MARGARET_Suffragettes Mail-Order Bride

by Kate Cambridge

  Margaret nodded along, considering that information. “Why does he want a bride?” she asked.

  “He was very frank about not wanting to fall in love,” Elizabeth replied. Margaret was glad – a man who wanted to fall in love would only be disappointed with her. “His ranch is rather large and he is hoping to have a partner to help with the maintenance of it – he explains it quite well in the letter.” Then she purses her lips. “There’s a school there which could use a new headmistress.”

  “Headmistress?” Margaret asked, surprised. “I was only a junior teacher!”

  “You were, in Boston,” Elizabeth replied. “Montana is much more progressive, and in need.”

  The thought of returning to the classroom was very tempting. Margaret looked down at the letter from Jake MacDonald, wondering if she looked hard enough whether she would be able to see through the paper and into the heart of the man who wrote it. Whether he truly wanted a partner, or if he’d only said that to get one of the women Lizzie was promising. But no, she thought – Lizzie would be able to spot a man like that. If he’d helped her with the locals, and if he’d been honest about not wanting to fall in love, then he might be worth considering.

  She didn’t want to read the letter in front of Elizabeth. Margaret wasn’t very good at hiding her emotions and she might give something away that she didn’t mean to if she read it in front of the other woman.

  Elizabeth seemed to consider her next words. “I know this has been a difficult time for you –”

  “I’m ready to move on,” Margaret said quickly. “I just need somewhere to go.”

  “You can stay with my father as long as you like –”

  “I know,” Margaret said, pressing her hand over Elizabeth’s. “I know, Lizzie. But what I want more than anything is to live under my own power. I suppose marriage is the next best thing.”

  At least it would be a choice she made herself. At least it was action and movement, instead of the sloth-like wallowing in her own grief she’d been enduring over the last few weeks.

  Elizabeth still looked a little bit concerned. “There’s one other thing. I received a letter from Mr. MacDonald earlier this week – he’s asked that I find him a wife sooner than expected.”

  “How soon?” Margaret asked.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flickered down to her knees, and then back up to Margaret’s face. “He’d like to meet you within a month,” she said.

  Margaret felt her eyes widen. “A month?”

  “Two weeks on the train,” Elizabeth said. “So you would need to make the decision within the next fortnight. You don’t need to marry him, of course – but he wants to at least meet you. There’s no real time for you to get to know each other through letters as you usually would, but personally I think you two would be good for each other. When I met him, I thought of you.”

  Margaret worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Why does he need to meet me so quickly?” she asked.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “In the letter to me, he hinted at some problems with his family. I assume his mother is sick and he’s hoping a wife will help take some of the load off of him.”

  Margaret frowned. “I’m not a maid.”

  “He knows that,” Elizabeth replied. “I was very clear about how I expect my suffragette sisters to be treated.”

  Margaret let that sink in. She wasn’t sure if rushing into this was the best idea, but did she really have a choice? Of course she did. There was always a choice. But many of her choices meant staying in her current situation of lost, grief-stricken inactivity. This, at least, would get her moving again. It would give her the chance to feel needed, active, and like she had something to offer. She could be teaching again!

  She clutched the letter from Jake MacDonald in her fingers.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” she said.

  Three

  Margaret stepped off of the train and into the humid Montana air, feeling sickly from the journey and eager to be on solid ground again. Elizabeth had arranged a first class carriage for her – a generous gift that Margaret had almost declined – but even the comfort of first class hadn’t been enough to prevent her from feeling like a rag doll being tossed around. Perhaps her disposition was too delicate for long-distance travel. Or perhaps her nerves were getting the better of her.

  It had taken her two days to consider all of her options. It wasn’t that she was unsure about joining Elizabeth’s agency. She had a feeling that joining the agency would have been inevitable for her. She just wasn’t sure about the time frame. What was it that made Jake MacDonald so eager for a wife so soon? She thought he should have been clearer in the letter to Elizabeth.

  But she’d accepted in the end, and Elizabeth had made the necessary arrangements. She was a wonderful friend but an even more capable businesswoman – working hard to make sure the transition from Boston to Helena was as smooth as possible for Margaret.

  “Mr. MacDonald will be at the train station to pick you up,” Elizabeth had told her as the two of them had been packing Margaret’s things. She’d lost most of her possessions in the fire, but the other suffragettes had gifted her with clothes and other necessities. “If the train is robbed, keep an eye out for a red-haired woman. Her name is Grace – she’ll be kind if you tell her I sent you. Once you’re in Helena, you should do your best to get to know Mr. MacDonald, but if you don’t like him then send me word. After a month you can decide what you want.”

  Thankfully, the train hadn’t been robbed. Margaret had made it to the train station in Helena without incident, feeling hot and bewildered, and desperately hoping her prospective husband’s horse and carriage would be more stable than the train which had brought her to him.

  Out on the wooden train platform, Margaret was immediately overwhelmed by the dozens of men and women bustling off of the first class carriages. The men were in suits with gold watch chains, and the women wore dresses which probably cost more than Margaret’s family home. It was a strange thing to walk among these people in her simple, dark blue dress, and think about how little they must have in common. That they were probably here on business or for pleasure, and not to marry a stranger out of necessity. They all had porters to help them with their bags, but nobody approached Margaret to help her. They must have all thought she wouldn’t be worth the time – that she wouldn’t tip well, or that she had snuck into first class from third and didn’t belong with their lot.

  “How rude,” she muttered to herself as she pulled her trunk along behind her, half-enjoying the scratching sound it made on the platform and the way some of the women winced as she passed.

  It was humid. Already she could feel her arms and back sticking to the material of her dress. She’d always preferred the cold to the heat – that comfort of knowing a few extra layers would make her more comfortable was infinitely preferable to the fact that wearing thinner layers or hiking up her skirts could have her arrested for indecency. She hadn’t considered that Montana would be hotter than Boston.

  And was starting to get a headache.

  Her stomach still rolling from the journey, her head pounding from the heat, she pulled her trunk to the edge of the platform where she could see carriages waiting. Many of them were cabs, picking up the most well-dressed of the men and women from first class. Others were more simple, modest horse and carriages which held men who would climb down and greet the passengers form second and third class with a hug and a smile. Margaret watched them for a moment and realized with a jolt that she had no one to greet her like that. She didn’t even know what Jake MacDonald looked like. Elizabeth had described him as handsome, with dark hair and a stocky build, but several of the men here fit that description, and they all seemed to be greeting someone else.

  Not for the first time, Margaret asked herself what she’d been thinking. Coming here, to a town and state she’d barely even heard of, to meet and marry a man she’d never met. There were so many things that could
go wrong. So many things she still wasn’t sure of. And there were still the nightmares, which would force her into waking every night on the train and keep her up for hours afterwards, leaving her drained, restless and exhausted for the rest of the day. Would this Jake MacDonald want a damaged wife?

  She lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching as the men and women in suits and fancy dresses were snatched up by the cabbies, and the more modestly dressed folks left with the rest of the waiting carriages, and she felt a growing sense of dread. Where was Jake MacDonald? Where was the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with?

  After half an hour of waiting, Margaret found herself alone at the station.

  “Oh, wonderful,” she said. She double-checked that she was, indeed, at Helena station – that she hadn’t gotten off too early or too late. She hadn’t.

  She didn’t know what to do. Elizabeth had given her enough money to last for the month – another generous gift Margaret had needed to restrain herself from declining – so she could always book a hotel. But she hadn’t come here for a holiday. She’d left everything she’d ever known; her friends, her hometown, her work with the Boston branch of The National American Woman Suffrage Association. She’d said her tearful goodbyes when Susan, Lucy, and Lydia had bid her farewell at the train station. She’d come here to get married. What a horrible anti-climax it would be for her to just scamper back to Boston with her tail between her legs.

  Margaret set her trunk down and sat on it, pondering her next step. She began to grow annoyed. How rude, she thought, to leave her waiting like this! She hoped Jake MacDonald didn’t make a habit of slacking off on his responsibilities. Perhaps she ought to write to Elizabeth and tell her to strike Mr. MacDonald’s name from her records.

  Just as she was thinking that, another buggy rolled up to the station. She glanced up but looked away immediately. The driver was not a stocky, dark-haired man, but a tall and lean blond in dirty trousers with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He was not handsome either – at least not by her standards. She thought he could be if he smiled more, but his face was set in a perpetual frown as though he were thinking hard about something that displeased him.

  When he climbed off the buggy, she paid him no mind. She barely even looked at him until he approached her.

  “Miss Singleton?” he asked. His voice was gruff and hoarse as though he wasn’t used to using it.

  Margaret looked up with a start. “Yes?” she said uncertainly.

  He bowed his head and took off his hat. “M’name’s Greg Barnes. Jake MacDonald sent me to pick you up.”

  Margaret blinked at him. “Mr. MacDonald sent you?” she asked. He nodded, giving her a look like he was worried that she was simple. “Why didn’t he come himself?”

  “He had other business,” Greg Barnes said. His tone seemed to imply that ‘other business’ was all the information he planned on giving her.

  Margaret felt a fresh wave of annoyance as she considered that. So her prospective husband couldn’t even take the time to come and meet her at the train station. He obviously wasn’t terribly invested in this process. Elizabeth had assured Margaret that she wouldn’t be treated as a maid. That her prospective husband would treat her with respect and make her feel welcome. He was not making a good first impression.

  “Very well,” Margaret said, because she’d come all this way and she was too tired and annoyed to try and navigate a strange town and look for a hotel room. And there was always the chance that this really was a bad first impression. That he would improve upon closer acquaintance. “Let’s go, then.”

  Greg Barnes nodded and waited for her to stand up before taking her trunk, tucking it under his arm as if it weighed nothing and heading back towards the buggy, not bothering to look behind to see if she followed.

  Four

  The buggy ride was awful. Margaret had found herself gripping the side of the cart, staring into the distance and spending more time concentrating on not vomiting than she spent admiring the landscape. It was beautiful, but also terribly isolating. There were a handful of houses scattered in between fields of tall plants that seemed to reach towards the sky as though they meant to snatch the sun and pull her down to them, and the foreboding mountains in the distance almost seemed to act as a fence to keep the rest of the world out.

  It was a far cry from the bustling streets of Boston where she’d grown up.

  Margaret wanted to ask Greg Barnes questions – about Jake MacDonald, about what had detained him, about living in Montana – but she didn’t. Firstly because Mr. Barnes’s demeanor seemed to forbid questioning of any kind, and secondly because she feared that if she opened her mouth the rolling nausea in her gut would make itself known.

  She wondered who Mr. Barnes was in all of this. Was he a friend of Mr. MacDonald’s? Did he work on the ranch? These were the sorts of questions she probably should have asked before climbing into his buggy.

  She was sweating now. She could feel it dripping down her face.

  When Mr. Barnes turned into a driveway, Margaret jolted with surprise.

  “Are we here?” she asked before she could think. Predictably, the bile rose in her throat and she clasped her hand over her mouth.

  “We’re here,” Mr. Barnes replied gruffly. He didn’t say anything more on the matter.

  Margaret controlled her surprise. There were several buildings of impressive size, including a massive, rusty red barn behind an equally large house which would have been considered a mansion by Boston standards. The exterior was white and there were flower beds beneath the windows which were empty save for a few weeds of varying sizes. It had two storeys and a thatched roof, and Margaret thought her parents’ house could have fit inside two or three times. Elizabeth had mentioned that Mr. MacDonald had a large property, but for some reason Margaret hadn’t given much thought to what Elizabeth would consider large.

  As they came closer, half a dozen brown working dogs came running out of the barn, barking and yipping and heading straight for the horse and buggy. Mr. Barnes and the horses ignored them, but Margaret leaned forward to get a better look. She loved dogs; the bigger the better. There had been a German shepherd in her neighborhood, and he would often follow her in the mornings on her way to the school. She didn’t know what had happened to the dog. Was he hurt in the fire, too? She hoped not.

  When the buggy came to a halt, she jumped down and stood among the dogs. They looked healthy and happy, giving her wide doggy smiles as they sniffed at her skirts. One of them jumped up and rested her dusty paws on Margaret’s stomach, cocking her head and presenting herself for petting. She had a black spot on her back. Margaret scratched behind the dog’s ear and was rewarded with a lick on the cheek.

  “You’re a good girl,” said Margaret.

  When she glanced over at Mr. Barnes, she noticed he was looking at her with something close to approval. She knew she must have looked a mess – with sweat dripping down her temples, and probably very pale from the nausea which still rolled through her belly despite her finally being on solid ground. But apparently playing with the dogs had earned her some measure of appreciation from the man.

  He said nothing as he climbed down from the buggy, taking Margaret’s trunk out of the back and carrying it easily towards the house. Margaret gave the dog one final pet and followed him, picking up her skirts to keep them from trailing in the dirt. Most of the dogs ran back to the barn, but the female with the black spot on her back kept pace with Margaret until she got to the front door. Margaret gave her one final pet before letting herself inside the house.

  Thank goodness he has dogs, she thought as she took a moment to get her bearings. The presence of friendly animals went a little way to improving her opinion of Jake MacDonald. The house is bare and unadorned, the sort of place Margaret would have expected for a bachelor to live. There was a mess of dirty work boots at the door and Margaret wondered how many people lived there. Did he have many ranch hands? Would she be expected to cook an
d clean for all of them, or just her husband?

  Elizabeth had made it clear that Margaret wouldn’t be expected to be a maid. That she would be an equal partner in running the ranch, and would be allowed to pursue her own interests outside of the marriage. With that in mind, Margaret was still grateful for the month’s grace period. So far, working dogs aside, Jake MacDonald was not making a good first impression.

  Margaret took off her shoes and went through the hall, following the sound of Mr. Barnes’s footsteps. The hall was long and very spacious, and she found him in a bedroom a little way into the house. It was much larger than the bedroom she’d had with her parents, but it was sparse and completely devoid of personality – there was a vanity in the corner, a basin for washing, and a single bed beneath a window with the curtains drawn.

  Mr. Barnes was settling her trunk at the foot of the bed.

  “Anything you need?” he asked. His voice wasn’t as unfriendly as it had been before.

  “Mr. MacDonald?” she replied. “Do you know where he is, or when he’ll be back?”

  Mr. Barnes sniffed. “He should be around the property somewhere. He’ll probably stop by to introduce himself later on.” Margaret could feel her face falling. So she would be expected to entertain herself in a strange house for however long it took for Jake MacDonald to decide that she was worthy of his time? Mr. Barnes seemed to notice her distress, because his hard eyes softened a touch and he said: “I can tell Mrs. M you’re here. She’ll probably want to meet you.”

  “Mrs. M? You mean his mother?” asked Margaret. Mr. Barnes nodded. “I would really appreciate that, thank you.”