by Sierra Rose
She knew only that, at the end of each day, she marked another X on the February calendar above her Gazette desk, and the date was fast approaching when she must either fish or cut bait.
1871 February 2
Dear Mr. Ualraig,
Thank you for your letter, and for your apology, both of which I have accepted
unequivocally. Perhaps I ought not speak of this right now, but I must confess to
being under some strain about our arrangement. A certain amount of doubt as to
any enterprise is probably understandable; and I am writing of my concerns, not to
completely renege on what has been planned, but to let you know my feeling
in the matter. Possibly we might spend more time getting better acquainted,
instead of rushing to finalize plans for marriage. I appreciate your patience,
and, as always, I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the matter.
Respectfully,
Hannah Burton
1871 February 6
My dear Miss Burton,
Your letter has taken me quite aback. While it is true that neither of us has
made promises to the other as far as our intended wedding, I frankly expected
that, upon my arrival in your town, we could begin discussions as to actually
setting a date for the ceremony. This sudden talk of delay, postponement, or
even cancellation greatly concerns me—nay, it displeases me. Dare I suggest
that you are acting out of fear of the unknown? That you are not the intrepid, courageous lady as indicated in your earlier correspondence but are instead
having second thoughts? Cold feet, as it were. I wonder if perhaps your attitude
is being influenced by others.
At any rate, I shall be with you within the next week or so, and at that time we can
formally plight our troth. In my lights, your letters have evidenced the wish for marital
union with me, and I truly do plan to hold you to your promise.
Resolutely yours,
Ualraig
Hannah couldn’t help being struck, at first, how quickly her local postal service was able to deliver these epistles, both to him and to her. Had sending the mail c/o her newspaper something to do with the speed? Given his diction and fluent, fluid style of writing, she had assumed that Ualraig resided somewhere far distant, in some metropolitan city such as Chicago or New York.
Was it possible her would-be suitor lived in a nearby town, a nearby state, with access himself to the convenience of a post office box? Dallas, perhaps. Or just over the border into the Town of Shreveport, Louisiana?
Quickly following upon that thought came another.
Because here was a surprise. Its tone entirely different from his earlier, breezy bits of communication, this letter sounded almost angry. Snappish. How dare she consider altering plans, when he had already (apparently) made his?
Hannah considered that. Surely, at this date, she retained the right to change her mind. Should she take offense at his high-handedness? That in itself was enough to call off the whole shebang, wasn’t it? If this were his attitude pre-matrimony, what would he be like, this overbearing Ualraig, when she had spoken her vows to obey? Or should she feel flattered that he was so determined upon fulfillment of their (as yet unsigned) marital contract?
“Oh, Mimi, I am so torn. So confused,” she confessed to the cat sprawled in utter heaven across the afghan on her knees. “Now I regret even setting these wheels in motion, because I don’t know what to do. Any suggestions?”
Sleepily blinking her great gold eyes, Mimi yawned and stretched out a front paw edged in nails sharp as scimitar blades. No, she had no suggestion. Other than to take a nap.
Her caretaker let out a helpless snort of laughter. “Some advisor you are. Yes, I agree, sleeping on a problem is sometimes the best answer. Except...”
Except that her night would be spent in restless back-and-forths, and poor—if any—sleep, until she had responded to this most recent post.
1871 February 10
Dear Mr. Ualraig,
It is to be hoped that you receive this letter before you set off on your journey to
Turnabout, as you may want to consider making a different decision about our
proposed marriage. Just as I am. I should hate for you to travel so far only to have
your plans go awry at the end. A postponement certainly seems in order. In fact, the
more I learn about you through correspondence, the more I lean toward cancellation entirely. I must thank you for your dedication and wish you all the best for the future.
With appreciation,
Hannah Burton
There. It was done. With a little shiver, she addressed her letter and set it aside for the morrow’s jaunt to the post office. At least, after this final notification, she wouldn’t have to endure the clerk’s usual knowing smirk every time she entered the place and asked for stamps.
Would she ever try this experiment again? Who could say? Once burned, twice shy. And she knew only that she had felt increasingly uncomfortable throughout the duration of her long-distance affair with the elusive Mr. Ualraig. Flushed with fever or blue with chills, headaches, nervousness, innards often in a roil: what was the point of going on? Had her sisters felt similar symptoms during their mail order courtships? Or had they been emotionally able to combat and surmount any sense of inadequacy or anxiety?
No matter. Having put the issue to rest, so could she rest, as well. Somewhat.
Three days later, a telegram was delivered to the newspaper office, only because Hannah happened to be there at the time. The name listed on the message showed to be hers.
“Well, you gonna open it?” demanded Oliver Crane. He had just straightened from stuffing a few more handfuls of kindling into the stove, and was now exhibiting unusual interest in an event from which he should have been excluded.
“Uh. Yes.” The pulpy yellow paper lay on her desk, waiting for attention, like a cobra poised to strike. “When I’m ready.”
Oliver shrugged. “Makes no never-mind to me, Miss Burton. But, you understand, it could be somethin’ important.”
Oh, she’d guess it was probably quite important. And she could also guess from whom it had been sent. This could only be bad news being conveyed, and she dreaded having to read it. Hannah was able to contain her own curiosity until noon, when Mr. Crane, surrendering, left for the usual two-hour dinner, with his newspaperman’s nosiness unappeased.
Even then, she hesitated, prolonging a moment she felt reluctant to broach.
Finally, with trembling fingers, she unfolded the missive.
Do nothing. Go nowhere. On my way.
Chapter Thirteen
“YOU, MY FRIEND, ARE on what one calls the horns of a dilemma,” opined Abigail that evening.
Here it was, Monday night, and Hannah had had no intention of letting an outsider know what was—due to her own demented scheme—creating such havoc in her existence. It was shameful, in a way, and she was embarrassed that she had gotten herself into such a fix. But the sky was dark, with but a few lonely stars peeking through cloud cover, and the air was chill but edged with a promise of warmth, and she was feeling overwhelmed.
Her route to Mrs. McKnight’s boarding house led conveniently right past the Table. Mellow candle flame and lamp light, set upon tables and hanging from an overhead chandelier, beckoned to the weary passerby, “Come inside”; someone was strumming softly on a guitar, and the spicy scents of ginger and cinnamon issued forth as an extra draw. Almost involuntarily, she found her feet taking her up the two steps and through the oak and beveled glass door into the rooms that never failed to enchant.
Enough customers / guests were milling about, here and there, for Abigail to consider any purchases as a success day of selling. One woman was sorting through the hand-milled French soaps; another had decided to try on bracelets, in all their sparkling glory; tw
o others, seated in the parlor, were sipping tea from the shop’s finest cups and enjoying a few minutes of gossip.
“Well, did someone important die and no one told me about the funeral?” came Abigail’s quizzical greeting. She was, as usual, dressed in one of her most expensive outfits, a prim and proper black velvet overlaid by intricate pure white lace.
Hannah snorted. She was tired. She was dejected. She was ready, for no reason that could be ascertained, to drag herself home for a good cry.
Her hostess looked her up and down. “M’h’m. Come with me, my dear. I have just the thing.”
“Just the thing” turned out to be a retreat set up in Abigail’s private office, with a half-cup of steaming oolong finished off by a good helping of rich brown Cognac.
“Oh,” said Hannah after a sip. Her eyes widened.
“Tasty, yes? Here, have a bit more.”
By the time her cup had been emptied, Hannah’s eyes were not only still widened but slightly glazed, and both cheeks wore a brilliant patch of pink. “My goodness.” She was wielding her napkin as fan, to bring forth a cooling current of air. “I feel better already.”
“I thought you might,” said Abigail with a knowing smile. “Just don’t let this sort of thing become a habit. I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for your making nightly rounds of all the saloons in town. Now. Want to talk about it?”
The liquor loosened her tongue. It was a good thing, Hannah thought, much later, coming so belatedly to herself, that she had had no family secrets or political scandals to reveal. She opened her mouth, and, unrestrained, the words simply flowed out like a freshet.
After she had finally emptied herself of the whole sordid story, Abigail merely sat and digested what she had been told. Then had come the comment about horns of a dilemma.
“Have you made a decision as to what you’ll do with this unwelcome suitor when he arrives on—well, it’s to be any day now, isn’t it?”
“Yes. No,” confessed Hannah miserably. “I mean, no decision. I suppose I could leave town.”
“Uh-huh. And you can afford that, can you?”
Her posture slumped. “Not at all. Nor would I have any idea where to go. May I have some more tea, please?”
Abigail shrewdly eyed her guest. “Certainly. Without the addition this time, I’m thinking. I”ve no wish to have gossip bruited about as to why one of my lady friends needed transport home after visiting here. Bad for business, you know. Not to mention your reputation. So, you’ll just hide in your room until this wonderful inamorato gets tired of waiting for you to appear?”
“Nor that. I am in a quandary.”
“You certainly are. H’mmm.” Another long, slow sip of her own oolong, aided by congenial Cognac’s spirits, helped her consider possibilities. “Are you afraid of meeting him, Hannah?”
“Afraid? Noooo... Embarrassed, more than anything.”
“How so?”
Squirming in her plush upholstered chair like a child due for verbal discipline, Hannah struggled to answer. “I suppose because—well, I was the one who initiated our—um—mail order courtship. I was the one who answered Ualraig’s advertisement. I was the first to write. I was the one who kept probing for information.”
“Speaking as one who has been through your experience, I can certainly sympathize.”
“I wanted—I wanted courtship, to have a gentleman pursue me, instead of the other way around. Now—well, I simply want this to be over and done with!”
“Oh, Hannah, honey.” Abigail looked stricken. “But this Ualraig fellow could hardly court you, or pursue you, until he’s actually here, could he?”
“No.” A small voice, a sad, regretful voice. “No.”
Reaching one hand across the miniscule tabletop to clasp and hold her guest’s limp, upcurled fingers, Abigail attempted to return a sense of lightness (for which mood the Table’s reputation was becoming famous) to the moment. “Well, then, give him a chance. Maybe you’ll feel entirely differently when he arrives and spends time with you. You might be pleasantly surprised, instead of scrambling about in the doldrums. We women are tough, remember; we’re built for fortitude.”
“Yes, I certainly concur with that.”
“Are you prepared to meet him?”
“I only wish that—well, at any rate, when he finally insisted upon coming here, so that we could meet and—um—marry...the prospect of actually bringing to fruition what I’d set in motion—well, it terrifies me, Abby. It just plain terrifies me!”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I feel this way! He is literally a stranger. As if I—as if I were trapped, caught in a snare like some poor victimized rabbit fated for the stewpot, and I can’t escape, whatever I try.”
“H’mmm.” Again, she paused to reflect, in an effort to help her friend break free of this maze of emotion in which she was foundering. “Are you so violently opposed to marriage in general, or just this particular one, to a stranger?”
The slight shiver seemed to begin at the toes of Hannah’s neat black boots and work its way up, through bent knees, through rigid spine, through stiffened shoulders. “I—I’m not sure. I only know that I—I’d like to go back to where I was, a few months ago, before I even conceived this fool idea.”
Abigail, chuckling, refilled their cups from the pot with its clever tea cozy. “Oh, yes, wouldn’t it be a blessing if we could simply erase all the things we’ve done wrong in our lifetimes, and have a chance to re-do. But, then, my dear Hannah, we would never learn from our mistakes, would we?”
“Huh. I can’t see what I’m learning from this one.”
“Can’t you? Well, perhaps, somewhere in the future, you will. Meanwhile, would you like some moral support when this brave, resolute husband-to-be rides into town on his white charger?”
Hannah managed a reluctant smile. “How poetic you are, Abby. No, I’ve gotten myself into this mess, and I’ll have to get myself out of it. But thank you for your offer. And thank you for listening. It’s amazing how much it helps, just being able to talk out a problem.”
“That’s what we women do best. And so Ualraig is due here on Wednesday?”
“Not exactly that day. Somewhere around it, though. He’s to let me know once he arrives. And I believe he’ll be coming in by stage, not by horseback.”
For a moment Abigail studied the unhappy girl, nearly twenty years her junior, and the woebegone expression on her face. “Things will work out,” she offered gently. “Perhaps not always in the way we want, but things will work out. Trust me.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. For me, personally, I don’t see how matters could get worse.”
“Certainly they could always get worse. You could be forced to marry Abel Norton, at the stable, and bear him a passel of babies.”
They shared a spurt of laughter, and more tea. After a few minutes, Hannah, with a word of apology for keeping Abigail so long from her other guests, made motions to gather up her gear.
“You attended the town council meeting in January, didn’t you?” Abigail stopped her with this question, out of the blue.
“I did, indeed. And wrote an article for the Gazette. Rancorous doesn’t describe it!” Hannah shook her head at the memory. “Ben could hardly keep order, once the fights broke out; it became a near-brawl, and for a while I hid behind the coat rack. One member actually resigned in protest, and stormed out the door.”
“All because some businessman is trying to set up a sawmill outside of town?”
“Sounds like a silly thing to battle about, doesn’t it? Some want it, others hate the idea.”
“But why the argument? It seems that would be a worthy and viable undertaking all around, providing employment and bringing traffic and increased financial security to the town.”
Hannah, reaching for her coat and hat, shrugged. “Apparently it’s all about location. Howard Cutter, who gave up his seat, lives very near where the sawmill would be est
ablished, and is already complaining about noise and dust even before plans have been finalized.”
“H’mmm.” Abigail’s index finger slowly circled the rim of her beautiful cup. “Well, I shall give you a tidbit for your newspaper, Hannah. A scoop—isn’t that what it’s called? I intend to put my name forward so that I can replace that angry council member.”
“You’re what?” Her movements slowed as she stared at her companion. “But, Abby—is that allowed?”
“I have no idea.” Blue eyes crinkled with amusement, she tilted her head, with its shining coronet of gold curls, slightly sideways. “We’ll certainly find out, won’t we?”
If she had had any to begin with, all the wind would have been taken out of Hannah’s sails by this announcement. She collapsed back into her chair, shocked, amazed, and incredulous. A woman, attempting to be seated with those other tunnel-visioned members of the town council—the nerve! The bravado! The sheer, unmitigated gall!
“That would prove the town to be forward-thinking, at least,” said Hannah slowly, ruminating. “If only you might be elected—”
“After all, I am a business owner, and a successful one, if I do say so myself,” Abigail continued, letting her announcement sink in while Hannah somewhat dazedly digested the words. “I know what is expected, how to manage, what needs to be done. And, confidentially, my dear, with my wealth and support I am able to wield a fair amount of influence in this town.”
“That’s—that’s true. All very true. It’s just—you’ll be dealing with men, Abby. Men who are used to a certain way of doing things, of keeping all the authority for themselves. They won’t easily accept a mere woman in their midst.”
Abigail’s smile reminded one of a cat sinking its chin into a bowl of rich sweet cream. “We’ll just have to change their minds. On behalf of all the women in Turnabout, Hannah, will you help me get started on this project?”
“Why, Abby, I’d be delighted to.” Hannah’s own crooked half-smile brought one dimple into play. “What did you have in mind?”