The Wrong Bride_A Christmas Mail Order Bride Romance

by Natalie Dean

  Jimmy had to admit that was true. He had never been a vain man. He often allowed his beard to grow into a hint of a shadow on his chin. His light brown hair was slightly longer than was fashionable.

  Still, he’d received praise for his bright green eyes from more than one person in town. And, when compared with some of the men, especially those who lived closer to the mountains, he was very well groomed indeed.

  “Besides,” Billy continued. “You usually send a picture along with your advertisement. So, ladies who don’t like the look of you can pass you by.”

  “And what if I don’t like the look of her?”

  “You can do the same thing,” Billy said. “No one says you have to propose to the first girl who writes to you. But, you certainly don’t have anything to lose by trying.”

  Jimmy lifted his head and turned instead towards the side of the wagon. He knew he didn’t have any excuses left to give. Even so, the idea still terrified him.

  What on earth would he say to a woman he had never met? He was certain a fine eastern lady would expect nothing less than poetry from a man who wanted to court her. And, what he had to offer in the way of intellect, was certainly less than any poet.

  Thankfully, they did not discuss the subject further. And, when they arrived back at the ranch, Jimmy went back to his room to change for supper.

  Lizzie, Billy’s wife, was cooking chicken pot pie with yeast rolls. One of Jimmy’s favorite meals.

  As he entered his room, he had to admit that Billy had certainly found a wonderful woman through this letter writing system.

  But, he argued that had been a bit different. Lizzie’s sister-in-law, Bernadette had lived in Laramie long before Lizzie came. When Billy wrote to his future wife, Bernadette had been there to tell him what to say to win her over.

  Sometimes Bernadette had even written the letters on Billy’s behalf.

  It wouldn’t be like that with Jimmy. There were no other women in town with sisters or cousins back east he could marry.

  No, if he wrote to a woman, he would have to do it completely on his own. With his own very plain way of speaking. His own disjointed and sloppy handwriting.

  He entered his small room and slumped down onto the bed.

  No matter how his mind tried to argue against what Billy had said, he had to admit there was truth to it. He wouldn’t be able to get along without a woman’s help on the farm.

  There were no women in town seeking employment as hired hands or maids. And, even if there were, Jimmy was not sure he would be content with that arrangement.

  When he looked at Billy, with Lizzie and their little one, he couldn’t help but be more than a little jealous. Something inside him longed for a happy, loving family of his own.

  And, it was becoming increasingly clear that the only way he was going to get one was to write back east.

  He glanced up from his hands and over to the small writing desk at the far end of the cabin.

  It was cluttered with tools, extra work boots, and dust. Looking at it now, it seemed almost depressed from neglect. As though the desk itself were begging him to put it to use.

  Heaving a sigh, he pushed himself up from the mattress and headed over to the desk. He shoved the tools and boots aside, dusted off a piece of parchment and picked up a quill.

  With large portions of his mind still adamantly protesting that this was a bad idea, he began to write his advertisement.

  Chapter 2

  “Aunt Victoria! Come to the nursery with me!”

  Victoria Weston found herself being pulled forcefully from her seat at the breakfast table by the surprisingly strong hand of her five-year-old nephew, George. He dragged her no further than the edge of the room before his mother called to him.

  “George!” she said reprovingly. “I’m sure nanny won’t approve of a grown up in the nursery. Especially not so early in the morning.”

  Victoria’s sister-in-law, Julia, a proper English woman from London, always sounded as though she were better than anyone else in the room. And, that was not only because of her accent.

  “But, Nanny’s not here Sunday!” George said petulantly, stomping his little foot down on the ground. Sunday was the one day in which George could eat at the table with his mother, father, and Aunt Victoria. The other days of the week, he was kept mostly out of sight in the nursery.

  “Even so,” Julia Weston said. “It’s simply not appropriate. Besides that, I am certain that Aunt Victoria has more important things to do today.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, truly,” Victoria said eagerly. The truth was, she had nothing with which to occupy her time this afternoon. This had been the case ever since her elder brother and his wife had moved into her house one year before, just after her father’s death.

  Mr. Weston had been ill for a good long while. Victoria had taken it upon herself to attend to him. Though her father’s illness had not been ideal, it had given Victoria, who lived a mostly privileged life in Boston, a sense of purpose. When she had a meaningful task to perform, she felt alive.

  When her father died, her brother Robert was named heir to their father’s estate, and had immediately moved in. He had graciously allowed Victoria to stay on in the house. However, it seemed predicated on the condition that she behave like a true Boston “Lady”.

  This meant that she was never permitted to do anything useful at all.

  “Nonsense,” Julia responded predictably with a tinkling little laugh that Victoria could tell was entirely false. “You can always call on Nanny Cartwell. She always enjoys having visitors on Sunday. I’ll have Samantha come in to take George up to the nursery.”

  “But, I want Aunt Victoria!” George said stamping his foot again and now close to tears. But, it was no use, his mother had already stood to ring the dining room bell which would call the maid, Samantha into the room.

  “You rang, Ma’am?” Samantha asked. She was a fair-haired girl with wide eyes and an Irish brogue.

  “Yes, Samantha,” Julia said. “Could you please take George up to the nursery? It is time for his nap at any rate.”

  Samantha, who looked harassed as it was, went pale at the suggestion that she take on yet another task.

  Victoria could feel the frustration coming off the young girl.

  Victoria had always been able to sense how people were feeling. When he was alive, her father had called it her “gift”.

  She could always tell what someone was really thinking, even what their true intentions were. And, when tested, she was rarely wrong.

  But, she thought ruefully, it didn’t take someone with a “gift” to realize that poor Samantha was overworked.

  None the less, Victoria saw the maid take a large breath and compose herself before saying, submissively, “Yes, Ma’am. Come along George. Time for your nap.”

  The maid picked the five-year-old up even as he kicked and screamed that he wanted his Aunt Victoria. His cries were ignored as Samantha carried him from the dining room into the hall. Victoria could hear George crying all the way up the stairs.

  Though she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t help but let her eyes glance towards the hall even as George’s cries disappeared.

  “You mustn’t be so concerned about him, Victoria,” Julia said sipping her tea with a decidedly unconcerned air. “It does him good to cry a bit. It will teach him to fend for himself. That’s the way I was raised and it all worked out very well for me.”

  Victoria would have liked to dispute this. Julia’s pretentious, shallow, and often selfish airs were not what Victoria considered desirable. And, sitting about doing nothing while the maids did all the household work and raised the children to boot was not her idea of a fulfilling life.

  Still, she knew that arguing with Julia was not worth the headache it would give her. And it would certainly not do to get on the wrong side of her brother who, no doubt, would take his wife’s side when he learned of the disagreement later.

  “I suppose it’s something I nee
d to get used to,” Victoria said quietly sipping her tea. Julia seemed to find something very amusing in Victoria’s statement because she let out a tinkering giggle.

  “I forget that you Americans were taught that you must work with your hands to feel useful, no matter how wealthy you are,” Julia said. “I suppose that’s why you see even upper-class American mothers rushing about after their children looking as harassed as any ordinary nanny.”

  Victoria pursed her lips and told herself not to answer harshly that hard work never harmed anyone. And a mother who was actively involved in parenting tended to produce more well-rounded children than those raised by distant parents.

  But, then, she remembered Robert and her place in the house. She was a guest here now that her Father was dead. And, what’s more, she was a guest who could be thrown out at a moment’s notice.

  So, she took another deep breath and forced herself to answer civilly.

  “Father always insisted that I keep busy,” Victoria conceded. “‘Idle hands are the devil’s playground’, he used to say. Perhaps that is why I feel so useless just sitting about.”

  Julia looked across the table at Victoria and gave her that simpering smile she always wore. The one that told Victoria that her sister-in-law was about to say something very condescending.

  “Well, dear, if you find it so dull here, there are always ways to amuse yourself,” she said. “Why don’t you take a walk down to that little chapel? Services are over for the day. And the pastor never minds you going in to pray, does he?”

  “No, he doesn’t mind,” Victoria said. “I suppose a walk would do me good.”

  “Go on then, dear,” Julia said returning her attention to her tea. “I’m sure you’ll be in better spirits when you return.”

  As long as Julia was still in this house, Victoria doubted she’d be in better spirits when she returned. Still, as there was nothing better to do, she made her way out of the house and down the lane to the small chapel.

  The pastor usually left the back door open for Victoria. Even on Sundays. He said that it was admirable that a lady of her station still found time during the day to come in and pray.

  Of course, Victoria didn’t tell the kind old man that she did not go to the chapel to pray. Not really.

  Her father had taken her to services at the little chapel when she was a child. She remembered fidgeting with the ends of her dress as the pastor gave his long sermon. She remembered her father taking her hand to stop her wiggling.

  She would look up at him always expecting a stern glare. But, instead, he usually gave her an understanding smile and a wink.

  Now, she only came to church when she was alone, and hardly ever for services.

  Robert and Julia never attended Church services save for weddings and funerals.

  After her father died, Victoria attended a few services on her own. But, the stares and murmurings, not to mention the condolences from well-meaning acquaintances saying that they were ‘sorry for her loss’ became too much to bear.

  But, after services, the chapel was the only place in the neighborhood where she could truly be alone.

  As she walked down the steps of her father’s large home, which stood beside a dozen other stately homes in Boston’s finest neighborhood, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Breathing the air outside was like drinking from a glass of cool water after a prolonged walk in the desert. Ever since Robert and Julia had moved into her home, bringing their fancy china, decorative furniture, and huge art pieces, the house had felt stale and as stifling as a museum or an old tomb.

  She no longer recognized it as the busy, joy-filled place she had known as a girl.

  When she was a child, her parents had entertained nearly all their acquaintances from the greatest to the least in that home. She remembered lawyers who worked for her father’s business dining with visiting earls from London.

  And, there had always been something in that house for her to do. When she was young, her mother had taught her to play the piano and to draw. When she grew older, her father taught her to use the typewriter so that she could take dictation for him when he was away from the office.

  That house held so many special memories for her.

  But, now that Robert and Julia had moved in, she was never happier than when she was away from it.

  She turned the corner and walked to the back of the chapel.

  It was a small building made up of gray stone with a white steeple. Like everything in Boston, it was nearly one hundred years old.

  Victoria opened the door and moved inside, breathing in the familiar scent. The pine wood of the pews mixed with the candles from the earlier service.

  As she sat down in one of the back pews, she knew she should say a prayer. In this place, it felt right to acknowledge God.

  But, despite her frequent trips to the chapel, she hadn’t genuinely prayed since her Father died. And, now that he was gone, she found that she couldn’t find the words to ask God for what she wanted.

  So, instead of praying, she pulled out a novel from her small purse and began to read.

  Here in the chapel, she could read in peace without feeling as though she were an oddity, or something to be put up with as she often did in the large house.

  Lately, her brother had even taken to suggesting that Victoria move out of the estate.

  “I’ve inherited enough to purchase a nice little house for you, not far from us,” he’d said last week over supper. “If you are so inclined, you could move there and live quite comfortably doing your charity work or what have you. Of course, I would pay you an allowance each month.”

  Victoria had thanked Robert and told him that she would consider it. But, inside, she’d bristled at the picture he’d painted.

  Old maids lived in ‘nice little houses’ and did ‘charity work’.

  From this description alone, it was clear that her brother could not imagine Victoria ever being married. And, when Victoria thought about her appearances in society, she could hardly blame him.

  With her thin figure, fine brown hair and her face still filled with freckles, she was hardly a tribute to beauty. Not to mention, the life of an aristocrat’s wife held no appeal to her.

  She could not imagine herself in the place of Julia. Lounging about the house all day. Ordering the nanny to care for her children and ordering the servants to care for her husband. Spending her life occasionally organizing banquets or charity balls.

  The life of an old maid, with no one to love or comfort her, appealed to her even less.

  But, she knew that, as a fine Boston lady, these were the only two paths open to her.

  She tried her best to put these thoughts out of her mind. To focus on her novel which, she hoped would transport her far away from the little church in Boston. To a place where she could create her own destiny.

  It didn’t.

  No matter how she tried, she could not help thinking about how hopeless her situation seemed. She began to envy the working-class girls she’d heard of. Girls who made their way out west after corresponding with hard working ranchers and farmers.

  They could take charge of their own destiny. Victoria supposed that was one of the few benefits of being poor.

  With a sigh, she closed her book and allowed her mind to stray to the center of the altar. There, a plain wooden cross stood in the window, cutting the beams of the sun so that it was bathed in bright rays.

  Something inside her called her to pray.

  She tried to silence it. Tried to tell herself that praying hadn’t saved her father and it wouldn’t help her now. Even so, the voice grew louder.

  Finally, with great hesitation, she began.

  “God,” she said shakily. “I realize that it has been a long while since I have spoken to you. But, if you can hear me, I need your help. I need my freedom. I want to have the chance to make my own destiny. One that is not decided for me by my brother or sister-in-law or anyone else. If that is possible, please, g
rant me that.”

  She thought about saying ‘Amen’, but, in the end, she left it too long. So, she simply let the prayer hang in the air of the chapel. Hoping against hope that it would find its way to heaven.

  She sat there for several more minutes as though expecting some voice to boom out an answer to her. When it didn’t, she heaved a sigh again and stood from her pew.

  She headed to the back door thinking that she may as well go back home. It was getting late, and there was nothing more to be done here.

  That was when she saw the booklet.

  On a small table, just beside the back door, a pile of small red booklets caught her eye. When she looked closer, she could make out the gold emblazoned title: ‘The Hand and Heart’.

  Wondering how she could have missed these, she took one and curiously flipped through it.

  It was the sort of thing factory girls looked through when they wanted to go out west. Each page was filled with advertisements from men seeking correspondence (with an eye toward matrimony), with young women back east.

  As she looked carefully at the ads, most of which came with pictures, she realized that this might be her answer. After all, if a factory worker could find a husband in such a manner, why couldn’t she?

  With a hint of determined defiance, she put the booklet in the folds of her skirt and marched out of the chapel.

  It was not until that evening, as she was looking through her new treasure by the light of a candle in her room, that she found the advertisement placed by Jimmy Fairchild of Laramie, Wyoming…

  Chapter 3

  Victoria was starting to think she’d made a grave mistake.

  She had been in Laramie, Wyoming all of one hour. Already, the elation she had felt earlier in the day at finally being on her own, at having accepted the proposal of a good, simple farmer, had dissipated entirely to be replaced by a sense of anxiety, horror and more than a hint of shame.