by Iris Kelly
The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride
MUCH ADO ABOUT MARRIAGE
Iris Kelly
THE CHEYENNE MAIL ORDER BRIDE MUCH ADO ABOUT MARRIAGE
Copyright © 2016 by Iris Kelly
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design by Rebecca Frank
Editing by Valorie Clifton
CHAPTER ONE
Boston, Massachusetts, 1881
How could Abigail Edwards be expected to keep silent? The dinner conversation had turned to the shameful beatings and jailing of a handful of local suffragettes. The gentlemen assembled seemed to be of the opinion that the ladies got what they deserved.
“It sounded like a rather peaceful protest. It’s no crime to demand the vote,” Abigail declared. “They battered them like common hoodlums.”
Abigail’s husband, Jonathan Edwards, cast a cold, warning gaze at her and sipped his wine, as if to calm himself. Abigail smiled back placidly. She was becoming increasingly impatient with her husband’s efforts to silence her. It was one thing to stifle and control his own behavior. Why should her every public word be agonized over as a reflection on him? After three years of marriage, the energy to please him on that score had been thoroughly depleted.
Thus far, she had only supported the suffragettes from a distance. Going to a rally herself would be so unthinkable that it would have to join a very long list of other clandestine activities that she engaged in while her husband was at work—including going to the Museum of Art! The source of his disapproval on that institution was the inclusion of human bodies on canvas and in sculpture that were entertainingly and unabashedly naked. He judged them to be an unfit sight for feminine eyes.
He couldn’t claim the same prudish morality in keeping her away from concerts and balls, but he could ban any highly anticipated event from her life as punishment and retaliation for any of her verbal embarrassments. Abigail could only fantasize about what merciful chance occurrence was going to free her from this ill-fated union.
The next twenty-four hours would prove to be the most humiliating of her life, while at the same time, pointing her toward the only path to her salvation.
Mr. Edwards was uncommonly quiet when they returned home. Abigail was expecting a long, angry fight and was enormously relieved that it never materialized. He did give her the cold shoulder, but that was easily tolerated—a welcome bit of peace and quiet, in fact. It was a reprieve that seemed to carry through to the following morning, when she felt him get out of bed and knew that she had another luxurious two hours of sleep ahead, followed by their cook’s signature omelet, a brisk walk through Boston Common, and a soul satisfying day at the museum.
But her husband had other plans for her. As soon as she rose, she could see that a nearby table had been filled with bread and cheese, some sliced ham, and a water jug. Next to the table was a chamber pot. It was a confusing sight. But the explanation was not far behind.
He had locked her inside! Her predicament was timidly explained to her through the locked door by the maid. The house staff had been given strict instructions not to open the door under any circumstances. Abigail wheedled and bargained with them whenever she heard them pass outside the bedroom door, but to no avail. They feared for their jobs. No mercy could be expected from a man who would lock up his own wife.
Mr. Edwards rightfully expected to return home to rage and tears. Instead, Abigail was the picture of calm. Her husband could only conclude that he had finally arrived at the solution to tame the disobedience and insubordination out of her. But the tears and the rage had indeed arrived, and in full force, and had consumed much of Abigail’s day. The devastation was so complete that it could only lead to the peaceful resolve that followed. Abigail Edwards was going to leave her husband.
Divorce was no small matter in Abigail’s social circle. In fact, she had long feared and rejected the consequences of such an irreparable act. Her family would never take her back. They would be furious at the shame she had brought on them. They had already made their feelings clear on that when she had tentatively broached the topic with them.
She had no money of her own, only her gowns and jewelry. She had friends, but was grimly aware that their loyalty was to the marriage rather than to herself. It was an expectation that helped cushion the blow of the wide-scale abandonment that was to follow.
But social ostracism was a bearable burden. The suffocation of marriage was something else entirely. Abigail would, one day, look back thankfully on her day of imprisonment as the pivotal moment that finally brought her to her senses.
She didn’t lie to herself about the consequences of her actions. But she did underestimate how monumental they would turn out to be.
1885
Abigail had worked at the garment factory for almost three years. It was hard, monotonous work and the managers were generally harsh and unfeeling. She had escaped the nightmare of her marriage and replaced it with something more tolerable, yet still stifling. Her days off and her evenings off were a small slice of freedom that she had to treasure and remind herself that her lack of security would always be more preferable than being under her former husband’s thumb.
She had only encountered him three times in the past four years. The first two were to work out the details of their divorce. She was surprised that he had tried so hard to talk her into remaining in the marriage. Surely, Boston was full of docile, obedient ladies who could do a much better job of being Mrs. Edwards than she had. He should have welcomed the opportunity to trade her for a worthier model. Instead, he ranted about the scandal she was bringing on his family name. Abigail was, of course, deaf to his entreaties. She did advise him that locking his next wife up in her room would never be a wise resort.
He made his threats, as she knew he would. He wouldn’t give her a penny. She would be at the mercy of her family, if they’d help her (but he knew they wouldn’t), or she’d be out on the streets. He couldn’t overcome his disbelief at how willingly she chose a life of poverty rather than remain with him.
The last time they had seen one another was an accidental encounter in the street. The moment she saw him, Abigail resolved to be merry and carefree, for she knew that nothing would bother him more. He had hoped that life would punish her for leaving him and desperately wanted to know that she had gotten her just desserts.
“I suppose you know that I have married again,” he boasted. “She is a Tuttle—one of Boston’s finest families.”
“Ah, the Tuttles. That is exactly who I should have pictured for you. I am sure you will find satisfaction.”
“And yourself? I don’t suppose you’ve married again. None of your old friends seem to have kept up with you to say anything on the matter.”
“Marry again? Would a freed prisoner voluntarily agree to return to life behind bars? Marriage is the most pernicious institution ever to be inflicted on womankind, and I never intend to fall into its trap again. Now I hate to run, but the Museum of Art has just acquired a wonderful collection of nudes that are the talk of the town. Good day, Mr. Edwards.”
“Mrs. Edwards,” he said through gritted teeth.
“It’s Miss Norris. I have reclaimed my family name.”
Abigail left him aghast. The thought that she would cast his name aside had never occurred to him. But it had only taken her a few weeks for her to realize that she hated hearing the sound of his name all day long as she was addressed by others. It was his long shadow, following her everyw
here. What a relief to discard it, like a worn out old shawl.
There were other encounters from her old life—unavoidable, and not nearly as satisfying. As Abigail had anticipated, the mutual friends from their marriage had chosen to remain loyal to her husband’s reputation and assets. Still, it stung a bit to run into Isabel Westwood, a woman whom she had formerly counted amongst her dearest friends. It was during a stroll through Boston Commons, a green oasis, where they had encountered one another on many previous occasions. But Isabel seemed as surprised to see her as a ghost rising from the dead.
“Isabel, what a pleasure to see you again.”
“Abigail! You are . . . still in Boston.”
“Of course. Where ever else would I be?”
“I thought perhaps that you might not want to . . . or, that is to say, that you might want to avoid . . . well, you know, there’s always such unpleasant talk about. My dear, I have to advise you, for your own good, that you might be more comfortable away from so many reminders of the past. I am sorry to tell you that there are few who are sympathetic to your actions. That is simply a fact of our society. It might be better for all concerned if you were to seek a fresh start elsewhere.”
“All concerned? Besides Jonathan and my family, I’m not sure who else should be greatly affected.”
But she knew, without being told, that even this brief meeting was a closer proximity to scandal than her old friend could bear. What easy, frivolous conversations they used to share. And now, how urgently her old confidante wanted to be rid of her company. Abigail obliged her with a fictitious appointment that necessitated a hasty departure. It was fitting to have the door closed so resoundingly on her old life.
The sale of Abigail’s jewelry would provide about three years’ worth of living expenses. But at the end of that first year, she knew that she had to seek an income. She, an upper class lady, who had lived around servants both growing up and in her marriage. She had no training for any practical profession. She could play the piano and embroider exquisitely—that was the total of her marketable talents.
And so she wound up in a dreary sewing factory. Though she continually told herself that she no longer cared what her former circle thought of her, it was so lowly a position that it gave her some comfort that none of them knew about it.
Her new cohorts were quick to sniff out that she was not really one of them. They rightly suspected that she had committed some unspeakable infraction and had been cast out from her upper crust haven. It was close enough to the truth. She did come to appreciate the abundant candor outside the stuffiness of the class she had spent her life around.
One particularly fascinating new friend had been Beatrice, a former maid who lived in Abigail’s boardinghouse. She got a job at Abigail’s workplace but was destined for better things. She became a mail order bride to an ambitious Cheyenne lawyer. Soon after, Molly, a mutual friend of theirs, also found a mail order destiny in Cheyenne.
As harsh as her judgment was regarding the institution of marriage, Abigail couldn’t deny that her two friends, by all accounts, seemed wonderfully happy, so she could only be happy for them. But not for a moment did she believe that her salvation would lie along the same path. She had to acknowledge that there was something in her personality, in her soul, that rebelled at the ownership and servitude that seemed such an integral part of that flawed institution. Abigail wouldn’t let the happiness of others blind her to her own incompatibility with the marital state.
Still, the dramatic departures of Beatrice and Molly from their common workplace had caused a flurry of speculation and hope in many of the remaining workers. Realizing that other women could find real security and comfort where she herself could not, Abigail lent her assistance to several of her coworkers who hoped to follow in Beatrice and Molly’s footsteps. Abigail would read the marital advertisements from several publications every week, and when she came across a good prospect, she would bring it to the attention of one of these potential brides.
Two more girls had actually found promising grooms due to her efforts. Abigail could only laugh to herself as her insufferable employers watched another two workers head for greener pastures. Literally. One of them was going to live in a green pasture. The other one was going to be wife to a store owner. Either situation was preferable to the unforgiving monotony of factory work.
To counteract the dispiriting effect of the job on her own spirits, Abigail tried to befriend as many people as she could in her boardinghouse. There was a piano in the large parlor, which she spent some time at almost every evening, and the entertainment she provided was always much appreciated. At first, she only had classical selections to offer. But to humor the other boarders, she taught herself a number of sprightly, toe-tapping dancing tunes. It was hard to remain in a bad mood after a loud, merry evening of dance.
And then there were the evenings and occasional afternoons of card games. She had found a half-dozen other women, from both work and home, who were always up for a good game. Whist, Stud, Faro . . . they played every game under the sun. It was particularly amusing to play the “men’s” games that proliferated at the local taverns. Not that they played for serious money, but it was still exhilarating competition and fun conversation.
It was not a bad life. Abigail was alternately grateful and happily occupied, but at times, she was also restless and bored and unable to shake the question—is this all my life will ever be, and is it enough? Surely, it was pointless to even ask. Why stoke dissatisfaction when life offered no alternatives?
CHAPTER TWO
Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, 1885
Sebastian Knight was an important figure in Cheyenne society. But important is not the same thing as popular. Sebastian was the owner and Editor in Chief of the city’s largest newspaper, The Cheyenne Chronicle. While many of the other local papers contented themselves with fifty to eighty percent advertising filling their pages, Sebastian wanted a newspaper filled with truly significant and hard hitting news of the day. Every city has its seamier side, and he felt honor-bound to uncover it and keep the public informed about the place they had chosen to call home.
It was a mission that often put him at odds with the local powers that be. If they were engaged in any wrongdoing, he never allowed himself to be swayed by their status. Oftentimes, Sebastian or one of his reporters had been solicited by a business owner to promote their business, only to find some of their less praiseworthy business practices splashed across The Chronicle’s front page. Anyone who had secrets to hide generally steered clear of Sebastian.
As he strolled down the Main Street sidewalk, he crossed paths with one of Cheyenne’s more infamous citizens, whose secrets Sebastian would dearly love to uncover, Zachary Scott. He owned The Double Whiskey Saloon, one of the most successful brothels in town. It wasn’t just the unsavory nature of Zachary’s business that aroused Sebastian’s interest. Brothels proliferated in every Western town and were accepted as a necessary evil.
It was that Sebastian couldn’t shake the conviction that other dark forces were afoot in Zachary’s establishment. It was a magnet for the lowlifes and fugitives who passed through town. Cheating at card games was a frequent occurrence, and rumors continually swirled about the proprietor himself. Little was known of his background, but anyone who knew Zachary Scott for more than a minute could easily assume a checkered past.
But the law authorities and the press had never been able to pin anything on him, despite their best efforts—a fact that gave him no small amount of glee.
“Well if it ain’t Newspaper Man,” Zachary boomed. “Today is your lucky day. We have a special sale goin’ just for members of the press. You can have any girl in here for half-price. Now that is an offer no smart man can refuse.”
Sebastian would not be goaded. “That’s awfully generous. Sounds like business is good.”
“I got the prettiest girls, the cheapest beer, and the best games in town. You look like a lucky fella to me. Maybe you’d like
to try a few hands of Faro. Some fellas have won enough to sit pretty for the rest of their days.”
“No one has ever accused me of being lucky. Only tenacious.” And with a nod of the head, he took his leave of Zachary.
Zachary smirked. He knew Sebastian would love to be a fly on the wall in his saloon. So would Sheriff Johnson and Deputy Harper. But he prided himself that his place was a refuge for lawlessness, an untouchable haven from judgment and punishment—both for himself and his clientele.
And yet, despite the unsavory reputation of his business, Zachary did have some notions about developing a more respectable reputation in Cheyenne. After all, he had grown a prosperous business. It was high time folks started giving him his due.
Sebastian hoped to reach his office without any further aggravation. Instead, he ran into one of his journalistic competitors, Rufus Downs, who was delighted to gloat about a story his paper had broken that he knew Sebastian hadn’t been able to get. Sebastian didn’t want to give him any satisfaction.
“Excellent job on the bigamy story,” Sebastian said.
“That’s right. You tried to speak to her yourself, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I did,” Sebastian admitted. “But Mrs. Sherman was understandably embarrassed to reveal the details of her humiliation. I was . . . surprised that you were able to win her confidence.”
“Oh, that was the easiest thing of all,” Mr. Downs bragged. “I sent my sister to speak to her, and Mrs. Sherman was relieved to be able to commiserate with another poor woman who had been victimized by Mr. Sherman’s unfathomable greed.”
Sebastian had neither a sister nor a female reporter to have even toyed with such a questionable tactic. “That is skirting a fine line.”
“I sold more papers that day than I did the rest of the week combined. Which is to say, quite a tidy little profit. And the distributors back east have already taken notice. The orders that have come in—”