by Natalie Dean
April 1861
“But Liam, you could be killed! Soldiers die!”
“Listen, Maggie, rich men in the North are offering $500 for substitutes to go fight for them. We can’t pass up an opportunity like that. We didn’t come all the way from Ballymore just to be poor in another country.”
“We’re not poor! We’re eating three meals a day. Have you forgotten what it was like? Waiting to see if the potato crop would thrive, and then knowing when it didn’t that we’d have another year of starving?”
“I haven’t forgotten. But I want more out of life for Molly than three meals a day. You’re a servant on a rich man’s plantation. I’m working in a rich man’s stables. Maggie, $500! It’s a fortune!”
“Rich men who start wars should fight their own battles!”
Maggie O’Hara’s tears were flowing freely now, but her sniffling and sobs didn’t interfere with her words. They’d been in America for over ten years, taking the ship across the ocean in 1850 as so many others had, because to stay in Ireland was to die. She and Liam had been newlyweds, but they were braver then. Liam had been braver, and Maggie was willing to go wherever he did. That meant getting on board a crowded ship and sailing until they arrived in Virginia. They’d found work with one of the few plantation owners in the state who didn’t own slaves and paid wages to immigrants to work his fields, manage his home, and tend to his stables. Mr. John Turner was something of an anomaly in Reddington, Virginia; he didn’t own slaves, but he wasn’t an abolitionist. He was, however, a fair man and a just employer.
“Why can’t you be happy as we are?” Maggie went on. “Why must you risk everything for $500?”
“Because if I am killed, Maggie, then there’s something for you and Molly. Something for a better life. If I stay a servant in Virginia, there’s never going to be anything else for us. I’m proud of what you do, and I know that Mr. Turner values the work you do. But our Molly isn’t going to be a servant, Maggie, and if I have to die to make sure of that, then I’ll die knowing that I’ve done right by her and by you.”
As her parents argued, Molly listened. She was in her bedroom, a small room that was originally a closet, but Da had said that, as they hadn’t enough belongings to justify having a room to store them, she could have her own room. Now, as she listened at the door, her parents’ voices and her mother’s sobs were plain to hear. Was Da going off to the war? She knew there was a war somewhere; Mr. Turner read the newspaper and then shut himself up in his study for most of the day.
Mr. Will and Mr. James had gone off to the war, but they hadn’t gone to the same place. Da had tried to explain it to her. Virginia didn’t want to be part of the United States anymore, and Mr. Will agreed it shouldn’t. That was why he had worn a gray uniform when Da brought out his horse, Hannibal, to him. Mr. James wanted Virginia to stay in America; he had already left, but he rode away in a blue uniform.
“It’s all a great deal of nonsense,” Maggie O’Hara retorted. “They’re fighting over slavery, and you know it.”
“But I’m not fighting for slavery. I’m going North; I’m going to meet Mr. James in Washington D.C. He said I could take one of the horses; Mr. Turner didn’t object.”
Molly had heard enough. She raced out of the closet bedroom and flung herself at her father. “Da! I don’t want you to go away!”
“There, do you see what you’re doing? Your daughter would rather have her father here with her. What does she want with $500 and no father?” Maggie’s accent was as strong as the day she’d gotten off the ship, unadulterated by the drawling tones of the Virginians around her. Molly’s English was a mixture of the accent of her parents and the leisurely speech pattern of Reddington. Whenever she answered a question, Mr. James would pull at her braids and tell her she was speaking Southrish again. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but Mr. James always seemed to have a grin in his eyes when he spoke, the kind of grin that made her smile in return, even if she wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Mr. Will smiled often, too, but even though he and Mr. James were twin brothers, their smiles were as different as they were.
Liam O’Hara bent down so that he and his daughter were on the same level. “Molly, girl, you know that I love you more than a leprechaun loves his pot of gold, don’t you?”
Molly nodded.
“But sometimes, a father has to do what he thinks is right, even if he won’t be there to see it. I’m looking out for you, Molly girl. You remember that, even if you don’t see me or hear me. I’m always with you.”
November 1862
Mr. James didn’t have that grin in his eyes; that was the first thing she noticed. But he forced a smile when she came into the room.
“You’ve lost your braids,” he said. It was a feeble joke, but nobody felt much like joking. Mr. James had brought Liam O’Hara’s body back to Reddington for burial.
“Mother says it’s time,” she answered. “I’m twelve now.”
He nodded, but she sensed that he was not thinking about her braids being gone. He had arrived yesterday morning after riding through the night. Mother knew, of course, she’d gotten the telegram and she’d fainted when she read it. But Mr. James riding in a wagon with Da’s body in a coffin was proof that the telegram wasn’t a mistake. Mother had sobbed through the funeral. There wasn’t a priest in Reddington, but Mr. Turner had done his best to give a funeral reading that would comfort her. After the service, Mr. Turner had served a luncheon for the other servants on the plantation, but Mother had been too distraught to stay. She’d gone back to the cabin, leaving Molly in her place. She was eleven-years-old.
When morning came, she had dressed as usual. She helped in the kitchen at the main house. Usually, Mother was already up and dressed, chiding Molly for dawdling. But Mother was still in her bed. She wasn’t crying, but when Molly hesitantly asked her if she was going to get up, she just shook her head. She shook her head again when Molly asked her if she needed anything. Uncertain of what to do, Molly left the cabin.
Molly went to the kitchens first. They were located outside the main house. Mae Rollings, the cook, was already at her work, rolling out dough for the luncheon meal.
“Land sakes, child, I didn’t expect to see you today. Where’s your Ma?”
“She won’t be able to work today,” Molly answered.
“No, well, I expect not,” Mrs. Rollings sighed. “It’s a bad business, this war. You can see it in Mr. Turner’s eyes. It’s like he can never hear good news; what’s good for one son might be bad for the other.”
“Is Mr. James still here?”
Mrs. Rollings nodded. “He got a pass to bring back your father. He’ll be here for a couple more days. It’s a shame Mr. Will couldn’t get a pass. I wonder if the brothers will ever see each other again?” she sighed again. “Well, it’s best to be busy when the heart is heavy. Since you’re here, you might as well get started peeling those potatoes.”
The chore was so ordinary that it seemed impossible to understand how Da could be gone and here she was, peeling potatoes as if it were any other day. But Da had not just gone to war, but gone to heaven. How could everything be exactly the same as it had been before, with Da gone?
After lunch had been served, she was helping with the dishes when Betsy, one of the maids, came down to tell her that Mr. Turner and Mr. James wanted to see her in Mr. Turner’s study.
“Me?”
“That’s what he said. Get along now; I’ll finish these up. Tidy your apron, girl and wipe your face; you’ve a smudge on your cheek.”
Molly didn’t see what difference it made whether her face was clean or not. She was just a servant girl in the household, and no one was ever going to take notice of her. But she did as Betsy ordered and didn’t object when Betsy gave her hair a brisk combing, using her fingers to work out the tousled locks.
“Lord have mercy, girl, but you do have the tangliest hair. Maybe it’s on account of being red.”
“Mother’s hair is red, and she n
ever has tangles,” Molly said.
Betsy didn’t answer. “Go on now; they’re waiting for you.”
Molly wasn’t used to being in the main part of the house. Her work was in the kitchens and downstairs; the maids tended to the upstairs cleaning. She made her way to Mr. Turner’s study, expecting with every step to be told to return downstairs. But no one saw her; the house was still. It hadn’t been like that when the twins were at home, before they went off to war. Mr. James seemed to travel in laughter and his brother and father, who were serious and solemn on their own, brightened up in his presence. He had noticed everyone, he greeted all the servants by name and had a joke for everyone, even a skinny little redheaded servant girl who thought he was a prince.
Molly knocked on the study door.
“Come in,” Mr. Turner’s voice called.
She opened the door and entered with trepidation. Mr. Turner and Mr. James were sitting on chairs by the fireplace; it was autumn, and the fire took the chill out of the room.
“Sit down, Molly,” Mr. Turner told her.
She obeyed him, although it didn’t seem proper to be sitting with them. She didn’t know what Mother would say to that; Mother was very firm about remembering her place.
“Molly,” Mr. James said, leaning forward, “I’m so sorry that we’ve lost your father. He was a good man.”
She nodded. Tears stung her eyes, but she knew that if she didn’t blink, they might not fall and the tears would cease.
“He talked about you at the end. I was with him.”
“How did he die?”
Mr. James looked to his father.
“Molly, you’re very young to be hearing things like this. It would be better if we told your mother and then she can tell you when you’re old enough.”
“I want to know. I’ll need to tell Mother.”
Father and son looked at each other. They seemed to understand something that Molly didn’t, even though she was the one who had spoken.
“It was a battle that we won, but it was a hard-fought battle,” Mr. James said. “Your father took a bullet to the arm that shattered the bone. He . . . was taken to the hospital tent. When I learned that he’d been wounded, I went to the tent. He spoke of you. He wants . . . he wanted you to better yourself.”
“You’ll always have a place here, Molly,” Mr. Turner spoke up. “You’re part of the household.”
“Yes,” Mr. James agreed. “But your father received a bounty for enlisting. He entrusted that money to me. I’m leaving it with my father. It’ll be kept in the bank for you, where it will accrue interest. That means that the bank will pay you for keeping your money there.”
Mr. James grinned. “So your money earns money just by sitting in the bank. There will be a little more than the $500 that he received. He was very specific. It’s for your future. Someday, he said, you’ll have need of it and when you do, Molly O’Hara, it’s there for you. Father is guardian of the money, but it’s yours.”
“Do you understand, Molly?”
Molly was dimly aware that this was a conversation that Mr. Turner and Mr. James should have been having with her mother. But they were having it with her. It didn’t make much sense.
“I’m trying to,” she answered.
Mr. James smiled. “It’s not easy to understand at your age.”
“None of this is easy to understand. I fear that nothing ever will be. Molly, you are very young to have so much responsibility, but it may take awhile before your mother is able to be as she was. She has had a great shock.”
“Mr. James, now that West Virginia is its own state and not part of Virginia, will Mr. Will still have to wear a gray uniform?”
Mr. Turner’s shoulders sagged. She saw his lower lip tremble and realized that her question had troubled him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Turner. I don’t understand.”
Mr. Turner smiled faintly. “As I said, child, I doubt that anything will be easy to understand for a long time. My son has chosen to wear gray, the uniform of the Confederacy. He no longer regards himself as a citizen of the United States, but he is still my son, and I hope that you will keep him in your prayers along with Mr. James.”
Molly wondered how Mr. Turner knew that she prayed nightly for Mr. James. She prayed in secret, and not even Mother knew.
“God will surely hear the prayers you send Him, Molly O’Hara,” Mr. James said. “With that red hair, God can’t help but see you. You’ll always be able to get God’s attention.”
If you’d like to read more of this wonderful mail order bride romance, you can find it here:
A Soldier’s Love
Sneak Peek: Lottie
Book Description
LOTTIE
Brides of Bannack Book 1
A Western Romance Short Story
Lottie Cahill is a headstrong, fiery redheaded orphan on the run from her past. Headed out west to Montana, she’s ready to start her new life as a mail order bride. Then things take a turn for the worst. Seems like bad luck follows her from one place to the next.
Doc McLennon isn't looking for love, but when Lottie comes to town, Doc keeps finding himself right in her path. The more he's around her, the more he realizes what he's been missing.
Together, Lottie and the good doc make a discovery that could leave her stranded. Will they be able to solve this mystery? Or will someone destroy them before they get a chance? And will Lottie finally get the family she's longed for all her life?
Chapter 1
Lottie Cahill was sitting in a luxurious rail car. The only other people in the car were there to serve her. The velvet curtains and pelmets that lined the windows and the seats made her feel like a queen. She felt like she was sinking into her seat, it was so comfortable as it enveloped her. A glass of champagne and some canapes sat on the table in front of her. The rocking of the train hardly perceptible. "This is the life," Lottie said to herself. She could leave all the sadness and filthiness of the city behind.
The journey was a little rockier than she expected it to be. She could feel her body sway from side to side. Something was jarring at her, but she wanted to push it to the back of her mind. No, she was very comfortable here, as the train whisked her towards her fiancé. She jolted and rocked out of her reverie, Lottie opened her eyes. It had been a dream. She wanted to cry as she looked around the box car that housed her. There were at least two other families in the space with her. The cheapest rail option was for families banded together. But, it lacked any seats and smelled of the animals who had previously occupied it. Cattle would fill it on its return journey to the city.
"Why couldn't I have slept longer?" Lottie sighed. She watched the children playing. One of the children came running towards her, "Miss, mama wants to know if yer hungry?" Lottie nodded with tears flowing down her cheeks and cried. She hadn't eaten in two days.
Hungry, tired and sweating was not how she had planned her trip. The little girl returned with some lard and bread. Lottie nodded to the mother who had sent it her way. She said a silent prayer to thank God for the food she was about to eat. The side door of the box car was open, and the air that came through was warm.
The landscape had changed since she had fallen asleep. She took her mind back to a few days ago when she thought the world was her oyster as she set off on the start of her new life. Lottie's fiancé, Frank Ward, had promised her the best that money could buy. "Lottie, are you sure you want to leave the city?" Mary Jones asked her. "Where else can I go, Mary? He's ruined my reputation, and I'll never get work as a nurse again. Not in the city. Anyway, I'm tired of not having anything of my own. Don't cry. I wouldn't change a thing from that night. I had to save you, Mary." Mary collapsed into tears. Lottie was right. Only for her intervention, her beau would have strangled the life out of her. She owed her life to Lottie.
But Lottie had paid a terrible price, and now she was heading to the middle of nowhere. "Maybe you'll join me at some stage, Mary. I thank you for giving me the idea of bein
g a mail order bride. It's working out for the best. My fiancé has a farm, and for once I'll be working towards something of my own that no one will ever take away from me. He says there's a ball in Fort Benton in two months time and we're going. Imagine it, Mary. Me, at a ball. This is my new life now."
Mary and Lottie were walking to the train station. Lottie was getting a train which would lead her from Chicago to Butte in Montana. From there a stage coach would take her to a town called Bannack. Her fiancé, Frank Ward, wired her fare to the Western Union office. Only the best for her, he had written in his letters which she kept in her girdle close to her heart.
Mary stood back as Lottie went to the ticket office. She watched as Lottie seemed to remonstrate with the ticket seller. She could tell from Lottie's face that something was wrong. "Mary, you won't believe it. The incompetence of some people." Lottie was shaking with annoyance.
"What is it?" Mary asked.
"They said Mr. Ward only wired enough money to cover my fare in a boxcar. That cannot be. He promised me a comfortable passage. I do have a little bit of money, but I wanted that for when I get to my new home. Could they have made a mistake?"
"I'm sure it's a misunderstanding. I know it's much cheaper to go in the box car. You'll be with families, but at least you'll be on your way. Is this the one?" Lottie and Mary stood beside one of the boxcars. Some families were already ensconced, and children were running around. Lottie and Mary said their goodbyes.
"Let me help you, Miss," the man offered his arm and Lottie was yanked up into the boxcar. "Find yerself a corner, Miss."
Was it a mistake? Or was Frank someone who pretended to have more than he really had? Lottie didn't have much expectation from life. She looked around her. While disappointed that Frank had made promises he didn't fulfill, she was used to making do.
Her life had started in tragedy with her mother dying in childbirth. She grew up in a Catholic orphanage and knew nothing of her family. Other than her being Irish with her fiery red hair and green eyes. Lottie was feisty and couldn't abide the weak being taken advantage of. She had a tendency to step in if she felt someone was being bullied. Her skills in the infirmary and her gentleness, helped Lottie catch the eye of one of the benefactors.
