by Cassie Hayes
RNWMP: Bride for Dermot
Cassie Hayes
Contents
About This Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Also by Cassie Hayes
About the Author
About This Book
Sometimes what’s best is for best laid plans to fall apart…
Socialite Isabelle Rochester’s life has been planned out for her since she was a child: marry well and live a life of luxury as one of Ottawa’s elite. Her fiancé has other plans. Humiliated after being jilted, Isabelle turns to Miss Hazel Hughes to find her a husband who will make everyone back home jealous — especially her unfaithful ex.
Dermot Strickland only intends to be a Mountie for five years, then he’s hightailing back to Vancouver to take over his father’s booming lumber empire. But life in the Yukon can be cold and lonely, and he still has more than three years to go, so on a whim he agrees to marry a woman he’s never met.
When Isabelle’s train pulls into the town of Moose Lick, she wonders if she’s made a mistake. When she sees the tiny cabin she’s expected to live in — and clean — she knows she has. She just has to survive for a week until the train to Ottawa passes through again. Not even Dermot’s rugged good looks or charming personality could make her change her mind, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. After all, when a man finds the the perfect woman, he’ll do anything to keep her.
We hope you are enjoying the Mail Order Mounties Series. All of the books are works of fiction, and the stories completely created by the authors of the series.
While we have done our best to be historically accurate, there are certain pieces of history we’ve had to take “creative license” with to help make our stories come alive. In truth, it wouldn’t have been likely for a member of the Royal North West Mounted Police to have a mail order bride, and in many cases, wouldn’t have lived in such close proximity to other members.
However, for the purposes of our stories, we wanted to create a world that showcased the history of Canada during the early 1900s while also bringing you stories that would combine the talents of the authors involved.
Chapter 1
Isabelle Rochester’s fingers trembled as she folded the letter along worn lines and slipped it back into its torn envelope. She hadn’t even needed to open it — each word was burned into her memory forever — but the mere act of handling the letter served to strengthen her resolve. Laying it on the intricate lace tablecloth before her, she covered it with her hands as if to hide it from view. Perhaps if she didn’t have to look at it, she might be able to maintain the mask of indifference she’d been holding onto for the last month. Looking up at the older woman sitting across from her, Isabelle took a deep breath and prayed her voice wouldn’t crack.
“So you see, Mrs. Hughes—“
“Miss Hazel, dear. Everyone calls me Miss Hazel.” Pity shone in the woman’s faded blue eyes, but something else — something Isabelle couldn’t put her finger on — sparkled there as well.
“Very well,” Isabelle acknowledged. “So you see, Miss Hazel, I’ve been left in an untenable position.”
Miss Hazel appeared doubtful. “Are you sure, dear? Men can be terribly fickle creatures. Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”
“Even if he did change his mind, how would it look if I ended up marrying the man who not only broke off our engagement, but did so to elope with a barmaid? A barmaid!”
Isabelle’s fingers, along with the rest of her body, vibrated with barely suppressed rage, so she pressed them into her lap to hide her emotion. She’d done her part. She’d accepted the proposal of the much older man her parents had chosen for her. She’d played the dutiful and doting fiancée, even though her skin wanted to crawl right off her body every time he touched her. As any lady of noble upbringing would, she’d had every intention of living up to her end of the bargain by marrying a man she didn’t even like all that much, in exchange for the security his wealth and status would offer.
And what does the lout do? Runs off and marries a barmaid, leaving her humiliated beyond words. The nerve!
“Looks aren’t everything, Miss Rochester,” Miss Hazel said softly.
Isabelle almost laughed. In her experience, looks were everything. The prettiest girls got the best proposals and the most handsome men were accepted first. Both could almost be assured they’d get whatever they asked for. Then there was the matter of appearances, and how the perception of others could affect your entire life.
It was the way of the world, and Isabelle had always assumed her stature in society and her beauty would allow her to lead the comfortable life of a socialite all the way into her dotage. But Rodney Barwillow had seen to it Isabelle’s chances at her dream life would never come to fruition.
“I’m afraid appearances are quite crucial in my circles. First off, all the eligible bachelors in Ottawa have either been snapped up, or they have no intention of settling down this season. Beyond that, word that Rodney abandoned me for a serving wench spread across town faster than the fire that destroyed so much of Ottawa ten years ago.”
Miss Hazel tilted her head and appraised her in a way that made the hair on the back of Isabelle’s neck stand on end. It was almost as if the woman could see inside her, beyond her carefully constructed barrier of superiority and class. She shifted in her seat and moved her gaze to the window beyond Miss Hazel’s shoulder.
“So you don’t love this man,” Miss Hazel noted. “Your heart’s not broken, even a little?”
Isabelle shot a hard look at the older woman, who really should know better by this stage of her life. “Of course I don’t love him. In fact, I rather detest him. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have married him.”
“But…if you don’t even like him, why would you agree to spend the rest of your life with him?” Miss Hazel appeared positively perplexed. Could she really be that naive?
“Because that’s how it’s done, Miss Hazel,” Isabelle replied in her most patient tone, though she felt quite frustrated at the moment. “You know even better than I do women have very few rights in this country, even though it’s the twentieth century. I mean, we can’t even vote, for goodness sake!”
“And your point?”
“My point is that this is how it’s been done for generations, at least among the elite. Men want the most beautiful and socially acceptable wives they can get, and women want security. Besides, I’m not so certain love actually exists.”
Miss Hazel burst out laughing. “Oh it exists, all right, my dear.”
“Well, not in my world,” Isabelle said with a disinterested shrug. “Take my own mother, for example. She’s been married to my father for nearly twenty-five years, and I can tell you there’s no love lost between them. Yet both are perfectly satisfied with their lives and decision to wed.”
“Hmm, I wonder…” Miss Hazel didn’t look convinced in the slightest.
“You needn’t wonder, Miss Hazel. Mother traded the possibility of ‘love’, whatever that is, for the financial security and stability Father could offer, and just look how their marriage turned out. They’re perfectly happy.”
Isabelle had meant to offer up her parents as an example of how such a practical union would work, despite the fact they rarely spoke, and when they did, their voices could usually be heard from the street, but Miss Hazel
’s raised eyebrow brought a flush to Isabelle’s cheeks. Breaking eye contact to smooth out a wrinkle in her skirt, Isabelle marveled at the speed with which gossip spread in this town.
“If you say so,” Miss Hazel finally allowed, after several awkward moments. “But I know of at least one woman who wasn’t happy about their…arrangement.”
“Who?” The question really should have been ‘Which one?’
“Tilly Conway.”
Isabelle’s skin grew cold and clammy remembering her family’s former chef. Tilly had been a year older than Isabelle, so she’d naturally been drawn to the girl. Of course the fact they both shared the same shade of copper hair didn’t hurt either. She’d always been impressed with Tilly’s singular focus on cooking and that she’d somehow managed to work her way up the ranks to head chef.
Isabelle had snuck downstairs to watch Tilly work her magic a few times, but stopped trying after her mother had nearly caught her. She’d hidden in the shadows under the stairs as her mother stormed around, looking for her. Tilly had feigned ignorance, then played look-out for Isabelle when she scurried back upstairs.
Calling the two young women ‘friends’ would have been a stretch, but Isabelle admired Tilly, and actually liked her quite a bit. Of course, she’d learned as a child to never become emotionally attached to any staff member, but especially pretty young women. Good thing too, because not a month after Isabelle’s close call, her mother had unceremoniously fired Tilly. That meant only one thing.
Father.
Isabelle had always wondered why, as a member of Parliament and a successful businessman, he refused to control his impulses around women. Her mother had told her that was just the way men were built.
“If you have no expectations, Isabelle,” Mother used to say, “you’ll never be disappointed.” That had seemed like practical advice, though Isabelle suspected her mother was more bitter about her father than she would ever admit.
“You know Tilly?” Isabelle asked Miss Hazel, once the shock of the coincidence faded.
Miss Hazel frowned. “Of course, I do. I assumed that’s how you heard about me.”
“No, I heard from a friend of a friend that you helped JoAnn Becker. I don’t know her, but her family is quite well-respected. How do you know Tilly?”
“Tilly was one of my girls,” Miss Hazel said, smiling broadly. “Didn’t you know she joined JoAnn in marrying distinguished members of the Royal North West Mounted Police in British Columbia?”
Isabelle shook her head. So that’s where Tilly had run off to after the rumor mill had started churning. “Is she…is she well?”
“Hard to say,” Miss Hazel said, pouring a little more hot tea into her cup. Isabelle shook her head when the woman offered to pour more for her as well. “It’s barely been a month since I left Squirrel Ridge Junction but—“
“Squirrel Ridge Junction!” Isabelle laughed so hard she snorted in a most unladylike manner. “What kind of name is that for a town?”
Miss Hazel narrowed her eyes and continued as if Isabelle hadn’t just been unforgivably rude. “As I was saying, I received a letter from my dear daughter-in-law, Jess, reporting that all the couples I helped bring together are happy and quite thoroughly in love.”
Any lingering amusement at the silly town name fled as Isabelle’s heart sped up a little. All of them were in love? Silly girl! That’s not why you’re here. Love is a fool’s errand!
“I’m happy for her then,” she finally managed to say. “I always liked Tilly.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, while Miss Hazel sipped her tea and appraised her guest over the rim of her cup. Isabelle relied on two decades of etiquette training to not squirm under the woman’s scrutiny, while her insides screamed at her to run from the house as fast as she could. But her pride wouldn’t allow it. After what seemed like eons, Miss Hazel broke the silence.
“Isabelle, my dear, why are you here today?”
Isabelle squared her shoulders and took a deep, bracing breath. “I’d like for you to help me as you did the others.”
“Why? Even with all this Rodney nonsense, a beautiful young belle such as yourself should have no trouble finding a new beau easily.”
“I won’t find one. Well, not one who could beat or even match Rodney in prominence and wealth. I’d get all the leftover men no other women wanted. The bottom of the social barrel. I’ve already been humiliated enough, don’t you think?”
Miss Hazel pursed her lips in response. Obviously, she needed convincing.
“In the last month, I’ve been shut out of several elite affairs, and every day more of my friends seem to forget I’m alive.”
“Sounds to me as if you need to find a better class of friends, my dear.”
“They’re the highest class possible in Ottawa,” Isabelle objected. “I’m afraid my only choice is to leave town.”
“Why not find some other wealthy man in Manitoba or Toronto?”
Isabelle wasn’t entirely sure of the reason herself, she simply knew she would never again trust her parents’ judgment in selecting a husband for her, and they were the ones with all the good connections. If Miss Hazel’s matchmaking had led JoAnn and Tilly to satisfactory marriages, perhaps she could perform the same miracle for Isabelle. Not that she expected to fall in love — she was much too pragmatic for such balderdash — but at least the choice of who she married would be her own.
And her parents would hate it.
Besides, her friends had practically swooned at the news JoAnn had caught a brave, handsome Mountie. As they all prepared to wed boorish snobs with pasty skin and soft hands, JoAnn was out west on the adventure of a lifetime. Every woman she knew was jealous, and every man seemed downright threatened. She couldn’t wait for Rodney to hear that his rejection had merely opened the door for a life few ever dreamed possible. But that was hardly something she could admit out loud, so she resorted to a bald-faced lie.
“Because, Miss Hazel, if anyone can find my Prince Charming, it’s you.”
“Caught a trio of trappers trying to trade booze for furs again,” Dermot Strickland told his friend and fellow Mountie, Jonathan Murray.
The men were stationed outside of Moose Lick, a small town in the southern portion of the Yukon Territory, but their posts were a few hours’ ride from there, in two neighboring Indian villages. Once or twice a week, they made a point to share an evening meal together at one or the other’s tiny single-room cabin. More often than not, they capped off the night with a game of cards.
Jonathan reached for a card from the deck and discarded another. “Again? What’s that, twice this week?”
“Indeed,” Dermot said, rocking onto the back legs of the flimsy chair in Jonathan’s cabin. “Told them if I ever caught them trying that nonsense again, I’d demonstrate exactly how Indians tan their hides.”
Jonathan’s laughter echoed in the rafters of the small log cabin, an exact duplicate of Dermot’s. It was their duty as Mounties to uphold the law and protect Canada’s citizens, and that included the indigenous people. Fur traders had taken advantage of them for far too long, and Dermot was all too happy to send them packing, unless they were offering a fair trade.
He couldn’t say he approved of the government’s decision to take Indian children away from their parents to teach them Western ways in boarding schools though. That seemed unduly cruel. He would never admit it to his superior, Wesley Jacobson, but he’d purposely misdirected several agents from the Department of Indian Affairs who wanted to collect children from the village he patrolled.
“Then what happened?” Jonathan asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.
Dermot shrugged one shoulder as he assessed his hand. “I confiscated their stash, of course.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did. And speaking of,” he added, laying all his cards down on the rough wood table, “Rummy!”
Jonathan slapped his cards on the table in mock outrage. “You’re the luckiest son
of a gun I’ve ever met, Dermot Strickland!”
“Don’t I know it. Handsome, rich, brilliant… Is there anything I can’t do well?”
He grinned, causing Jonathan to laugh even harder, but deep down he knew there was plenty he was terrible at. Good thing his buddy had a good sense of humor. Things rarely went smoothly when anyone took Dermot too seriously.
As Dermot cleaned up the cards, Jonathan put their dishes in a bucket to soak. The thick, flavorless stew had been their last meal together as single men. Tomorrow both would eat better, thanks to their new brides.
“What did your letter say?” Dermot asked his friend.
Jonathan glanced at him over his shoulder. “You mean Elaine’s? Nothing I’m going to share with the likes of you.”
“Fine, be that way,” Dermot groused. “Mine was pretty vague too.”
“What’s her name again?”
Dermot paused, trying to recall. “Ina? Isolda? Isadora? Shoot, why do I always forget?”
“Because the only person you truly care about is yourself?”
“Hey!”
Jonathan’s dig stung more than Dermot cared to admit. He’d always seen himself as a charming rogue. Did others really see him as so self-centered?
“Isabelle!” he shouted as the name popped into his head.
“Pretty name.”
“I hope the girl is just as pretty.”
Jonathan smirked. “Aren’t you pretty enough for the both of you?”
Dermot cocked an eyebrow. “My nanny always said I was the handsomest boy in all of Vancouver. Who was I to doubt her?”
Jonathan rolled his eyes, then knelt down to stoke the little pot-belly stove in the corner. “I really don’t care what Elaine looks like. I just hope she likes me.”
