by Kit Morgan
Daphne, An Easter Bride
Brides of Noelle Book 4
Kit Morgan
ANGEL CREEK PRESS
Daphne, An Easter Bride
Brides of Noelle Book 4
by Kit Morgan
© 2018 Kit Morgan
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Chapter 1
Denver, Colorado February 1876
Daphne Louise Dolittle tossed a large handful of dirt into her father’s grave. She listened to the faint thuds as tiny clumps hit the simple pine box, and then turned away.
“What are you going to do now?” Dorcas, her best friend asked.
“I don’t know, but I have an idea,” Daphne said and scanned those attending the funeral. Her father was a successful tailor to the rich in Denver. She herself took after her mother and took to millinery. But with both her parents gone, she could seek her own fortune and make her own dreams come true. She just had to figure out how to go about it.
“Your father will be sorely missed,” Mrs. Pettigrew said as she approached. She kissed Daphne on the cheek. “My late-husband was fond of his work.”
Daphne swallowed hard as the young widow drew away. She was wearing one of the hats her mother made for her the year before, right before she died. Losing both parents in the span of little over a year was daunting, but she’d pull through. “Thank you,” she said as she took in her purple outfit. Mrs. Pettigrew was well known throughout Denver high society, (not to mention the rest of the city) as an eccentric. She had more money than anyone knew. Her husband struck gold some years back and died unexpectedly from influenza, the same as Daphne’s mother. Mrs. Pettigrew was left with a vast fortune, did whatever she wanted and didn’t care what people thought of her. Rumor was she’d even started a matchmaking service out of her home. Daphne hadn’t the eccentric widow’s riches, but at least was left with a business she could sell and move on.
“Please tell me you’re not going to leave,” Dorcas pleaded as Mrs. Pettigrew strolled away. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Daphne stared into her friend’s big green eyes. She was taller than Daphne, as was everyone else. Daphne barely reached five feet. Dorcas was a good head taller. Both had long dark hair, Daphne’s lighter by comparison. They’d grown up together, were practically inseparable, and told each other everything. Until now …
“Well?” Dorcas prompted as she shivered in the February wind. “Tell me what you’re going to do!”
Daphne’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I need time to think, Dorcas. I can’t answer you right now.”
Dorcas stuck her hands into a black, furred, hand muff. “You can’t leave.”
Daphne closed her eyes a moment. “You know me better than anyone. That I can only stay here so long.”
“Get married, that’s it! You could marry and not have to leave Denver.”
“If I go, Dorcas, it would be by my choice, not because I have to get married to survive.” She opened her eyes and hugged her friend. “The same holds true for you.”
Dorcas bit her bottom lip as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Daphne, I know how much you like a good adventure. You’re so much more independent than I. I just don’t think I could manage life on my own. Not like you dream of doing.”
Daphne hugged her again. “I know people think I’ve gone round the bend, that I’ll turn out like Mrs. Pettigrew. But I’ll choose when to marry. There are so many other things I want to do first and I want to be able to take care of myself while I do them.”
“But what if you become an old maid?” Dorcas cried.
Daphne stepped back and looked at her. “Again, it would be by my choice.”
Dorcas pulled a handkerchief from her hand muff and dabbed at her tears. “At least I can take comfort in the fact you’ll not leave me for at least a year.”
Daphne’s shoulders sagged. Dorcas didn’t understand Daphne’s need to set out on her own. “Why is that?”
Dorcas smiled. “Because you’ll be in mourning for that long, and who likes to travel in black?”
If it wasn’t so unseemly, Daphne would laugh. But she couldn’t do that at her father’s funeral. She wasn’t the eccentric Mrs. Pettigrew after all, who could get away with a lot. Like wearing an elaborate purple day dress and hat to the funeral of her late husband’s tailor. People knew the woman’s reputation and expected her to do something brash or bold. But not Daphne.
People treated her like some delicate flower because of her small size, and she hated it! She’d craved adventure and travel ever since she was a little girl, and now was her chance to do something. At this point she’d settle for a trip to the next county.
But maybe Dorcas was right. Maybe she should marry. Daphne would just have to find a man with as big a craving for adventure as she had. And money, he’d have to have money of course. How else would they afford to travel?
Oh, if only she’d been born a man! She wouldn’t have to bend to the strict conventions set for women. Surely other women felt as she did. Those wanting more than marriage and children as soon as they came of age. Daphne wanted to travel the world, not just read about it. But to do that she’d have to have money, lots of it. She could sell her father’s business, but she’d have to put a large sum of that away and live off the rest until she figured out something else. She could make and sell hats in the meantime, bring in more income that way, but she would still have to have a definite plan in place if she wanted to make her dream come true.
By her calculations, Dorcas was right. It would be at least a year before she could set out on her own. In the meantime, she’d miss her father and mother and be alone for the most part, with the exception of Dorcas. As to her other friends, their parents deemed Daphne a bad influence of late. She doubted she’d see much of them ever again.
When she did get around to seeing her dream fulfilled, she’d miss Dorcas. Oh how she’d miss her! But Dorcas hardly set foot outside of Denver, not even when her parents traveled to New York during the summer months. Dorcas didn’t care for travel and adventure or getting her hands dirty. She was a Denver girl born and bred, and didn’t give a whit about leaving the city in any shape, form or fashion. Unlike Daphne, who had a pair of “itchy feet,” as her father used to call them. He’d also tell her that one day they’d get her into a heap of trouble. Well, they hadn’t so far, and she didn’t they think they would. Not if she planned things carefully.
But planning would take time, and she could do little of that now. Her father’s death was unexpected, just like her mother’s, and the reality of it hadn’t settled in her heart yet. When it did she knew she’d grieve for him and grieve hard. She was a woman of deep passions and had done the same when he
r mother died. Just weeks ago she expressed to her father how she wanted to see the Great Wall of China, sail to exotic islands, take the transcontinental railroad to San Francisco, visit New York, Boston and Philadelphia, and then sail to London and Paris, but with him. Just the two of them.
Afterwards, then and only then, she’d get married.
Daphne sighed at the thought, wiped the tears from her eyes, and stepped into the midst of her father’s friends and customers waiting to give their condolences.
* * *
One year later, Denver, Colorado 1877
“This is a bad idea, Dorcas,” Daphne said. “I never should have agreed to this.”
“But it’s the only way,” her friend argued as she took her by the hand and started up the stairs.
The mansion was huge, Daphne had heard about the Pettigrew residence, even rode past in a carriage a few times, but to be standing on the doorstep …
“I hear she’s good at matchmaking,” Dorcas said, still trying to convince her that becoming a mail-order bride would be a grand adventure indeed.
“This is not the way I envisioned myself leaving the city!”
Dorcas stopped at the double front doors and let go of her hand. “Daphne Dolittle, it’s for your own good!”
“No, it’s for yours.”
Dorcas’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You take that back! I’ve only your best interest in mind.”
“Yes, and I imagine it has to do with having me married off to some boring farmer just outside of Denver.”
Dorcas gave her a hurt look. “Daphne, do you really think I’d do that?”
“At this point I’m not sure what you would do. You’ve been trying to talk me into marriage and staying put ever since my father died.”
Dorcas glanced at the front doors and back. “Can I help it if I care for you?”
Daphne’s face fell. Dorcas really was trying to help – on the one hand. On the other, she didn’t want Daphne to leave Denver, period. Dragging her to the Pettigrew mansion to speak with the “mad matchmaker” was her way of stalling the inevitable. A year had passed since her father died, and she still planned to leave. She just needed some sort of income to sustain her through her travels, but hadn’t come up with a good idea yet. “Okay, fine. I’ll see Mrs. Pettigrew, but that doesn’t mean I have to like this.”
“Of course not,” Dorcas said, satisfied at last. “But who knows, she may have the perfect man for you.”
Daphne doubted it, but was done arguing. She headed for the doors. “Let’s get this over with.”
Dorcas followed, a satisfied look on her face, one that changed to astonishment. “Is that…” she started and gulped, “… a likeness of her late husband?”
Daphne stared at the matching doorknockers. The golden faces of a bearded man wearing a floppy hat stared back. “I believe so.” The women exchanged a quick look before each took a knocker in hand and gave it a bang.
Dorcas let go of hers with a small giggle. The fact they’d both grabbed one at the same time was amusing. “Do you think anyone’s home?”
Daphne knocked a few more times and then stepped back. “We’ll find out.”
One of the doors opened. An elderly butler of about sixty stepped onto the threshold. He wore an apron and held a pair of clipping shears in one hand. Daphne wondered if he’d been trimming flowers. “May I help you?”
“Yes, this is Miss Dolittle,” Dorcas said with a wave at Daphne. “She has an appointment with Mrs. Pettigrew.”
The butler arched an eyebrow and then motioned them to come in. After he closed the door he looked them both up and down, arched his other eyebrow, and said, “Follow me.”
Daphne and Dorcas exchanged a wide-eyed look, (neither were of a class that dealt with butlers) and followed him. He led them into a large drawing room decorated in blue and gold paint with white furnishings, and motioned them to sit down. “If you’ll wait here, Mrs. Pettigrew will be with you shortly.” With a nod of his head, he was gone.
Dorcas stared after him. Her father was a businessman, just as Daphne’s father had been. But whereas Mr. Dolittle was a tailor, Dorcas’s father, Mr. Minx, got his start as a grocer and now owned several dry goods stores through out the city. Mr. Minx was also alive and well, as was Mrs. Minx. Daphne sometimes envied her friend for that reason.
“Look at this place,” Dorcas said in wonder. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Daphne warned. “Who knows what will happen if we break something.”
“Don’t be silly,” Dorcas said in a low voice. “I don’t believe for a minute that Mrs. Pettigrew is mean. You can’t believe every rumor you hear.”
“Including the fact she’s supposed to be some great matchmaker?” Daphne said as she took in their surroundings. “She can’t have made that many matches.” Daphne noted the quality of the cloth covering the sofa they sat on, then the other furnishings in the room. They made her feel shabby by comparison. She wore a light blue day dress and matching cloak of sturdy wool. The ensemble was pretty, but the room they found themselves in was fit for royalty. Not the daughters of middleclass businessmen.
“Bonjour, ma petites!” Mrs. Pettigrew said as she entered the drawing room.
Daphne hadn’t seen or spoken with the woman since her father’s funeral. Mrs. Pettigrew had a distinct southern accent then. Now it was … French?
Dorcas heard the difference too, and cast a confused glance at Daphne. “Er … hello, ma’am. I’m Miss Dorcas Minx and this is my friend …”
“Miss Dolittle, but of course!” Mrs. Pettigrew said with a huge smile. She turned to the butler who stood directly behind her. “Tugs, bring some tea to my office.”
The butler, grumbled to himself before he turned and left the room.
“You will forgive Mr. Tugs. He is not normally indoors like this. He prefers the gardens to the house.”
Daphne noted the man still wore his apron and carried the hand clippers. “Oh, was he working outside?” she asked out of curiosity.
“Yes, and no. He was trimming flowers in the solarium. But my regular butler has … how should I say … gone on a journey and won’t be back for a time. Poor Mr. Tugs has taken on his duties in the man’s absence.”
Daphne and Dorcas stared at the empty spot Mr. Tugs so previously occupied. To have a servant was only a dream. In their worlds, the women of the house did the cooking, cleaning, sewing, washing and so on. In Daphne and Dorcas’s case, they did all of that plus worked in their father’s shops. But Daphne sold her father’s tailoring business almost a year ago, and now had to make a decision. If she didn’t come up with another good source of income and soon, she might have to marry for survival reasons alone. She didn’t want to slave away making hats or work in a dress shop for someone else. That meant never leaving Denver and she certainly didn’t want that. Maybe this idea of Dorcas’s had some merit.
They followed Mrs. Pettigrew down a wide hall to a well-appointed office complete with a huge desk, various other furnishings, beautiful wallpaper and an intricately patterned carpet. “Now, let us get down to business, shall we?” Mrs. Pettigrew said and sat. “Of course, I am afraid our business will be short.”
“I beg your pardon?” Daphne said.
“I am afraid I do not have any applicants at the moment, but I will take down your information and match you as soon as one comes in.”
Daphne was surprised at the tiny prick of disappointment she felt. Relief quickly got rid of the feeling. “Too bad,” she said and tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Dorcas was only trying to help.
“Mrs. Pettigrew,” Mr. Tugs said as he entered the room, a silver tray in his hand. “You wanted to be alerted when the post came?”
“Oh, yes, Tugs, thank you,” she said and snatched the letter off the tray. “Wonderful! It’s from that lovely Father O’Flanagan. Probably sending me a progress report.” She looked at Daphne and Dorcas. “Now there’s a thought,” she drawled.
>
“Thought?” Daphne hedged. “About what?”
“I’ve been recruited by the good Father and a Mrs. Kinnison to keep an eye out for brides for a small town. Would that interest you, ma petite?”
Daphne swallowed and then gave her a blank look. Oh dear.
“Where is this town?” Dorcas asked brightly. “Is it far from Denver?”
Daphne fought against a sigh. Leave it to Dorcas to ask that.
“Not far, really. Especially not with the railroad building a line there.”
Dorcas’s eyes lit up. “Did you hear that, Daphne? It’s close!”
Now Daphne did sigh. “What town?”
“Noelle, it was a mining town until Mrs. Kinnison, then Mrs. Walters as I recall—widowed, poor thing – took a dozen mail-order brides under her wing and transported them there herself. Now the town is thriving, I hear, and soon they’ll want another batch.”
“When?” Dorcas asked, eyes still bright.
“Oh, well, there’s the rub, child. Not until the rail line is built. As far as I know the railroad won’t start construction until next month. Provided things are thawed out by then.”
“Oh, I see,” Dorcas mused. “But the railroad will be building a line to Noelle?”
“What with the silver mine and all, naturally they would.”
“Silver mine?” Daphne said.
“Yes, and it’s doing quite well. Men are flocking there to invest in it, make their fortunes,” she leaned slightly forward. “Get married.”
Dorcas’s face broke into a wide smile. “Did you hear that, Daph?”
Daphne studied the matchmaker a moment as her mind worked. “Silver, you say? And they’re investing?”
“Oui, ma petite. There are some qualifying factors, as I understand it, but they cannot be too strict if so many men are going there. That means they will need women, wives. I can arrange a match for you in a few months, I’m sure …”
