“Correct. When a honeybee finds a nectar source, she will communicate with a figure-eight dance. Then the other bees will fly to the exact flower. Who else can tell me a fact about the honeybee?”
Eight-year-old Samuel’s worn boots swung back and forth under his desk. He shot her a grin. “A bee that eats a lot of honey is called a chubbee.”
Bethany laughed, and the other children joined in. “All right, I have a riddle for you, Samuel. How do bees style their hair?”
Samuel’s brow furrowed. His blue eyes seemed enormous in his freckled face. Beulah’s hand shot up. The young girl was a recent addition to the orphanage, with dark hair and a snaggled-tooth smile. She seemed especially eager to impress Samuel. “With a honeycomb?”
“Well done.” Bethany smiled, then cleared her throat. “For tomorrow’s lesson, I want everyone to think about what we learned today and present it to the class in the morning. Your presentation can be in the form of a joke or a pun, but it must be factual. Samuel’s and my jokes were funny, but not true. Does everyone understand the difference?”
The creaking of the door drew their attention to the arrival of her grandfather and two teenage boys who assisted him with the orphanage garden. Mrs. Shelby, the orphan matron, worked hard to ensure the children learned to read, write, and develop the capabilities necessary to support themselves when they aged out at seventeen. Her grandfather assisted the matron by teaching agriculture skills. His oversight was vital in helping the orphanage to become self-sufficient.
“Children, I have a special surprise. My grandfather, Mr. Brady, has agreed to show us how he harvests honey. If everyone is attentive and respectful, I’ll share the oatmeal and honey cookies my grandmother made after lunch. Would you like that?”
***
Pausing outside the schoolhouse, Bethany savored the unexpected spring-like temperatures. Multiple green frogs awakened from their winter sleep sang. Their chorus reminding her of the pluck of a banjo string. She smiled in relief. This afternoon her classroom would be filled with the older students who were interested in learning to play an instrument. Continuing on the clay path, she waved at her grandfather and the teenage boys who were taking advantage of the break in temperature to assess the garden. “Thank you again, Grandpa,” Bethany called.
“You’re welcome, Bees.” Mr. Brady tipped his worn straw hat. His gray eyes were a bright contrast to his weathered skin. “We enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we, boys?”
The tallest youth, Ben, removed his hat, displaying dark wavy hair. He motioned for the two younger boys dressed in overalls to remove their caps. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks again for the cookies.”
Bethany met her grandfather’s gaze. Memories flooded her mind, reminding her of a time years ago when meals were meager, and a treat of any kind would have been out of the question. Her family’s efforts to assist the orphanage began during the yellow fever epidemic fifteen years ago. The fever killed thousands in the Memphis area and left the city bankrupt. Orphans arrived daily, and, at one point, her grandparents’ home helped to fill the gap to house the infants, toddlers, and young girls.
Since that time, her family remained committed to assisting. Her grandfather worked tirelessly to create an extensive garden and to raise livestock to support the children’s home in their quest to become self-sufficient. The extra work helped to put food on the table for the orphanage and offered an occupation to keep her family busy, so they could bear the pain of separation and loss.
“I’ll tell Grandmother how much you enjoyed them.” She nodded. “I’m sure there’s another batch coming soon.”
“Thank you, Miss Bees.” The boys answered in unison. Bethany's mouth lifted at the nickname given at birth. Her grandfather announced with a name like Bethany Phoebe Brady, she was bound to be the best beekeeper in the family. As providence would have it, she and her grandfather were the only ones left to carry on the family tradition.
Bethany increased her pace and continued her trek to the two-story cabin, which housed more than two dozen orphans. Once inside, she paused outside the former parlor, converted to a nursery for infants and toddlers. Except for the slow creak of a rocking chair, the room was uncharacteristically quiet. It must be naptime. Glancing at her heavy work boots, Bethany lifted her dark skirt, then tiptoed across the split-log floors toward the orphanage’s office.
“Come in and have a seat, Bees.” The matron of the orphanage poured an aromatic brew into a china cup. “I have a pot of tea ready, which will be wonderful with the cookies you and your grandmother made.”
Bethany accepted her cup and added a spoonful of honey. “Thank you, Mrs. Shelby.”
“My pleasure, dear. I wanted to take a moment to thank you again for helping with the students. When Daisy and Memphis moved away and married, it created quite a gap. Have you given any further thought to taking on a role on a more permanent basis?”
“I’ve thought about it. The children are wonderful, and I enjoy spending time with them. But quite frankly, it’s easier to herd a swarm of bees than it is for me to teach anything but the most basic skills.”
Mrs. Shelby laughed. The afternoon sun cast a light on her blond locks mingled with white. “Nonsense. You’re an excellent and creative teacher. But I’m not surprised by your answer. I believe you have a different calling for your life.”
“Once the new teacher is in place, I would love to continue to help teach music in the afternoon.” Bethany shuffled her feet across the worn carpet.
Mrs. Shelby relaxed in her upholstered chair. “That would be wonderful. Typically, I shut my door during music practice, but there is something about the way you play, Bees. It's simply heavenly. Not to mention how creative you and your grandfather were in making instruments from hollowed-out gourds. The younger children are thrilled to possess instruments of their own.”
“I love music and am pleased your opinion of women playing instruments is the opposite of my grandmother’s. She would never have consented to me performing in front of anyone if you hadn’t spoken to her.” Bethany took a sip of tea.
Mrs. Shelby studied Bethany over her china cup. “Bees, I’d like to ask you something personal, but I don’t want you to feel as though you must answer.”
“All right.” Bethany swallowed.
“Have you ever thought of having your own home, being married, raising children?”
“When I was a little girl, I used to say I wanted a dozen children, six boys, and six girls.” Bethany blew out a breath. “As I grew older, my grandmother pushed me to accept my life as a spinster. She said no man would want someone as tall, plain, and silly as I am. My grandfather disagreed. They seem to argue a lot when it comes to me…” Bethany’s voice drifted off.
“What in the world is wrong with being tall?” Mrs. Shelby huffed. “Even if you were plain, which is not true, there’s more to a wife and mother than outward appearance. I find you imaginative and whimsical but certainly not silly, which is why I wanted to speak to you today. I have another proposition for you.”
Chapter 2
“One can no more approach people without love than one can approach bees without care.
Such is the quality of bees…” – Leo Tolstoy, Author.
The orphanage matron retrieved her spectacles from the chain on her neck and positioned them on her nose. “You are fully aware of our efforts to prepare the children for a life outside the orphanage. The apprenticeship program your grandfather began is a great success for the boys. Our new matchmaking venture is finally something we can offer our girls.”
Mrs. Shelby reached for a folder. “Many months ago, when I initially spoke to you about volunteering to be part of our new venture, Heaven-Inspired Matrimonial Matches, you were adamant that you didn’t want to participate.”
“The idea of marrying someone I’ve never met has no appeal at all. Although I’m happy, it’s worked out so well for Memphis Rose and Daisy.”
Mrs. Shelby stared at a painting of a bearded man, d
epicting Abraham staring into the starry sky. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t look at that picture and count my blessings. Who could imagine a widow with no children of her own allowed to raise so many? Even though you were fortunate to live with your grandparents and not reside at the orphanage, I’ve known you since you were a little girl and love you. I would never recommend anything if I didn’t feel it was in your best interest.”
Bethany twisted her hands in her lap. “Yes, ma’am, I believe what you say is true.”
“I’ve seen how wonderful you are with the children. Your eyes brighten every time you pass the nursery. You would make a wonderful wife and mother. Would you tell me what’s keeping you from at least considering our matchmaking service?”
Bethany stared into the distance and gathered her thoughts. She heaved a heavy sigh. “Just because it worked out so well for Memphis and Daisy, who's to say it would be the same for me? Both of those girls are lovely and smart. I’m afraid the man I write to would take one look at me and abandon me at the train station.”
Mrs. Shelby reached for Bethany’s hand and positioned her in front of an oval mirror hanging on the wall. “What do you see?”
Bethany’s mouth lifted when the matron stood on tiptoe to appear above her shoulder in the reflection. “I see a woman who is head and shoulders taller than you.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you’re in the minority there, dear. Almost every child here over the age of twelve is taller than me. Look closer.”
Bethany leaned closer and wrinkled her nose. “I see an ordinary-looking woman with brown hair, blue eyes, wearing a gray dress.”
Mrs. Shelby clucked her tongue. “Stuff and nonsense. I see a tall and beautiful young woman who is caring, loving, and has a sharp wit. Her hair is the color of chestnuts. Her gray eyes, more often than not, sparkle with just a hint of mischief. And when she’s not scrunching her face, she has lovely high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a ready smile.”
Bethany lifted the long braid draped across her shoulder and shook her head. “Who was it that said, ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder?’ I wonder if that’s true.”
“Any number of folks have said something similar, from Confucius to Benjamin Franklin. Although I agree with the sentiment, the only thing that matters is what God says. The first passage that comes to mind is from the book of Psalm, “I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works.” Mrs. Shelby inclined her head toward her chair. “Come sit with me for a few more minutes and let’s finish our tea.” The matron extended a plate of cookies toward Bethany. “These are wonderful cookies you and your grandmother made.”
“Thank you. We enjoy baking together.”
Mrs. Shelby reached for an oatmeal cookie. “There’s not a single one that is a perfect circle, though, is there? This one is even a bit more lumpy and larger than the others, which is why I picked it. I’ll enjoy a bit more of its sweetness and still be able to say I only ate one.”
“Are you comparing me to a cookie, Mrs. Shelby? More to the point, am I the larger one? I certainly hope I’m not lumpy.” Bethany raised one eyebrow.
“Let’s not compare either of us to cookies, for fear I would have to pick one that is rather dry and brittle.” Mrs. Shelby’s eyes twinkled. “All kidding aside, as God’s creations, we were not created hastily or by chance. We are wonderfully made by Him. When you say things such as, ‘I am plain or unworthy,’ it is a lie straight from the devil. The truth is, you are special—not because I believe it, but because God created you. He wants us to live our lives in a way that is worthy of His praise.”
Bethany stared at the oatmeal and honey cookies of various sizes on the plate. One of her favorite ways to spend time with her grandmother was by baking. “Typically, Grandmother sets the broken cookies aside for Grandpa and me as we bake. They’re equally delicious.”
“When I was a young girl, first learning to cook, I had more than my share of misshaped cookies and broken pieces as well. My brother teased me quite a bit, but it didn’t take long for him to eat every bite.” Mrs. Shelby laughed softly, then wagged her finger. “Our outward appearance is not as important as what’s on the inside. And attitude is everything. We can’t choose our circumstances, but we can choose how we respond.”
Mrs. Shelby opened her locket and stared at the tintype. “Even though our time together was cut short by my husband’s premature death, we experienced a good marriage. I want you and the other girls to meet God-fearing men, who will look at their wives as helpmates and lifelong companions.
“That’s why the pastor and I formed H.I.M.M. Heaven Inspired Matrimonial Matches is a way for us to provide additional opportunities for you and the other girls here. There are so few jobs available in the area for women, and it’s difficult to be self-sufficient. Thankfully, you live with your grandparents, but the other girls aren’t so fortunate. They must take roles as teachers, cooks, and caregivers in the orphanage, and all we can do is supply them with room and board.”
Bethany stared into her cup. “Accepting the role of mail-order-bride is not something I feel I could muster the courage to do. I can't even imagine what my grandmother would say.”
“At the moment, let’s not worry about what anyone thinks but you.” Mrs. Shelby settled in her chair. “Pastor Reed and I prefer the term matchmaking. There are no ads placed in newspapers. We go about this strategically, similar to what people have been doing for generations—introducing people through mutual friends and family. In my day, young couples would congregate at social gatherings, like a dance or a dinner party. The problem is there are few eligible men of marriageable age in these parts. Between the yellow plague epidemic, gold fever, and the general appeal of the west, young men are scarce even in the surrounding counties.”
Mrs. Shelby inclined her head toward a stack of letters on her desk. “We’ve received so many responses from pastors out west. Together we interconnect with family and friends, who, in turn, vouch for the character of godly men who are seeking women of the same quality. Each man has a recommendation from his pastor, as well as another character reference.”
Mrs. Shelby took the last bite of her cookie, then reached for an envelope. “You remember Memphis Rose chose to correspond with the son of my childhood friends?” Mrs. Shelby’s face flushed. “I’ve shared stories about my best friend, Tennessee, and her husband, Michael, previously. She’s happy in her marriage and enjoys living in Carrie Town.”
“That’s the same town where Daisy lives, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Daisy is equally happy, and she and Memphis Rose visit back and forth quite often.”
Bethany glanced around the room. “It’s nice that they live so close by. I can’t imagine moving to a place where I didn’t know a soul. Besides, I’m comfortable here and have my grandparents to consider.”
Mrs. Shelby's forehead creased. “You know how much your grandfather loves Memphis Rose and Daisy. The reason he asked me to speak with you again is because they both are so happily situated. He wants the same for you.”
“Grandpa wants me to become a mail-order-bride?”
“I do wish you’d quit using that term.” Mrs. Shelby peered at her over her reading glasses. “Your grandfather received a letter from Memphis Rose as well. He was excited about the prospect. However, everyone agrees it’s your opinion that matters.”
“Prospect?’ Bethany gulped.
“Yes. Memphis suggested you take up a correspondence with her brother-in-law. But if you aren’t interested, I have a list of other young men worth considering. If things go as well as we think they will, we’ll have you married in no time at all.”
Chapter 3
“As much as I enjoy honey, I find bees a nuisance. Their colonies can do a heap of damage. On the other hand, the destruction they do is good for our carpentry business.”
– Moses Montgomery, Carpenter and Livery Stable Owner.
Twenty-nine-year-old Moses Montgomery p
ulled the wagon in front of his parents’ Gothic Revival-style house with its pointed arches and window shapes. He passed the reins to his brother, Matthew. “I don’t mind telling you I’d rather be mucking out horse stalls than heading into the house to see what our mother wants.”
“Not just Mama. I overheard our brothers’ wives talking about an upcoming women’s auxiliary group meeting. The ladies in town are working harder than ever with the matchmaking service out of Tennessee. Their goal is to marry us all off.” Matthew grinned and motioned with his thumb toward the gray wooden structure trimmed in white. “Fair warning, our sister-in-law, Memphis, has a friend she wants to match you up with back at the orphanage where she grew up.”
“Not some kid, I hope.” Moses pushed his hat to the back of his head and scowled.
“I didn’t ask her age. But Memphis knows you well enough not to try and introduce you to some silly miss. Just hear her out. You can always decline.”
“I’m not opposed to the idea. We order things all the time from a catalog, so why not a wife?” Moses lifted the crate packed with flour, sugar, and spices and ambled onto the L-shaped porch. The front doors and windows were open to take advantage of the spring day’s soft breeze. He ducked his head, passing through a swarm of gnats, thankful for the decorative wrought iron screens designed by his sister. Moses balanced the crate with one arm and reached for the front door when it opened to the smiling face of his mother. Errant locks of silver-streaked auburn hair framed her face, and her green eyes sparkled. “Afternoon, Ma.”
“Good, you’re here.” Two dimples appeared, framing her round cheeks. She opened the door wide and waved him inside. “Come on back to the kitchen. I’ve got lunch and oatmeal cookies just out of the oven, hot and ready.”
Moses followed his mother through the dining room past the table already set with her formal dinnerware for tonight’s family dinner. He took in a deep breath. The blended aroma of butter, vanilla, and sugar greeted him. “Trying to sweeten me up, I see.”
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