by Iris Kelly
“My hearty congratulations,” Sebastian said with gritted teeth.
He watched Downs swagger down the street, and Sebastian continued to his office, lost in thought. A bigamist with eight wives—it would indeed have been a prize story. Particularly seeing as how Mr. Sherman was not alone in his immoral tendencies. It was a cautionary tale for ladies everywhere on scrutinizing potential mates. And it certainly was the kind of story that would have enlarged his eastern sales base. Badly needed income, if he was ever to expand the paper’s reach and status.
As he made his way past half a dozen day shift employees, he dispatched orders and answered questions as expediently as possible and was relieved to find himself in the solitude of his office—as good a place to brood as any. Whenever he felt himself to be unreasonably grouchy, he took pains not to subject anyone else to his irrational mood.
Sebastian knew that his irritable disposition owed more than a little to his most recent encounter with his father, who lived in Denver. Jeremiah Knight was in failing health, but his mental faculties and manipulative talents were as sharp as ever.
“It’s about time I got my affairs in order,” he had declared, examining Sebastian closely. “I’ve always thought I was creating some real security to pass on to my family. But where’s all my hard work going to end up? I can’t leave a dime of it to Phillip. We both know where it would end up.”
Sebastian nodded. His young brother, Phillip, was the gambler of the family. There was no amount of money he could be given that wouldn’t be squandered in a year’s time. Probably less.
“And you,” his father continued. “Bad enough you wouldn’t take a place at the factory. Had to start that paper of yours.”
“It appears to be where my aptitudes lie.”
“But you didn’t even start a family. Thirty-three years old, and you haven’t brought a single new Knight into the world.”
“My responsibilities are too demanding, as you well know. So were yours, truth be told. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t have married and had children. I’m rather glad that you did. But running a large business can be very hard on . . . a man’s wife.”
Sebastian did not want to say more, though he had long resented the neglect his mother had been subjected to. She’d had to find solace in her two young sons and the creature comforts that her husband provided. His actual presence became a very scarce thing, particularly in the final years before her death. Jeremiah was busy building a leather goods business that produced on a large factory scale. It had made him wealthier than any previous generation of the Knight family.
Sebastian could admire his father’s accomplishments on the one hand, and on the other, he could see that this type of high ambition was incompatible with fulfilling the obligations of family. It was unfair, particularly to a wife, and he had long ago decided he would never put himself or a woman in that pitiable situation.
Like his father, Sebastian had chosen career over family. He was just determined that no one should ever suffer for that choice. Marriage was out of the question.
“And when you die, where’s it all going to go? Your business. My money. You ever give that any thought?”
“I can’t say that my thoughts have travelled that far.”
“Well, mine have. How’s your business doing?”
“Well enough. I’m quite proud of the work we put out. Still, I do have hopes for something even larger.”
“Bet you could use a little extra money then?”
Sebastian shrugged.
“And you thought you’d just wait till I die, and then you can do whatever you want with all my savings.”
“Certainly not. I do not base my business plans on your demise, which I hope is not for a good, long while.”
Oh, it’ll be soon enough. So the doctor tells me. No, it’s not likely I’ll be here this time next year. But I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I’m leaving my money for the continuance of the Knight family name. It will be yours, and all yours, but only if you get married before I die. Otherwise, I have left explicit instructions in my will that the money be passed on to my cousin, Cecily’s, children. At least they’ve got Knight blood in there somewhere, even if the name is lost.”
It was an ultimatum that left Sebastian speechless. Temporarily.
“You want me to marry some poor woman in order to claim my rightful inheritance? And then what?”
“Have babies, of course,” the elder Mr. Knight sighed. How could his eldest son be so bright and so dense the same time?
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“What I know is that every man I know of my age has grandchildren and the comfort of knowing his name will still be alive after he’s gone. And by the way, I’m not asking. I’m letting you now. This is what I intend to do—with my money.”
It was such a blatantly manipulative move. Sebastian was certain that his friends would agree. Lewis Carlyle was one such friend. They had found common ground owing to Lewis’s former ownership of a Denver newspaper. But now, he repeatedly turned down Sebastian’s offers of employment, insisting that the demands of the position would keep him away for too long from his two favorite ladies, his wife, Virginia, and his daughter, Felicity.
Still, when Sebastian ran into Lewis in the mercantile with daughter in tow, he hoped to find a sympathetic ear for his infuriating predicament. No such luck.
“I thought you said you had a problem. This is not a problem. An inheritance is a good thing. And a wife is an indispensable thing,” Lewis enthused.
“I do very well without one,” Sebastian countered.
“After you get married, you will judge your current state of contentment very differently.”
“I have no intention of getting married. After all, have you not said repeatedly that it is marriage that holds you back from a wholehearted devotion to career?”
“That isn’t entirely accurate. I take a great interest in career. But . . .”
Lewis hoisted three-year-old Felicity onto his shoulders, who squealed with glee. Sebastian shook his head, but he couldn’t deny—he had never seen a happier man.
“I will not let career infringe on greater priorities. You are a good friend, Sebastian, and I wish you the best life has to offer. For that reason, I am obliged to root for your father.”
“Hmmph. Go home to your wife, Lewis.”
Lewis grinned. “Gladly.”
“My regards to her and little Samuel. How old is he now?”
“One month. And he has unwisely decided to stay up all night making loud noises and then sleep the afternoon away.”
“Another argument for bachelorhood.”
Now, in the refuge of his office, Sebastian was still fuming angrily at the position that his father was putting him in. Of course, he could ignore it and soldier on with his paper’s limited budget and accept that it might be another decade before he could make a significant expansion. Or . . . or what?
Marry some woman and then leave her for twelve hours a day while he tended to the needs of his business? To miss one supper after another? To ignore her tears and resentment in favor of professional glory? And then, there would be children—who he would have no time to play with. What a hardened ogre he would have to turn into.
Unless . . . was it even possible to find a woman who was free of these emotional expectations? Who would be content with a roof over her head and some general security? How to even locate such a rare creature, and how to be sure that she would never regret entering into such a half-hearted marriage? He had friends in town who had found their wives by advertising for them. Could he do the same?
But what would motivate her? He was going to receive a substantial inheritance, enabling a multitude of new opportunities for his business. What could he use to entice a woman while being perfectly truthful that he had no emotional sustenance or companionship to offer?
What about money? If she was going to make his inheritance possible, she was certainly entitl
ed to a generous share, say . . . ten percent—perhaps fifteen—for her own private discretionary spending. He’d have to give it some thought.
That would still leave him with plenty of resources. His top priority was hiring more reporters, skillful interviewers, and investigators. And for heaven’s sake, it would be helpful if one of them could be a woman. Sebastian didn’t want to miss out on any more stories that involved female interrogation. That’s who he should be advertising for—a female reporter—instead of agonizing over the whole wife scheme.
He dropped his head in his hands, his mind swirling with too many unresolved problems. By the time his head came up, an enticingly insane idea had taken hold. Sebastian flew out of the office. He needed fresh air to make sure he was thinking clearly.
He veered off Main Street to avoid any distracting encounters. And he thought. And he thought. Why not a female reporter and a wife all in one? The reporter role would take precedence, of course. The wife part would be properly relegated to a business transaction. She would help him to get his inheritance, and would, in due time, be compensated accordingly. They would live together in a chaste and professional manner. Like cousins.
But even though the virtues of a reporter were infinitely more of interest to him than those of a wife, he quickly saw that he could not seek an employee and then impose marriage as a condition of employment. Rather, he had to do as so many men of his acquaintance had done in recent years—advertise for a wife, with a very particular list of specifications.
Why not? Didn’t farmers insist that their catalogue brides know how to handle animals, and cook, and sew, and tend the gardens? Didn’t doctors request that their prospective brides be willing to serve as nurse, whenever required? Store owners were in need of a woman who could stock shelves, handle the cash register, and tend to customers. In that vein, he required a wife who had excellent grammatical skills, exemplary proofreading, a talent for good story composition, and was a gifted interviewer.
He would be scrupulously honest that this was not a marriage in the true sense of the word, only one of convenience. If she valued her independence and autonomy over sentimental attachment, it could turn out to be a wonderful, mutually beneficial arrangement. Or was he simply fooling himself to think that any woman would take an interest in such a peculiar offer?
CHAPTER THREE
Boston
Abigail’s jaw dropped open several times. She could hardly believe what she was reading. She was adamantly opposed to the thought of marrying again, and here was a situation that didn’t seem to resemble a marriage in any way, shape, or form.
. . . Conjugal duties will not be expected. We shall be employer and employee, living under the same roof. I shall provide completely for your comfort, and when the event of my inheritance occurs, I will be happy to extend ten percent of its cash value to you for your independent use.
Now that was intriguing. She couldn’t help but wonder exactly what that would amount to. But the real fascination was a man who wanted marriage, or at any rate needed it, with no real desire to own a wife.
And of particular interest to her was the Cheyenne location, which would reunite her with her dear friends, Beatrice and Molly. Also, the fact that she felt that she already knew this man. Because of her friends, she had become a devoted reader of The Cheyenne Chronicle—arriving in Boston some thirty days after being issued. It was still of fresh interest to her. And the editor’s articles and opinion pieces had already come to her attention, and she was very favorably impressed. She judged him to be a principled man, prompting her to write a letter to the editor the previous year.
She had to laugh though. What on earth was he thinking, to advertise for a wife in this unappetizing manner? For a moment, she thought of rewriting it and sending it back to him—LOVELESS MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE–PROOFREADING SKILLS MANDATORY. But she would hate to miscalculate his sense of humor.
Abigail almost shocked herself with the speed with which she decided to accept this outrageous offer. For not in a hundred years would she have expected to find her destiny in a catalogue of matrimonial ads. But then it was, fittingly, as peculiar as herself.
A job was exactly what she needed. Not one of endless tedium, but one involving her mind. Something that involved thinking and judgment. And the cash gift offered would be invaluable. Her current savings were modest. They would never be enough to free her from the necessity of employment. But as appealing as some aspects of the arrangement were, they resembled marriage in one unacceptable aspect. The till death do us part aspect. Abigail prepared her reply.
I don’t know if you will remember me, Mr. Knight. I wrote you over a year ago on behalf of my friend, Molly Reynolds, and am forever grateful for the editorial you wrote for her. I saw an ad in The Matrimonial Gazette. Forgive me, but your voice is familiar to me now. I am a faithful reader of your paper, and the professional position you described led me to connect you and the ad.
I can only wonder about your receiving any response besides my own. The circumstances you offer will be abhorrent to every woman in the country, save myself. I am a divorcee and have no good opinion of marriage. I had sworn to never surrender my independence again, and I can only give your offer serious consideration because it offers a professional opportunity that is effectively unavailable to women in the East.
I do have one condition if we should decide to go forward with this—that it be of limited duration. After your father is gone and your inheritance is secured, then we shall divorce, and I’m sure I shall be very pleased to remain in your employ. I can only imagine that being twice divorced will make me irretrievably unmarriageable, which suits me perfectly.
Sincere regards,
Abigail Norris
*****
Cheyenne
Sebastian had never held out any real hope that he could find a wife with his ad. It would be seen by all as the cold transaction that it was. So be it. He was compelled to present the offer in an honest manner. He had no wish to deceive or cause misery. He was bracing himself for the most likely response—which was to say, no response. He certainly could not have anticipated anything like Abigail’s proposition.
She wanted to divorce him! Not that he had any opposition to the practice. Rather, it struck him as one of society’s saving graces. Of course, he had never thought to join the ranks of the divorced himself. But perhaps he should view it as a small price to pay. Here was a way of securing his inheritance and avoiding the lifetime burdens of marriage.
What a strange character she must be, to have concocted such a stipulation. Did he dare involve himself with such an eccentric? Ultimately, the decision was made by virtues that were irresistible to any good newspaper man—good vocabulary! And impeccable grammar! He wrote back immediately to accept her terms.
*****
Abigail had always prided herself on her independence. The ostracism of her former social circle had further hardened her from relying too heavily on others, and certainly from pinning her own happiness on the actions and feelings of other people.
All of which made her as surprised as anyone when the tears began to flow at the sight of her friends, Molly and Beatrice, at the Cheyenne train station, who were both equally overjoyed to see her. They embraced like long-lost sisters.
“I think our little Cheyenne family is finally complete,” Beatrice observed happily.
“Yes,” sniffled Abigail. “But where is the rest of the family—the husbands and the babies? I think I look forward to meeting your husbands more than my own, if only because it is a far less complicated matter.”
“I’m not one to speak, because my life got very complicated the minute I got here,” Molly said. “But that was all by accident. You’re actually planning your complications. You came all the way out here to divorce someone you haven’t even married yet!”
“That’s precisely what I’ve done. Where is my future former husband, by the way?”
“You’ll have dinner with him tonight at my hous
e,” Molly said.
At that moment, a rough old cowhand walked up to them with his eyes fixated on Abigail.
“As I live and breathe—it’s you, ain’t it? You’re Flamin’ Annie, ain’t ya?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that you have me mistaken for someone else. I’m Abigail Norris, and I am new to these parts.”
“Oh, I get it. I understand you perfectly. I’ve had two or three names myself. Everybody’s entitled to keep a low profile.”
Another cowhand joined him. “Nick, you heard of Flamin’ Annie. Can you believe it? But she wants to be called somethin’ else. Norris, was it? Miss Norris is what she would like to be called at the present time.”
“I want to be called Miss Norris because it is my name. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us . . .”
“Of course, of course. And don’t you worry none. We won’t tell a soul.”
With a shushing finger gesture to his lips, he and his friend scurried away. Abigail turned to her friends in bewilderment.
“Good preparation for meeting Miss Mabel, don’t you think?” Beatrice winked at Molly.
Abigail’s eyes widened, and they laughed at her apprehension.
*****
Molly had given Abigail a detailed account of Miss Mabel, an irrepressible sixty-four-year-old woman with the temperament of a bulldog to those she didn’t know. Since Abigail got the good seal of approval from Molly, her nephew’s wife, she would give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Part of the story I don’t understand is how long you’ll be needin’ the room. You gettin’ hitched, is that right?”
“Yes, I did answer Mr. Sebastian Knight’s ad for a bride. Do you know him?”
“Sure do. I meet all kinds of fancy folk since I met these Boston ladies. Good fella. Ain’t set a date yet?”
“No. They still need to meet, which they will tonight at our place over supper,” Molly said.
“Won’t be long after that, I don’t imagine. Two weeks maybe. I know you won’t be needin’ it a whole month.”