based on the type of woman? Although he couldn’t be called any kind of expert on what woman would suit which man. Over the past year, he’d witnessed two of the Treadwell women fall in love with men under the boardinghouse roof. Maisie and Dylan started out as adversaries. Accidentally causing Dylan’s ankle injury, Maisie was tossed into the role of caretaker but within only a few days, the couple resolved their differences. They’d cut quite a swath at last year’s Valentine’s dance.
In the summertime, the quiet blacksmith and the lively cook had suddenly stopped giving each other furtive glances and started talking. Now they spent almost every evening in the sitting room side-by-side on the divan. Their winter wedding had surprised no one. Ivey had even cajoled Berg into adding his rich baritone to the Saturday sing-alongs. Plus Morgan had received a commission to build a sturdy chair for the large man’s use.
What Morgan needed to expand his business was a contract to provide furniture to a storefront in a larger city. With a steady, rather than sporadic, supply of orders, he’d be in a better position to provide for a wife. And maybe hire an assistant to help with the menial tasks.
Memories of his holiday visit to the family home in Fredericksburg flashed through Morgan’s head. The subtle hints he’d endured from his mother about marriage. The ribbing he took from his older half-brothers. The frank reminder from his father that the loan Morgan received for the start-up of his carpentry shop would come due at the end of the year.
A “spontaneous” visit at suppertime of his sister, Betia’s, friend, Dorothea, and how she’d sent him calf-eyed looks all through the meal. He shuddered at a horrible thought and raked a hand through his hair. Would providing this service to the ranch hands make him a matchmaker?
Chapter Three
To Sunday’s meeting of the gymnastics club, along with the bag for his clothes, Morgan carried a leather satchel. Inside were the packets of letters he’d decided weren’t right for his needs. Over the past several days, he’d reviewed all the correspondence from the first delivery, as well as the nineteen additional letters that arrived on subsequent days. The majority of the correspondents sounded honest and forthright in their responses. For that fact alone, he wanted to share the unexpected bounty with his bachelor friends.
Tied with leather thongs, the letters had been divided into four categories: women possessing a dowry; women with a pious nature; women who’d bring no money but had formal schooling; and women without a dowry who’d labeled themselves as skilled workers. He’d even sequestered himself in his room in the evenings to evaluate the merits of each letter and applicant, working to preselect the best fits for those in his acquaintance.
Participating with the athletic club reminded him of youthful athletics performed with his older half-brothers. His mother’s late first husband, Conrad, believed in males staying fit and instilled those habits in his sons. The movement of men coming together for these specific athletic events was founded more than sixty years earlier by Friedrich Ludwig Jahn, often labeled turnvater or father of gymnastics. The Dorado town founders had also followed Jahn’s teachings, and a tall open building called Turner Hall stood at the south end of Third Street.
Carpentry wasn’t an athletic profession, not like lumberjacking or being a cowhand. The hours spent in exercise each week kept his body trim. Morgan enjoyed putting himself through various routines on the swinging rings, the pommel horse, parallel bars, and the tumbling mat. From where he stood on the polished oaken floor, he could see other members arriving and doing knee bends, thigh lunges, and sideways stretching to loosen their muscles. He preferred warming up by tossing a pair of wooden pins into the air and catching them. Starting with the one-pound pins, he worked up to the five-pound ones over the span of fifteen minutes.
Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8) Page 2