West For Love (A Mail Order Romance Novel) (1) (Anna & Thomas)

by Claire Charlins

  Chapter Four

  The woman sitting at the table had big hair and even bigger glasses. She was beautiful, middle aged, and when she saw Anna, she hurried to stand, tearing the glasses off her face. She smiled big and rushed to meet Anna and embraced her as though they were old friends that hadn’t seen one another in decades.

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said as the hug ended. “But I don’t...”

  “Of course you don’t know me,” the woman said. “I’m sure my brother didn’t tell you my name.”

  “I leave introductions to be done in person,” Henry said. He took his hat off and smiled. “Anna, this is my sister, Mary Roberts.”

  “Mary, a pleasure,” Anna said.

  “Same here. And I’m hoping my brother introduced himself. Henry Belles.”

  “Yes,” Anna said.

  The first thing that came to mind was Roberts and Belles. They were brother and sister with different last names. That left the assumption that Mary was married.

  “I’m going to assume Henry tracked you down and dragged you here,” Mary said.

  “Actually, it was Anna who spotted me,” Henry said. “I was whistling...”

  “Oh, you didn’t,” Mary said. “My Aunt Martha could whistle better than Henry and she’s been deceased for ten years now.”

  Anna gasped and then laughed.

  “Now, come with me,” Mary said. “Let’s get settled. Have a cup of tea together and chat.”

  “Tea?”

  “Or anything else you’d like to drink. We have everything you’d like.”

  “Even something strong,” Henry said. He dropped the bag from the post office on the table and walked away. “You two ladies can chat in private.”

  “Thank you,” Mary said.

  She retrieved a chair for Anna and patted it.

  Anna sat. She looked at the bag and then at Mary.

  “You want to see what’s in the bag?” Mary asked.

  “It’s none of my business,” Anna said. “I do apologize, but my family is expecting me...”

  “Everyone is expecting someone,” Mary said. She leaned and grabbed the bag. She held it by the bottom and shook it. Out poured what had to be two dozen letters - no, three dozen or more. “This is the proof.”

  “Letters?” Anna asked.

  “Not just letters,” Mary said. “These are letters from men looking for wives.”

  Instantly, Anna’s cheeks began to flush.

  “I’m not here to pressure you,” Mary said. “Into anything. Henry and myself are well aware of what happened to you.” Mary looked around and leaned towards Anna. She placed her hands on her knees and whispered, “If it means a thing, I fault William, not you. He’s always been more of a bully... a bully with a good smile.”

  Anna was in disbelief until she thought about how nice of a suit Henry wore. Of course he’d be associated with William somehow. Anna should have known better than to stop and stare.

  “I heard it was because you couldn’t carry a child,” Mary said.

  “Well, yes,” Anna said. She felt cornered and started to feel embarrassed.

  “That’s okay,” Mary said. “You know, these letters have all kinds of stories to them. All kinds of men. You can read one if you want.”

  Anna looked at the letters. She wasn’t sure what to do. Images of Abigail popped into her head. How let down she had been over everything. One little look at a letter wouldn’t hurt a thing, would it?

  Anna nodded.

  Mary opened a letter. She read it first and then handed it to Anna.

  “Look at this one.”

  Man of 6’ height, 200lbs, seeking young, energetic woman, early twenties, please. Needs to care for home, myself, and willing to start a family right away. I have land, stand to inherit $20,000.

  It was a short letter.

  Very short.

  Anna turned page over and back again. “That’s it?”

  “Sometimes that’s it,” Mary said. “These are usually the ones we print. Others are longer letters and we take more care to find someone to match with. Not all are like that. I did have a longer letter come a month ago. A heartbreaking letter at that. Would you like to read that one?”

  “I guess,” Anna said.

  Mary shifted through organized piles of papers and then handed Anna the letter. “I’ll leave you to read this. I’ll go check on our drinks. If I know Henry like I think I do, he’s off on another project and has completely forgotten about us.”

  Anna nodded and Mary left the room.

  Anna opened the letter and first admired the neat penmanship.

  Then she read it.

  My name is Josephine (you can call me Jo if you make me laugh once) and I’m writing not for the benefit of myself but for the benefit of a broken hearted, lonely man who deserves a clearer path in life. A path to share hand in hand with the right woman, who I firmly believe in all my faith exists.

  His name is Thomas Calhor and my affiliation is that I am the wet nurse to his two month old son, Thomas Jr. I call him that too - Thomas Jr. Just like that. Thomas Jr. is a healthy baby, a beautiful boy with the brightest blue eyes, the happiest of smiles, and is perhaps a mirror image of his father. They share the same eyes and I know they would share the same smile if only Thomas would smile.

  As you can assume by now, my job as a wet nurse implies something with Thomas Jr.’s mother. The tragic end to her life came in the first moment of Thomas Jr.’s life.

  Anna stopped reading and folded the letter. She put it on the table and put a hand to her mouth. Mary hadn’t been kidding when she said that the letters came from all kinds of men. Anna had just assumed all kinds of men meant tall, short, lean, robust, rich, poor, blue eyes, brown eyes, and features of that nature. She hadn’t considered men who had suffered in a way it appeared Thomas Calhor had.

  Anna looked over her shoulder, wishing Mary would come back into the room so she could politely exit and go get the eggs and cloth she needed. However, she couldn’t help but think of the letter.

  I should finish it, Anna told herself.

  She mentally counted to ten and Mary still hadn’t returned. With her hands shaking, Anna finished the letter.

  Shortly after the birth of Thomas Jr. I was called to nurse the baby for the obvious reasons. The moment I looked into his eyes and then into the tear filled eyes of the baby’s father, I knew I couldn’t leave them. I also couldn’t love Thomas like he was meant to be loved. I’m too old for him and in my mind I picture the woman he deserves. A fair skinned woman with blonde hair and almost matching blue eyes. Perhaps a shade of a darker blue, hinting at the understanding of pain. A woman who can handle the circumstances. One able to step into not just the role of wife but mother. I, of course, will be here as long as Thomas Jr. needs me. But I cannot help Thomas anymore than I have. I’ve slowly taken on the role of housekeeper, at no cost to Thomas, but I feel it’s not my proper duty.

  At night, after Thomas Jr. is asleep, I often find Thomas standing on the porch, looking into the distant night, lost. I know he thinks of his wife and so the woman who will take Thomas’s strong hand in marriage will understand she will not replace Thomas’s wife but instead be a new wife. Someone to care for Thomas. Someone to care for Thomas Jr. Someone who wants the opportunity to have a beautiful life.

  Anna closed the letter and placed it on the table. An overwhelming urge to cry hit her. She tried to imagine what it must have been like. To carry a child all that time, only to never see the baby after birth. To never hold it. To never smell its fresh, warm skin. To never feed the baby.

  And poor Thomas. To go through something like that. To lose a wife was troubling enough but then to have someone hand him a baby...

  “It’s pretty hard, right?”

  Anna sniffled and turned to see Mary standing with a tissue. Anna took it and nodded.

  “Losing love is hard,” Mary said.

  “Losing in general is hard,” Anna said.

  �
��Which is where we’ve all been before. But seeing your reaction to that letter gives me faith in this one...”

  Mary had another letter for Anna to read.

  Anna shook her head. “No. No more sad stories. I can’t. You don’t understand what it’s like for me...”

  “No, this isn’t a new one,” Mary said. “A week after receiving the first letter, I received a second. This one from Thomas himself.”

  Anna almost jumped out of her chair to get the letter. She couldn’t believe she was eager to read something from a stranger. But Josephine’s letter had been so poignant and heartfelt that Anna wanted to read it and feel it from Thomas’s broken heart. Maybe it would help her. Nothing more. Just to read... just to know someone else felt pain and loneliness too.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Anna,” Mary said. “Besides myself, I believe your eyes will be the only other eyes to see this. I haven’t shown it to Henry. And I have not shown it to anyone looking for a groom. Something about this touches me and I have been looking for the right woman.”

  With that said, Mary handed Anna the letter. She took two steps back but didn’t leave the room. This time, Anna didn’t care one bit. She wanted to read what Thomas had to say.

  I am Thomas, as previously indicated in the first letter. I will first say that the previous letter was sent without my permission. While I tried to insist Josephine leave my house right away for her careless actions, it was my son, Thomas Jr., who saved her employment. She is the only one Thomas will bond with. The sight is truly miraculous but also heartbreaking. Each time his small lips latch to Josephine, I feel more of my heart shedding its own tears. You see, when my son receives the milk God has given Josephine, he receives the nourishment to grow. To become strong. To be healthy. And perhaps with that will come one day an understanding of what happened to his mother. That gives me hope. At the same time, in the same breath of my own air (mind you, the air my deceased wife cannot breathe), I feel a wretched feeling. Because when Thomas Jr. latches to Josephine, pain and anger hits me like none I’ve ever felt. I’m inclined to sometimes tear the baby from Josephine’s giving breast and tell her that she’s not his mother. While she does not try to be his mother, there’s something that leaves me compelled to do so. It’s something Josephine has sensed in me and something she’s spoken out loud to me about before. Which is why she wrote the letter she did. I’m in understanding that Thomas Jr. deserves a woman to care for him completely. To nurture, to love, to raise. Josephine won’t be that woman but it’s Josephine who believes that I should have the same as Thomas Jr. That is, a woman to nurture me and to love me. While I don’t fear love, I fear that a woman may not understand my heart, my eyes, and the way pain comes and goes, like a breeze on a cool April eve. Josephine explained all she wrote in her letter and I do hope that if a response should come, if ever, it would be from a woman who understands pain. A woman who is perhaps widowed, jilted, even divorced. A woman who can be a good mother. Thinking this, writing this, and reading it leaves me smiling in a heartbroken, foolish way because I know the task is daunting and odds are next to impossible. But with this letter comes my hope and if that at all means anything - to know my heart is still beating - then I beg of the woman who reads this... the woman who could nurture, love, and grow... please respond. I am a man of capable means with a successful farm and moderate wealth. There is no need to come worried of shelter nor food. There is only need to come with an open heart, an open mind, and open eyes.

  Anna finished the letter and this time let a tear fall from her eye.

  How beautiful.

  How poetically beautiful and powerful.

  “Do you understand why I haven’t shown that letter to just anyone?” Mary asked.

  “No,” Anna said, “but I’m happy you showed me.”

  “Anna, if I gave that letter to anyone, they’d write back in a hurry. In fact, I could almost promise you that dozens of women would right back. They’d beg. They’d lie if they had to. Thomas is a strong man. But he’s in pain. He’s vulnerable. And he needs the right woman.”

  “I agree,” Anna said. She opened the letter to read it again. It was a letter that deserved to be memorized in her heart forever.

  “No, Anna, you aren’t understanding me,” Mary said. She plucked the letter from Anna’s hand. “Thomas needs the right woman. And I firmly believe, with everything in me, that you, Anna, are the right woman for him.”

  Anna stood, shaking her head. “No. I couldn’t.”

  “You could, my dear,” Mary said. “You long for what Thomas does. You two can share pain. You two can heal each other. He’s got the means and he’s got something you want but couldn’t have...”

  “A baby.” Anna closed her eyes.

  “I’m truly sorry about your marriage to William,” Mary said. “But this a chance to understand why it happened. Just write back to him. That’s all I’m asking. Write back.”

  “Then what?” Anna asked.

  “Then we wait.”

  “What if he writes back?” Anna asked. Mary opened her mouth as Anna asked another question. “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Relax,” Mary said. “There is no cost to you, I’ll pay the postage. I believe in this that much. Just sit here with a pen and your thoughts.”

  “I’ll need a cup of tea,” Anna said with a flicker of a smile.

  “Of course.”

  Mary shuffled away and returned a moment later with tea. It was the perfect temperature, suggesting to Anna that Mary had made the tea and let it cool, as though she were plotting to keep Anna happy and there.

  It wasn’t the tea that kept Anna there as much as it was the sincerity in Mary’s eyes. Anna believed what Mary believed. And so Anna went to work, telling herself she would just write a quick paragraph or two, introducing herself and explaining her divorce. What happened was that Anna lost track of time. When she finally stopped writing, she had more than she intended.

  “That’s good,” Mary said.

  “You don’t know what I’ve written,” Anna said.

  “I don’t need to. I watched you write it. You weren’t proper in your seat and you weren’t proper in how you approached it. Which is good. That means it’s honest.”

  “Would you like to read it?”

  “No,” Mary said. “But I would like you to read it to me.”

  Anna hesitated.

  “I assure you,” Mary said, “it’s just us.”

  “Okay,” Anna said. She looked at her letter and took a deep breath. She looked at Mary and smiled.

  “Dear Thomas,

  I’ve come across your letter and the one from Josephine. I would much prefer to write ‘Jo’, but since I haven’t met her nor made her laugh, I cannot properly call her that! I write to you with a heavy heart not just based on my story - which you will soon read - but yours too. I cannot express my sorrow for your loss. But, I must say, you gained from your loss, too. The birth of a child is nothing short of a miracle. I hope you can believe in that, and remember it.

  I speak so highly of your son, Thomas Jr., an infant I’ve never met, because I have been unable to birth a child of my own. You see, I am divorced. Not by my wanting, then again, the marriage wasn’t by my wanting either. A successful businessman with the cleanest suit and smile you’d ever see made my parents an offer they accepted. My hand in marriage gave them financial freedom in exchange for my ability to birth a child. I was given one year to become with child. Imagine that, one year! The pressure from day one was overwhleming.

  Both letters I’ve read made me weep in their own way. I write with hesitation in my heart and hand because I fear I will either over promise you, Thomas, or perhaps not promise enough. I cannot promise to nurture your child. But I can promise to love Thomas Jr. and help him grow. I cannot promise to love you because I know the heartache of implied love. But I can promise to nurture you. I am a very good cook. I am a great housekeeper too. I am excellent at fixing pants, which is a sorrowful
story in itself, but I would be happy to take care of you in any way that I can.

  I understand hurt and loss. I’m sure you read this and aren’t sure how truthful it is, but I suffered through a forced marriage and was left a year later after I couldn’t conceive a child. Also, my dear sister lost her husband in a tragic accident. I’ve had to look into her eyes and see the loss and suffering. It won’t bother me to see it in your eyes, Thomas, and I would never ask you to hide. I would never ask you to change, and I would never put a time limit on your grief. I’ve lived under a time constraint and it’s like someone is stealing your life.

  As far as my appearance is concerned, I will admit my sister is much prettier than I. However, I have been told I am pretty too. I’m not quite 5’6, I have blonde hair and it’s normally straight, but sometimes it curls at the very of end. My eyes are a rich blue; not the bright, piercing blue of my sister, but a shade or two darker. My skin is fair and I have a hopeful smile. Most of all, Thomas, I have slender but strong hands, a good mind, a heart that still beats, and the want to be a wife, a mother, a family. I honestly admit I will not be bringing money nor will I ever inherit any.

  I hope, if anything, you read this letter and know someone is out there, Thomas. Someone like you. I would love to meet you, to meet Thomas Jr., and to meet Josephine. I can board a train at anytime without needed arrangement other than your word.”

  Anna took a breath and held the letter to her chest. She looked at Mary, who had beamed. Anna couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at her with a proud look on their face.

  “Should I keep going?” Anna asked. “I mean, I don’t want to get too personal...”

  “It’s perfect,” Mary said. “It’s honest and perfect. If that’s what you wanted to say, you’ve said it. Now it’s time to send it.”

  Anna felt her hand open and press the letter hard against her chest. She wasn’t sure she should let the letter go. She tried to imagine Thomas reading it. Would he laugh? Would he care? Would Josephine read the letter first or even give it to him? Or would Thomas read it and just throw it out?

  “You look scared,” Mary said.

  “I am,” Anna admitted. “What happens next?”

  “We send the letter and we wait. You understand how long this could take, right?”

  Anna nodded. She wanted to believe in weeks but knew she should be prepared for months. If an answer ever came.

  “I just,” Anna started to say but stopped.

  Marry stepped to her and took the letter out of her hand. She didn’t look at the letter, but instead folded it up.

  “You just what?” Mary asked.

  “What if he reads it and feels I’m too much?”

  Mary touched Anna’s face and smiled. “You know, maybe someday you and I can exchange letters. I used to be a lot like you, Anna. And when my brother came to me with an idea for arranging marriages I wanted to slap him. But when I started reading the notices and the letters and saw women going off to become brides, mothers, and create families out west, it started to touch my heart. With each letter I send, I could be sending lies. I could be receiving lies in return. I could receive nothing in return. I could send a hopeful woman back home in tears. There’s one thing that holds it all together for me... that one thing that made my brother whistle in his horrible whistling tone... the one thing that made you stop to look at him and listen... the one thing that gave him his personality to see you, know you, and bring you here... and the one thing that gave Thomas the courage to write the letter he did...”

  “And that is?” Anna asked.

  Mary smiled. It made Anna feel warm and safe. “Faith, Anna, faith. I have faith in everything I do. My brother, Henry, is the businessman. He enjoys the money. But I enjoy seeing families come together.”

  “Thank you,” Anna said.

  She blurted it out so sudden she really didn’t understand what exactly she thanked Mary for. Even after Mary hugged her and Anna left, hurrying back through to town to get the items she originally came for, she couldn’t figure out why she had that impulse to thank Mary.

  After getting eggs and the cloth needed to fix her father’s pants, Anna began her travel home. The ride gave her plenty more time to think. By the time her house grew out of the horizon, it finally hit Anna. She knew why she had thanked Mary.

  For the first time in longer than she cared to admit to anyone - including herself - Anna had hope. Even if it was based on nothing more than a few words in a letter and faith that Thomas would write back to her, it was still something.

  And something was better than nothing.