by Stacy Henrie
Marilyn licked her lips, took a deep breath, and settled her gaze on the article Victor had circled in dark ink. The short write-up gave only the barest of details regarding the death of one Mr. Harvey Fletcher: the date, how he’d been found in bed, and that the cause of death had yet to be determined, as the responding physician believed the circumstances to be suspicious.
The article continued beyond the fold, so Marilyn had to open the paper some more to read the rest. Fletcher had long been suspected of various illegal activities, but police hadn’t been able to gather enough evidence to arrest him. His shady background only strengthened the possibility that he was murdered. After all, the author pointed out that Fletcher had scores of enemies.
Many enemies, indeed, Marilyn thought. With shaky hands, she lowered the paper to her lap and stared at the flickering gas sconce on the wall. She knew— knew— that Victor had killed Mr. Fletcher. She also knew with utter certainly that if she didn’t accept Victor’s proposal, he would see to it that she was arrested for Fletcher’s murder. Then she would be put on trial and painted not as a poor bakery worker but as a woman of questionable morals. She knew that Victor had enough pull in local society to see to it that she spent the rest of her life in prison.
She reread the article then forced herself to look elsewhere, but all she managed was to lower her eyes to the bottom of the page. There they landed on a different headline, or rather, on the bolded text of an advertisement. How she picked that one notice from among dozens, advertising tooth powders, buttons, miracle battery cures, and millinery shops, she’d never know.
Perhaps it was the lack of pictures in this block of text that drew her eye. Whatever the reason, she found herself engrossed by the headline of a personal advertisement: Wanted— Mail Order Bride.
In spite of herself and her long-standing opinion of such arrangements as being foolhardy, ridiculous, and built on a foundation of sand, she kept reading.
Respectable American bachelor of thirty-three years of age, intelligent, sober, graceful, and affectionate, is desirous of immediately finding a neat, pretty, hardworking wife between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Orphan preferred. Reply to Elayne Williamson, Union Square Post Office, New York. Ms. W. will provide the chosen applicant with train passage already paid for by said bachelor.
Marilyn calmly folded the newspaper so Victor’s article was hidden and the advertisement was on top. She smoothed the creases, careful not to get ink on her fingers. Only then did she realize how steady her hands had become. She felt utterly calm because she knew now how to live free from Victor, free from prison, and, hopefully, free of poverty and hunger. She would bind herself to a man she knew nothing of, not even his name.
He sounds educated, at the very least, she thought, which was some comfort. But why does he prefer an orphan? I am one, but why should that matter? The bachelor on the other end of the advertisement might be a brute in his own way, but anything was better than Victor.
Decision made, Marilyn stood, clutching the newspaper. She marched up the stairs to her room and packed all of her belongings, even though she hadn’t yet written to Ms. Elayne Williamson and had no train ticket.
This must work, she thought, laying a petticoat in her trunk. It simply must.
Chapter Two
Diamond City, Wyoming
If steam could truly come out of one’s ears, then Thomas Yardley would have resembled a locomotive as he strode out of the bank toward his horse. He took fast, angry steps and nearly crushed his hat in one hand in spite of the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun. That dag-blamed brother of his.
How did Harry know how much money we have in the bank? Rather, used to have, he thought. They needed a new plow, and they needed to pay the mortgage for the farm. They needed a lot of things, quite frankly, including a new horse and especially some hired hands now that Harry was about as much help as their aging cat. Harry kept it for companionship, though it had long since lost its usefulness as a mouser.
And now the money was simply gone— all but five dollars out of almost a hundred. Poof, into thin air, like a magic trick.
Why had Frank, the cashier, given it to Harry? Everyone in the tiny Wyoming town of Diamond City knew better— knew that, while Harry would always be the elder brother, alcohol and an accident had stripped him of his ability to think like an adult. Thomas did all of the work now, nearly breaking his back to bring in a yearly crop, maintain the house and stables, plus cook, clean, and do everything else that Harry, Thomas, their father, and mother had once done. In short, Thomas did the work of four— or tried to.
He’d done his best, and so far, hadn’t lost the farm. But apparently, he had lost all of the money he’d scrimped and saved in hopes of keeping the farm.
Then again, he did live in a place named after a mythical diamond mine that had never materialized, though many locals still had faith that it would someday be found. Maybe the banker and the rest of the town were as ridiculously optimistic about other things, too, like Harry’s reasoning capacities.
Thomas shoved his hat on his head, mounted his old horse, and turned toward home at a fast trot. He would have preferred to gallop, but the old mare couldn’t tolerate such speeds.
Maybe Harry hadn’t yet spent the money, and there would be time to make everything right. Thomas prayed his heart out for the fifteen minutes it took to reach home. Then he pulled the horse to a stop beside the hitching post at the back door. After making a quick knot with the reins, he bolted inside.
Putting the horse up can wait, he thought. This cannot.
“Harry?” he called, shoving the door shut with his boot. He didn’t bother cleaning his boots on the brushes by the door as his mother had taught him to do— a habit he’d continued after her death. No time for that, either. Steam kept building inside Thomas, needing an exit, as he stomped through one room after another, quickly covering the entire main floor with no success— including Harry’s bedroom.
Where was that brother of his? “Harry? Where are you?”
No answer. Thomas hurried up the steep steps and suddenly worried over something other than the money. What if his brother had hurt himself again? Harry was forbidden to go upstairs ever since he had fallen down them in a drunken stupor. That’s why he now slept on the ground floor.
That man is no better than a child, Thomas thought. He’ll always get into mischief and will end up pushing us into abject poverty.
At the latter thought, Thomas gritted his teeth. He and Harry weren’t homeless or destitute yet. Keeping the farm and keeping their parents’ dream alive was his duty now that he could no longer share the responsibility with his brother.
The stairs ended in the small room that Thomas called his own. Harry used to claim the other room upstairs— the larger of the two and the one that had the most privacy, seeing as how no one had to pass through it to get to another, as was the case with Thomas’s room.
If he’s up there, he’s safe, Thomas thought in an attempt to calm his nerves. Unless he tries to fly by jumping from the window. Thomas wouldn’t put such a thing past Harry. Once, the man had left the chicken coop open, which allowed raccoons to get in and kill them all. On another occasion, he’d nearly burned the house down. He’d even almost cut off his own hand while trying to chop wood.
Thomas went through his room to the closed door on the other side. He knocked while turning the knob. “Harry?”
While he hadn’t known what he would find, Thomas certainly didn’t expect the sight that met him: Harry, lying on the spare bed, smiling dreamily at what appeared to be a photograph.
“Harry,” Thomas said again, walking over to sit on the edge of his brother’s bed. “What are you doing?”
His anger yielded to the relief that his brother wasn’t sick or hurt, and his curiosity got the better of him, for Thomas couldn’t remember his brother ever looking so happy. He pointed to the paper. “What’s that? Harry, do you hear me? What’s in the picture?” Thomas leaned over, try
ing to get a glimpse.
Harry pulled the photograph to his chest. “Not what,” he said as he glared at Thomas. “Who.”
These childish games tended to wear thin when day after day of heavy work pressed on his shoulders. Yet Thomas tried to remain patient and sympathetic. “Very well, who is in the picture?”
Harry sat up suddenly, grinning widely, the photo still held to his heart. “Our new mother. Surprised, aren’t you? I found a notice in the paper that said you can order brides, so I asked for a wife.”
“You did what?” Thomas demanded.
“See, she’ll already be married and know how to take care of us. She arrives on the morning train. You’ll pick her up, won’t you? Her name is Marilyn Davis. She’ll cook for us, and sing us songs, and read us books and…” In spite of Harry’s tough exterior, his eyes welled up with tears.
The only times Thomas had ever seen Harry cry were when he broke a leg at the age of seven, and again two years ago at their mother’s funeral. Now his tears looked ready to spill onto his leathered cheeks.
Understanding and frustration slowly dawned on Thomas. In the face of his brother’s hopes and dreams, the anger ebbed. It would return— certainly when he couldn’t make the next mortgage payment— but for now, Thomas couldn’t curse his brother. He looked at the photograph: a young woman in a simple yet well-kept dress.
Quite pretty, Thomas thought. She looks pleasant enough.
“You sent her our money,” Thomas said.
“I sent Ms. Williamson the money,” Harry corrected. “She arranged it all.” He counted on his fingers as he said, “The fee for the ad, Marilyn’s room—”
“We paid for her rent?”
“Just for five days,” Harry said. He stared at the gabled ceiling as he thought. “Oh, and some new clothes.”
Thomas’s stomach sank further. “You wired all of it?”
“If our new mother needs a new dress or boots, she gets them,” Harry said soberly.
“Of course,” Thomas said bitterly. What kind of scam woman would cheat a disabled man who had the reasoning powers of a ten-year-old? Thomas tightened his fists and tried to come up with a solution.
The money was gone— spent on dresses and ruffles and who knew what else. Where else did the money go? Train ticket. Food. Surely other costs he hadn’t thought of, all of which cost more back east than it did in Wyoming.
“Ms. Williamson sent the picture with a business partner,” Harry explained. “He brought it as far as Iowa then mailed it so I’d get it before she arrived.” He gazed at the picture again, and his gentle smile returned.
But Harry’s happiness didn’t erase the fact that Thomas wished he’d taken Harry’s name off the bank account. After the accident, someone at church had suggested that it would be a wise idea, but he’d figured that having Harry’s name on the account couldn’t hurt. At the time, he viewed the gesture as one their parents would have approved of.
Now they’re probably shaking their heads at my stupidity.
His brother yammered on about how he’d gotten the idea after hearing about Joe Hutchins’s mail order bride, and how Miss Faye at the telegraph office had helped him write the letter and send the money to New York. Thomas nodded absently, hearing only small pieces.
Thomas had two problems: this Marilyn woman and the mortgage. The woman was more immediately pressing. He might let her stay a night or two, just long enough to purchase another ticket and head back to where she came from. Maybe he’d insist she leave the new clothes behind, so he could sell them and get at least some money back.
He’d have to be firm. No female wiles of sad eyes above full, frowning lips would sway him. She’d be yet another mouth to feed. She’d probably expect to be doted on. Thomas wouldn’t get much work done with a woman about. And that was aside from the gossip such an arrangement would create. A single woman living with two men? He had no stomach for that.
“Come downstairs,” Thomas said. “I’ll make some supper.” Harry followed and went to his room, where he petted the cat on his bed as Thomas made dinner.
Thomas put water on for boiling potatoes then gathered several russets from the cool storage below the floor. As he scrubbed them, he missed how his mother used to work in the kitchen, making three hot meals a day for her men, as she’d called Pa and the boys.
The place definitely felt different now. Thomas set the scrub brush and potato down and looked about the kitchen and the sitting room beyond. The place lacked warmth without Ma’s touch. It could really use a woman’s influence, he thought.
He sighed and turned back to the sink, grabbing a potato with dirt clods covering it. One of these days, he’d like to court a girl and have a family. Unfortunately, that day would be long in coming, for his first priorities rested in keeping the farm and caring for his brother.
Chapter Three
As the train approached her stop, Marilyn peered out the window, trying to get some sense of her new home. All she could see were low hills, sagebrush, and buildings that looked ready to collapse, as if they might as well have been built of matchsticks.
A longing for home came over her. She wished this were a dream, that she could wake up in New York. She’d buy a hot dog from a street vendor, then stroll past decorated shop windows displaying clothing she could only dream of owning. She even missed seeing young boys on street corners, shouting headlines as they peddled papers. She used to buy one whenever she could. Many of newsies were orphans too, so she knew some measure of what they had lived through. Even now that she was a grown woman, the smallest acts of kindness from strangers warmed her heart. When she was a child, such moments kept her going another day.
Perhaps a life out West would have been easier, she thought, easier than finding scraps to stay alive back east.
As the landscape slid past slightly slower now, Marilyn even missed the crowds, bustle, and coal dust of the city. The train windows were open, and even breathing the fresh air felt different. The air was still hot, but something was missing— moisture. That was it. This feeling came from a dry heat that seemed to bake her lungs. She suddenly yearned for a big glass of water.
The train finally came to a stop. At the sight of the platform, Marilyn’s insides went completely mad. She peered out the window even more intently. Watching the landscape had been more a matter of curiosity and comparison before, but seeing the face of the man she would spend the rest of her mortal days with meant something else entirely.
Let him be kind, she thought, praying she hadn’t jumped out of Victor’s frying pan and into Mr. Harry Yardley’s fire.
“Are you quite all right?”
Marilyn turned to the young mother who’d sat on the aisle for the hundreds of miles of their journey— Betty. They’d talked a bit here and there, and Marilyn had helped with her baby at times.
“I’m— I’m quite well, thank you,” Marilyn said, determined to at least pretend that her words were the truth.
“Good luck.” Betty looked out the window toward a sign that read Diamond City Station in big white letters. “I hope your life here is as wonderful as diamonds.”
“Thank you,” she said. “The same to you and your boy.”
With trembling knees, Marilyn stepped into the aisle, not wanting to get off. During her days on the train, she’d felt perfectly safe. Granted, her neck had developed quite a crick, and her back ached from sleeping upright, but she had remained out of Victor’s clutches. For a moment, as she stood in line, standing tall to stretch her back, she imagined traveling back and forth across the country— never having to see Victor in New York, never having to settle in Wyoming as the wife of a man she knew almost nothing about.
For aside from Harry Yardley’s name, age, and occupation, she knew nothing about him, which seemed highly unfair, especially because he had a photo of her taken in Ms. Williamson’s office, but Marilyn had none of Mr. Yardley.
The man ahead of Marilyn in line stepped from the train, and it was now her turn
to disembark. For the first time in days, she looked outside without a glass partition in the way. A sea of bobbing faces seemed to extend before her, even though the number of people here couldn’t possibly have come close to the throngs she used to pass daily.
The press of passengers from behind encouraged her to grip the handrail and take the two steps to the platform. Once there, she breathed in deeply— the desert air would take some getting used to— then moved to the side to be out of the way. Would Harry Yardley recognize her from the photograph?
The ribbon! she thought, remembering the agreed-upon detail by which her husband-to-be would recognize her. People jostled her as they passed in both directions, but Marilyn opened her carpetbag and searched for the telltale red ribbon. Finally, under a copy of Dickens’s Dombey and Son and her gloves— which, come to think of it, she should probably put on if she wanted to be taken seriously as a proper young woman— and under other assorted belongings, she spotted the ribbon.
How should I wear it? Ms. Williamson hadn’t said. Marilyn guessed that tying it about the brim of her hat might be most effective, as it would be easily spotted at a distance by someone taller than an average-framed woman. But without a table or other support, securing a ribbon to her hat would be difficult at best. She settled on tying the ribbon into a circlet and slipping it onto her wrist like a bracelet.
The crowd had begun to thin. With a large cloud obscuring the sun, the day wasn’t overly bright at the moment, but she raised her left hand to her brow anyway. She hoped that the gesture looked natural and that the ribbon on her wrist would allow her to be easily identified by Mr. Yardley, wherever he was.
