by Iris Kelly
“Actually, Miss Mabel, if you would be so kind as to reserve the room for me indefinitely, I’m sure I’ll be very pleased to stay here even after I get married.”
“After. With him? Here?”
“No, just by myself.”
“You plannin’ on marryin’ that nice Mr. Knight . . . and livin’ here?”
“It must seem odd, I know.”
“Odd? I thought I had heard odd. You makin’ every strange thing I’ve seen look as normal as apple pie.”
“It’s a preposterous idea. Particularly, the divorce part,’ Beatrice said. “But I didn’t want to write and talk you out of it because I wanted you here so badly. And anything that could bring you here, well, we shall have to make the best of it. You are here. That’s what matters most.”
“Did I hear somethin’ about a divorce?” Miss Mabel asked.
Abigail nodded guiltily.
“Marrying a man without loving him and divorcing him without hating him,” Beatrice said. “Abigail is the only woman we know who would consider this a reasonable scheme.”
Miss Mabel shook her head as she backed toward the parlor entrance. “Hah! I had no idea my twilight years was gonna be this entertainin’.”
Soon after, Molly and Beatrice had to rush home to tend to their little ones, and Miss Mabel was able to ply Abigail with a pot of tea and interrogate her to her heart’s content.
“Cain’t say that I have all that high an opinion of marriage. It don’t work out well for a lot of us womenfolk. I couldn’t have picked a worse husband.”
“That’s how I felt. I could not have chosen someone more ill-suited, more oppressive. But even if he had been nice, there are just so many confining rules and expectations for a woman. Most women don’t seem to be excessively troubled by them, but I’ve always been a little different.”
“Well now, that makes us two peas in a pod, don’t it?”
Abigail smiled. She liked Miss Mabel more than she had anticipated. “Of course, I do still hope that he’s nice.”
Miss Mabel raised an eyebrow. “He’s a bit more than ‘nice’.”
Abigail took that to be comforting, but Miss Mabel could see trouble ahead. But best for the youngsters to figure out such things for themselves. Miss Mabel left to start the preparations for the boardinghouse supper, and Abigail took the opportunity to lie down and refresh herself before the evening. After all, it’s not every day that one gets to meet one’s next husband.
*****
Molly’s husband, Ajax Harper, came early to escort Abigail to their home. Abigail couldn’t help but be impressed by the man, who was sweet and hospitable. Their home was small and snug—perfect for a family of three. The star of the family was little Lucas Harper, all of five months old. He was chubby and bubbly and greeted Abigail like an old friend. It cheered her heart to know that now that she was in Cheyenne, she would be able to enjoy the warm company of this family over and over again.
Too soon, her tranquility was disturbed by the arrival of Mr. Sebastian Knight. Under normal circumstances, both Abigail and Sebastian would have been described by their friends as rather talkative and outgoing. But at the sight of their prospective spouse, they were mutually tongue-tied. Although they had speculated on one another’s appearance, neither had anticipated finding such a striking example of attractiveness. It was both a welcome surprise and somewhat intimidating.
After a few fumblings at polite small talk, Sebastian was able to get his bearings by way of discussions of recent criminal activity with Ajax, which gave Abigail an opportunity to observe and form an impression. She knew that they were both the same age, but she found herself surprised at how young and vigorous he was. She had imagined someone much stodgier. But he was so wonderfully animated, particularly when discussing matters related to his newspaper.
Even as he spoke to Ajax, Sebastian was aware that Abigail’s keen eyes were fixed upon him and that she was clearly absorbed in following the strands of his conversation. She laughed at a humorous comment he made regarding current jailhouse occupants. Sebastian couldn’t help but be pleased that he had made a favorable impression. And what an elegantly attractive woman. Why had he built her up in his mind to be an eccentric old spinster?
Abigail had heard enough to know that she liked Sebastian’s turn of mind. “I know that your paper is available in Boston and Philadelphia, Mr. Knight. Do you mean to find distributors in all the eastern cities?
“I have a vision for my paper, Miss Norris, that you may find a tad grandiose.”
“I should be very interested in hearing your plans.”
“Journalism reports on the news of the day. But today’s news is destined to become recorded history. And we have to be scrupulous in accuracy and impartiality. Moreover, I don’t think we should simply content ourselves with accounts of the world as it unfolds to us, for there is too much of importance that is not readily discernible without a rigorous investigation. One of the best examples—you probably will not have heard of this—a journalist by the name of Julius Chambers had himself committed to an asylum for the mentally insane in New York City.”
“Indeed, I have heard of this case, Mr. Knight! And I took a great interest in it. The name of the place was Bloomingdale, I believe.”
“Yes, Miss Norris. That is the case I am referring to. It was a masterwork of investigative journalism.”
“Why on earth would someone want to have himself committed to an asylum?” Molly asked. “He wasn’t crazy, was he?”
“No,” Abigail answered enthusiastically. “But it was the only way of arriving at the truth of what was happening inside those kinds of places. If you showed up at their front door, they would show you a happy, pretty picture. But to infiltrate without revealing one’s identity, it’s the only way to see the truth. Which, in this particular case, was a place full of abuse and incompetency. In the end, twelve men were released because they were completely sane and should never have been committed. And similar institutions all over the country came under the same scrutiny. It was brilliantly done.”
Sebastian couldn’t believe that he had found someone who was as impressed with this work as himself. “I regard it as one of the highest standards of achievement for my profession. I hope I can accomplish something nearly as worthwhile with my own paper.”
“I am even more excited, now, to become involved with your organization, Mr. Knight. How many reporters do you have?”
As Sebastian obliged Abigail with the details of his staff and the logistics of his operation, Ajax and Molly exchanged a glance. The arrangement these two were about to enter into struck them both as awkward and just plain odd. But it was hard to see them together now, with such common interests, without wondering whether they might not be able to make a go of it. Stranger things had happened, including their own courtship, conducted as it was from the inside of a jailhouse.
But there was little point in fantasizing about Cupid’s arrows hitting their two friends, for Molly was completely familiar with Abigail’s aversion to marriage. And Ajax had been made aware that Sebastian was far too busy to make time for happiness. What a notion!
CHAPTER FOUR
The following morning was devoted to helping Abigail become acquainted with Cheyenne. Beatrice was her tour guide.
“It’s a different world, isn’t it?” Beatrice asked.
“It feels so . . . deliciously primitive. Oh dear, I shouldn’t say that too loudly. It will be taken as insult when what I mean is, it feels like life has been stripped down to its essentials. There are no frivolities here, no silly figurines and novelties. Livery. Leather shop. Feed store. All necessities serving a good purpose.”
“Saloons. Brothels,” Beatrice added. “Oh, not for the likes of you and me. But I assure you, the local men consider them as essential as the mercantile.”
“I had heard something to that effect. They say it is because there is such an imbalance and shortage of women here in the West. But there is no such shortag
e in Boston, and I assure you, there is still no shortage of work for such women. I suppose the brothels will have to be categorized as essential for men only.”
“Would you care to see an establishment that holds much greater excitement for members of our sex?” Beatrice asked.
Abigail wanted to see everything, and she gladly acquiesced. The institution heralded to be of such fascination for women turned out to be the county clerk’s office.
“Today, you register to vote,” Beatrice informed her.
It was one thing to read about the vote and dream and hope for it. Now, it was right in front of her for the taking, and it was a miracle that brought tears to Abigail’s eyes. She and Beatrice hugged delightedly.
“Full citizenship. That is certainly life stripped down to its essentials,” Beatrice noted.
Abigail nodded, not trusting her voice. Any lingering doubts that she shouldn’t have come vanished in an instant. Arm in arm, she and Beatrice went inside.
*****
The afternoon was spent in a joyful monthly tradition that had been dubbed The Boston Tea Party by its participants. Mail order brides Virginia Carlyle, Lydia Cooper, Beatrice Martin, Molly Harper, and what now amounted to a multitude of babies would gather at Beatrice’s house once a month for an afternoon of boisterous sisterhood.
Though she was far from a traditional bride story, they hoped to welcome Abigail into the fold. They were also joined by honorary member, Miss Mabel Harper, aunt to Molly’s husband, Ajax, and someone who’d had a front row seat to the complications and excitements that most of the ladies had undergone on the road to marital bliss.
Abigail was pleased to meet the other Boston exports. Virginia and her Aunt Lydia had both come from social circles in Boston similar to her own, but they were both delighted to have made their “escape” into what they called a freer and more genuine life. Abigail was skeptical about the compatibility of freedom and marriage, but the deep contentment in the room was undeniable.
“The ranch is in my name alone, and always will be,” Lydia explained. “After a lifetime of being dependent, it’s just enormously satisfying to have something that’s all mine. Of course, I benefit from Giles’s vast experience, but when we differ, as in the matter of how much winter feed to put up, I rely on my own inclinations. He is, incidentally, coming to agree with me on that matter.”
“Giles Cooper is one stubborn mule. I don’t know how you managed to get him wrapped so tight around your little finger, but you turned him into a pussycat. Same with Ajax. Molly says this, Molly says that. I swear, you Boston gals know how to cast a spell, for sure. I ain’t ever in my life seen such a bunch of lovesick puppies.”
“No one has to tell me how lucky I got,” Virginia said. “I came out West and struck gold.”
“That’s just what it feels like,” Molly agreed. “I sure hope that Abigail will end up just as happy.”
“Well, I hope so too,” Abigail said “But my happiness is going to have a very different outward appearance. I’m glad to see you all so content, enjoying the best possible experience of the marital state. But it is said, ‘Know thyself,’ and I do. Some of us are just meant to follow our more unconventional paths. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Mabel?”
“Oh, don’t drag me into this cockamamie scheme of yours. Marryin’ a man just to divorce him! I think you win the prize for craziest Boston lady that’s ever set foot in my door.”
The other ladies had a hearty laugh at Abigail’s expense. She wasn’t much bothered by it. In the absence of a true marriage awaiting her, the friendship of this group of women promised to be invaluable.
*****
Abigail didn’t mind making her own way back home alone after the party. Beatrice had some late afternoon business to take care of for one of Cheyenne’s many ladies’ associations, which tickled Abigail to no end. Who would have thought that a former maid and factory worker would go on to become an influential figure in the Cheyenne community? This was indeed a place to start anew.
“I cain’t believe my eyes. I heard tell that Flamin’ Annie was in town, but I never thought I’d see the day. Welcome to Cheyenne, Annie. Is it all right if I call you Annie?” the grizzled prospector gushed.
“Certainly not. The name is Abigail Norris, and I’m afraid that you have mistaken me for someone else.”
“I heard that too. I heard you was goin’ by a new name, and that’s just fine by me. You have yourself a fine day, Miss Norris.”
What a peculiar thing to happen. Obviously, she bore some strong resemblance to another lady, but . . . what kind of name was Flamin’ Annie?
As Abigail passed the stationary store, she stopped to look at the window display and was startled to see Sebastian Knight shopping inside. It was an unexpected sighting, but even though they were scheduled to have dinner alone the following day, she supposed it was a good opportunity to expand their acquaintance.
“Mr. Knight. Hello. I was just walking by.”
“Miss Norris. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“You must be a very prolific writer, Mr. Knight. That is a sizeable collection of paper. And books! I didn’t know they sold books in here as well.”
“The paper and the books are for a local schoolhouse. I visit once a week to assist the teacher and do a bit of tutoring.”
“That is a very thoughtful commitment of your time, Mr. Knight.”
“Not at all. The thought of Cheyenne’s children growing up without the most basic principles of grammar spurred me into action. Who will be the reporters and writers of these Western territories? Must they all be imported from back east? I think some of them must be homegrown. It is a small investment I make in Cheyenne’s future, that is all. May I inquire as to how you are spending your day?”
“Beatrice just finished showing me most of the sights on Main Street. And we also stopped by at the county clerk’s office so I could register to vote.”
“Excellent. Mrs. Martin has done an admirable job of getting as many ladies in Cheyenne registered as possible.”
What a contrast to the provincial ideas of her former husband and his cronies. It is just what she would have hoped to expect in a well-educated man of principles. He was also such a knowledgeable man. Perhaps he could help solve her mystery.
“Twice while I have been in Cheyenne, I have been mistaken for a woman called Flamin’ Annie. Do you have any idea who this is?”
“Indeed, I do, Miss Norris,” Sebastian answered, trying to smother his amusement. “It is the red hair, no doubt, for I’m sure there is little other resemblance. She is a cardsharp, and she has been known to kill other card players from time to time when she has been cheated on. In such cases, the law was on her side. She vanished a couple of years ago after being accused of a cold-blooded murder. There was no hard evidence, but a great deal of suspicion, so she disappeared before the trial. No posse is after her—there just wasn’t enough evidence to pursue the matter.”
“They think I’m a murderer! And a card sharp!”
“You mustn’t be insulted. If they thought you were Flamin’ Annie, I’m sure they were very excited to make your acquaintance. Lady card sharps always bring a bit of excitement to the saloon. They are generally very well received—particularly the ones with a bit of notoriety. . . Flamin’ Annie! She would be right at home in Zachary Scott’s saloon. It’s like a club of infamy. How I should love to have a spy in there.”
Abigail examined him for a moment, thoughts swirling. She glanced at the store proprietor. He wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation.
“Mr. Knight. You need someone to go inside this saloon as Mr. Chambers went inside the Bloomingdale Asylum?”
“Ideally, yes. Someone to be my eyes and ears in there. But the presence of myself or my reporters, or the Sheriff or Deputy Harper, makes everyone clam up. No one will let their hair down with the press or the law in the room.”
“But if Flamin’ Annie were in the room, acting as your eyes and ears?�
�
“That would be a dream come true. But she is nowhere to be found, and even if she were, I cannot see her siding with me over her fellow outlaws.”
“If someone whom everyone believed to be Flamin’ Annie were to go into the saloon as your eyes and ears . . .”
Finally, it sunk in. Abigail could see from Sebastian’s incredulous expression that he was going to take a bit of convincing.
“They are convinced that I am her. Why not use it? She is a card sharp. I’m quite fluent in all the card games.”
“You are?”
“Stud, Faro, Five Card Draw, everything.”
“Miss Norris. I would have never taken you for a gambler. Are you telling me that you went into the . . . bars and . . . card rooms in Boston and gambled?”
“No. I played with friends in private homes. And if I do say so myself, I was the biggest winner in our circle.”
Sebastian’s negative experiences with his brother’s huge gambling losses had done nothing to promote his tolerance of gambling.
“I confess, Miss Norris. I do not approve of gambling. And I am rather surprised to hear that you have devoted so much time to such a questionable activity.”
“You illustrate very well one of my chief objections to marriage. My preferences, my enjoyments, and my passions are to be pursued with no need to repress my inclinations for the sake of someone else’s approval.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Norris. I misspoke. I simply meant that the probability of financial loss is so close to a near certainty—”
“But as I’ve already explained to you, Mr. Knight, I was a consistent winner. Would you like to know what the spoils of my final game were? Sixty-five peppermints, fourteen lemon drops, and seven pieces of fudge. I hope you are duly impressed, for every piece of fudge was worth twenty peppermints.”
Sebastian didn’t know whether he was feeling the chagrin of his harsh mistake or amusement at the thought of Abigail presiding over a mountain of sweets.
“But the point, Mr. Knight, is that I can pull off this deception. I can observe. I think that people will speak freely around this woman. Will we find anything? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps something terribly important. Perhaps something that will make your paper the talk of the nation.”