That night, Seth sat at his kitchen table. The kerosene lamp burned, adding to the light created by the fire in the fireplace, and his old hound Henry snoozed at his feet. He’d pushed the empty supper dishes to the end of the table, but the smell of beans and smoked ham lingered in the air.
He stared at the blank paper before him, trying to conjure up the words to describe the wife he wanted. But visions of Lucy Belle kept dancing through his mind—how he’d imagined her sitting across from him at this very table—and his heart ached over the broken dream.
He picked up his pen and dipped the tip into the inkwell, ready to order up a wife.
Dear Mrs. Seymour,
My name is Seth Flanigan. I’m twenty-eight years old. I live in Sweetwater Springs, Montana, where the prairie meets the mountains. I farm my own acreage and also run some cattle on the grasslands.
Seth thought of his wife having to put up with Frank McCurdy as her nearest neighbor to the south, hermit Chappie Henderson the closest person to the west of his farm, with no other women around, and wondered if he should warn her. Or maybe that news would scare her off. He decided to drop a tactful hint, but hold back the whole story until his future wife settled in. Again, he dipped the pen and scratched out more sentences.
Although I don’t have congenial neighbors for a woman to visit, I’m about an hour’s ride from town, close enough to attend church in good weather and engage in other social activities.
Seth gazed around the room, for the first time noticing how empty and shabby everything looked. At least, he had three chairs at the table, but only one comfortable seat in front of the fireplace. Probably should be honest about that as well. He didn’t want to disappoint his wife as soon as she crossed the threshold.
The Cobbs didn’t stock furniture at the mercantile, so he couldn’t ride in and buy some. Just the thought of perusing a catalogue made his head ache. Seth wondered if instead he should pay Phineas O’Reilly a visit at his cabinetmaking shop. No. Best let his new bride make those decisions.
My home is simple, in need of a woman’s touch, with a beautiful view of the mountains. The furnishings are sparse and shabby, but I guess a woman likes to choose what she wants. I have some money put away for her to do so.
The house has one main room that includes the kitchen and sitting area, with a loft above. So far, there’s only one bedroom, but I plan to add more if God blesses our union with children.
Seth glanced at the newspaper ad to see what else Mrs. Seymour required. Ah, yes. Education.
I was born and raised in Sweetwater Springs, where I attended school. I like to read books about animals.
Now for what he required. Seth thought back to the scene in the saloon, struggling to remember what he’d blurted out about his supposed wife-to-be. Hair color he knew, all right. McCurdy had drilled that into Seth’s mind. But what else? He thought for a moment, debating if requesting a pretty wife was too much to ask. But then again, he might as well give it a shot.
I’m looking for a pretty wife who is of medium height, has hair between the shades of blond and red, blue eyes, and a happy personality. I hope she likes to talk because I like to listen. It gets awfully lonely here sometimes.
He paused the pen too long, and a blot dripped from the tip onto the paper. He cursed and lifted the pen. But the damage was done. Seth debated about starting over, but who’s to say a blot wouldn’t happen again. He wasn’t in the habit of writing letters. He decided to soldier on and thought for a moment, figuring out what to say next.
For good measure, Seth decided to mention Reverend Norton’s stipulation about marital relations. Might set a prospective bride’s mind at ease. Heat flooded his body at having to write such intimate words to a stranger.
I promise to give my wife time to become accustomed to me and her new life before conducting marital relations.
Seth couldn’t think of much else to say, so he decided to end with a promise.
I will do my best to be a good and loving husband.
Sincerely,
Seth Flanigan
For a moment, Seth stared down at the words that would shape his future and debated about whether or not to send the letter. Then he remembered McCurdy’s jeers and the bet with Slim.
If nothing else, he couldn’t let Slim down. Seth owed him one for the time he’d drunk too much to stagger, much less ride, home. Slim had hauled him out of the saloon, tossed him on Saint, led the horse two miles out of his way to tuck Seth up in bed. Then Slim spent the night on the floor of the house. Yep, he owed the man, all right.
Slowly, he reached out and picked up the letter, scowling at the blot. Making sure the ink had dried, he folded the paper. For a moment Seth allowed himself to hope that maybe good could come from sending this request...that perhaps he was taking a step that would lead to happiness.
He let out a long breath. No. Happiness without Lucy Belle wasn’t possible. But maybe he and his mail-order bride could achieve domestic contentment. He thought again of his dreams of Lucy Belle. Marriage with some unknown woman wouldn’t be the same as the life he’d planned.
Yes, he decided, domestic contentment was as much as he could hope for.
Tomorrow, I’ll ride into town and post the letter.
CHAPTER FOUR
Trudy exited the streetcar and walked up the street to the big red-and-white Victorian house on the corner. With a twinge of envy, she admired the fanciful gingerbread trim and round turret on the left end of the structure. She’d always wanted a home with a turret. She stifled a sigh, doubting houses this fine existed in the frontier towns where she was headed. Not a one room cabin, please God. That would be too much of an adventure.
She quickened her pace up the stone walkway, onto the white porch with climbing roses showing yellow buds growing over the rails, and knocked on the gray door.
A young woman about her age opened it. Underneath a white apron with a smudge on the pocket, she wore a black skirt and shirtwaist. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a bun, and some wisps had escaped to curl around her face. The maid’s eyebrows arched over her blue eyes.
Pulling the advertisement from her reticule, Trudy handed over the tattered scrap she’d cut from the newspaper months ago. “I’m Gertrude Bauer. I’m here to apply to be a mail-order bride.”
A smile broke out over the woman’s face. “Come in.”
Trudy found herself relaxing at the warmth in the maid’s welcome.
“Let me take you to the parlor and inform Mrs. Seymour you’re here. Mrs. Seymour is the owner of the agency. Would you care for some tea?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Trudy followed the maid into a double parlor somewhat bigger than theirs at home. Two settees in worn brown velvet flanked the fireplace, and she took a seat on the nearest one. A low fire burned in the fireplace, and a large oval photograph of a man and woman hung over the mantel. The man was in uniform, and the woman wore a white gown. A wedding portrait? The twenty-years-out-of-date style of the woman’s dress, with the wide hoopskirt, meant the couple couldn’t have been matched through the agency.
Trudy glanced around the room, noting a pretty glass lamp with hanging beads on the shade sat on top of an upright piano. Busy with preparing for Anna’s wedding, she hadn’t practiced her music in weeks. It would be nice to play while she had a chance before she left St. Louis, for she might never do so again.
The door on the other side of the room opened, and a tall woman stood there—an older version of the woman in the wedding photograph. She had a handsome, although weathered, face and an air of authority about her. Her brown hair had one silver streak at the temple and was pulled back in a simple chignon. The severe cut of her blue dress reminded Trudy of a military uniform.
When the matron saw Trudy, a startled expression crossed her face, only to smooth away. She crossed the room with a brisk stride and held out her hand. “Miss Bauer, I’m Mrs. Seymour.”
The two touched fingers, then Mrs. Seymour waved t
o the door. “Please come into my study. Evelyn will be in soon with a tea tray.”
Trudy stepped into the room. “Oh!” she exclaimed, seeing the light-filled windows of the turret. “I love this room.” A window seat of rose velvet ran the perimeter of the room. She wished she could curl up on the cushions with a book and while away the afternoon.
Mrs. Seymour seated herself at a walnut secretary and gestured for Trudy to sit in the Windsor chair in front of the desk. As Trudy moved to the seat, she caught a glimpse of the photograph on top of the desk. It showed the same man as in the one over the fireplace in the parlor, although in this one, he was older and wore a far more elaborate uniform, including several medals.
Mrs. Seymour assessed Trudy with shrewd blue eyes. She pulled a ledger toward her, picked up a pen, and dipped the tip into an inkwell shaped like an apple. “Let me ask you a few questions, Miss Bauer, before I explain what the Mail-Order Brides of the West Agency has to offer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Feeling sudden nervousness, Trudy clenched her hands in her lap where Mrs. Seymour couldn’t see them.
The matron proceeded to inquire about her age, education, family background, domestic abilities, talents and what Trudy was looking for in a husband, taking notes all the while. When Trudy discussed her desire to see new places and have adventures, the woman raised her eyebrows. “Unusual,” she commented. “Most women want stability and will settle for someone kind who will support them.”
“I want that too,” Trudy protested, leaning forward. “But if that was all I required, I could find a husband right here in St. Louis. In fact, I could find him right next door.”
“I wasn’t criticizing you, my dear. Quite the contrary. My husband, Colonel Seymour, was stationed in the West.” Her gaze flicked to the photograph and lingered for a moment. “I traveled with him as much as possible. I had more adventures than most men have in their lifetimes. They were wonderful years. I miss those times.” She gave Trudy a direct look. “If you choose life as a mail-order bride, you will be tested, my dear, in ways you can’t even imagine. You will experience hardship and joy, discover strengths within yourself and weaknesses, too. You will make memories that you’ll hold in your heart forever.”
With a shake of her head, Mrs. Seymour leaned back against her chair. “Well. That’s not a speech I usually give to my new brides. I hope I haven’t frightened you away.”
Trudy gave an unladylike bounce in her seat. “Not at all. Thank you for speaking frankly…for understanding what I long for. I feel Mail-Order Brides of the West is the right agency for me.”
Mrs. Seymour pushed aside the ledger and tapped the leather folder underneath. “I have several potential husbands who might suit your needs. However—” the matron’s eyes sparkled and her delighted smile briefly gave her the look of a girl. “You perfectly fit the requirements of a man in Sweetwater Springs, Montana. I just received his letter today. I was quite taken aback upon seeing you.”
Excitement swirled through Trudy’s stomach. Montana!
“I don’t usually show prospective brides the men’s letters at this stage. But I have a good feeling about you. My procedure is to require my brides to live here where I can observe them for at least two weeks to assess their domestic abilities and have them take lessons in areas where they are deficient. Of course, the wait for the right match may take several months. Will you be able to stay here?”
“Can I still visit my father?”
“Of course. Every day if you wish.”
“Then I’m fine with moving here,” Trudy said, relieved that she wouldn’t have to sacrifice the last precious days with her father.
“Good. It’s quite obvious from your fine gown, you won’t require my cheaper accommodations in the attic. I have a dormitory you could share with five other prospective brides or the more expensive single bedrooms. While you’ll have less privacy in the dormitory, you’ll have an opportunity to become close with the other women. Often, my brides form lasting friendships and continue to correspond with each other after they leave here. No one understands more about the excitements and difficulties of becoming a mail-order bride than another one.”
Trudy liked the idea of rooming with the other women. All her friends had long since married and started families. They were too busy to spend much time with her. “I’ll take the dormitory.”
“Excellent.” The matron picked up a letter. “I cannot wait two weeks before showing you this and two other letters. I’m trusting my instincts that tell me you have the domestic abilities you say you do, and that these two weeks of observation will be a mere formality. And I will require a character reference from your minister.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Trudy relaxed her hands. “I don’t think I can wait two weeks to hear more about the man in Montana. May I read his letter?”
The matron nodded. “Mr. Seth Flanigan has written a most unusual letter, stating he’s willing to refrain from consummating the marriage right away. Now, my policy is to request the husbands my brides choose must wait one month before beginning marital relations in order to give the wife time to develop feelings for him and become accustomed to her new life. But it’s unusual for a prospective groom to volunteer his willingness to do so. This man has written that he will wait until his wife feels ready, which I don’t need to tell you, may be much longer than the month I require.”
That sounded like a good plan to Trudy. At her age, she was more familiar with what happened between a man and a woman than a green girl. In fact, she’d held a discussion with Anna about what would take place on her wedding night. But as much as Trudy had planned for becoming a mail-order bride, she’d tried not to think of submitting her body for a man’s pleasure. A necessary evil to marriage, her housekeeper had said many years ago when they’d talked about the marital act. To her, the whole process sounded uncomfortable. Oh, yes. Waiting a while certainly would be nice.
Mrs. Seymour opened the folder and paged through, talking about the beauties of Montana while she searched. She pulled out two folded sheets of paper. “Mr. Flanigan’s letter and the reference from his minister—” she glanced at the bottom of the page “—Reverend Norton.”
Trudy liked the sound of Seth Flanigan already. “May I?” She held out her hand for the letter. Her heartbeat skittered, and she paused before reading. What is written on this piece of paper might change my whole life.
“You read it, and then I’ll give you the correspondence from the two other men I have in mind. It’s so nice to have a choice, don’t you think? Some of my brides aren’t so lucky.”
Trudy took a deep breath and slowly read the letter, trying to absorb the information. With her heart fluttering and her stomach tight, she had a hard time deciphering the sentences and had to keep stopping and rereading. While Seth Flanigan’s handwriting wouldn’t hold up to the scrutiny of Trudy’s former governess, who’d insisted on perfect copperplate, his penmanship looked strong and neat. The blot on the page, however, would have earned him a smack on his hand from Miss Kelly’s ruler.
Finishing, Trudy let out the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding and pressed the letter to her heart. “He sounds perfect! Mountains and prairie—wide open spaces and majestic scenery—just what I wanted.”
Mrs. Seymour looked amused. “What about the man himself? Or the fact that he described you perfectly? Of course, I don’t know yet if you have a lively personality or like to talk, but you seem quite articulate to me.”
Trudy blushed. “Of course, that’s important too.”
Mrs. Seymour leaned forward and handed her two more letters. “These two men both live in railroad towns like you requested. If you choose one of these three, I’ll allow you to respond in…” She tapped a finger on her chin “…two days, so I have a little time to observe you. Unless, of course, I change my mind and decide you need more training. Can you move in tomorrow morning? Then you can help cook and prepare for our luncheon.”
“Of course. Wh
atever you’d like.”
Mrs. Seymour gave a decisive nod. “However, you are not to tell the other brides that I may waive the two-week requirement. Some of them...well, let’s just say they require extensive preparation to bring them up to the agency’s standards. Of course, I’m not saying to lie to them…just don’t talk about the timing. Do we have an agreement?”
“I agree.” Feeling less tense, Trudy had an easier time reading the men’s words. One man lived in East Texas. While he tried to make the setting sound hospitable, Trudy had heard of the area from Jane, a former school chum, who’d moved there with her husband to start a ranch. Jane was miserable in that hot, dusty land. And while it might be tolerable if she could settle near a friend, this man didn’t live near Jane. A definite no. Trudy placed the letter on the desk.
The second man made a good case for himself, which, given he was a lawyer like her father, would make sense. He had elegant penmanship and used educated language to articulate his plight. This man, however, had two daughters and a son and wanted a mother for them. After raising her sisters, Trudy wanted some time alone with her husband, time for those adventures before babies made their appearance. Besides, the man’s last name was Hottenslager. A shudder ran through her. She definitely didn’t want to answer to Mrs. Hottenslager for the rest of her life. That letter followed the other to the top of the desk.
Once more she picked up Seth Flanigan’s and read what he’d written. This time the words were easier to absorb. The house was smaller than she’d like, but at least, it wasn’t only one room, and he had promised to build on more. Mrs. Seth Flanigan. Gertrude Flanigan. Trudy Flanigan. She experimented with her possible new name. Yes, she liked the sound of it. The feeling of rightness made her look up at Mrs. Seymour. “Should you approve me, I’ll take this man.”
* * *
The next day, Trudy brought her trunk of clothing and accessories to the agency. After successfully demonstrating to Mrs. Seymour’s exacting standards that she knew how to fry chicken to a crispy golden brown, mash potatoes until not a single lump could be found, and glaze new carrots so sweet they tasted like candy, as well make a pie from the basket of apples she’d brought from home, Trudy earned the matron’s approval.
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Trudy (A Montana Sky Series Novel) Page 3
