by Ruby Scott
Elise would have rolled her eyes if they had been considered equals, of that Anastasia was sure. She looked ready to do so, but couldn’t and keep her job at the same time. She settled with a quick shake of the head and a downturned corner of the lip and began picking at the corset. It let out slowly, maddeningly slow, and Anastasia was almost to the point where she felt as if she would rip herself from Elise’s hands and undo the accursed thing herself when she finally could breathe again.
“Suck in,” Elise said. Anastasia complied, but only a little. She needed to be able to sit comfortably for the journey across the country. It would take several days and she knew that if she wanted to be able to endure the long rides, she would have to be able to sit without the corset pinching at her waist like a steel belt. Elise made another noise of disapproval but didn’t dare reprimand her master for fear of a hand to the cheek. Mrs. Fitt was always on short temper, and Elise was still unsure if the trait had passed to Anastasia or not.
After Anastasia was fully dressed in a lovely navy afternoon gown that flattered her golden locks and lighter blue eyes, Elise departed, carrying two trunks with the entirety of necessities that Anastasia would need. She could always buy more clothes with the little money Mama would give her for this. Surely, since she was the one who was paying for the family to stay alive and as elegant as ever she would receive a reward. It was impossible to be sure, however. Anything with Mama was impossible to tell.
Mrs. Victoria Fitt was the complete opposite of Anastasia. Elegant and lean, she stood out with her auburn hair and striking green eyes that rested well against her pale skin. Anastasia had hated her mother’s beauty for several years before coming to terms with the fact that she was simply a different kind of beautiful. Her mother had hated her for being able to accept that and forego any type of ‘slimming procedures’ she had pushed on her daughter for years.
Mama eyed Anastasia with an overly critical eye. “A bit plain, isn’t it?” she asked, fingering the heavy fabric at Anastasia’s wrist. Anastasia felt her lips thin without her consent, but she stretched them into a smile to hide the fact that she had just frowned at her mother in the way that she was told made her look like a toad.
“I will be riding in a dusty carriage all day, mama,” she reminded her, patting her mother on the hand. “It would be best to not soil my best gowns for riding in a carriage that no one will see me in.”
“What about at the inns?”
“I will wear my velvet cape over so that no one can see my plain dress and take meals in my rooms,” she assured mama.
It was so like Victoria, to fret over the smallest things. It made it easier for her to cope with things such as this, things so large that they would impact her for years to come.
Victoria would not see her daughter for several years, if even then. Money was tight, and that was exactly why Anastasia had taken it upon herself to do something ‘so very preposterous,’ as Victoria had claimed many a time during the process of becoming a mail order bride.
Short of becoming a prostitute, Anastasia saw no other way that she would be able to get money for her family. When she had mentioned that fact to her mother, the aforementioned hand had met her cheek, leaving a bright pink streak across the left side of her face for an entire three hours. It had caused her mother to shut pan about it being such a degrading act, however, and that was an accomplishment in Anastasia’s eyes.
“I suppose that you will have to do,” Victoria said, her lips thinning to an impossibly tiny red slash across her face. Anastasia itched to tell her that it made her look like a home sewn doll, but she dared not risk the slap across the face. People would stare at the mark if they saw it, drawing unneeded and most unwanted attention to her.
“Goodbye, mama,” Anastasia said as Elise came back inside, huffing from the effort of lugging the heavy trunks down the front steps to the footman. “Stay in good health, and the money should arrive shortly after I am with Mr. McKenzie.” The thought of being with a man she had never met before, let alone getting married to him was daunting. She clenched her jaw and refused to acknowledge her fear. If she let Mama know what she was feeling, Victoria would surely persuade her daughter to stay home.
“McKenzie,” Victoria tutted. “An Irish name. Irish folk are known for their heavy drinking and rowdy behavior very unfit for an innocent girl’s eyes such as yours.”
“In his letters he said—
“—that it was many years down the line,” Victoria finished for Anastasia. “So you have informed me. His family have owned the ranch for four generations, correct?” Anastasia nodded, not wanting to get cut off again. “Do you suppose they will still have those outlandish accents?”
“I doubt it, mama,” Anastasia said, sighing. “I really must be off. You may write all that you have forgotten to tell me in the first letter you send. We will keep in touch, won’t we?” she asked, reaching forward and grasping her mother’s hands. Victoria’s cat-green eyes met hers, skipping between one eye and the other almost frantically.
“Why, of course, dear. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She squeezed Anastasia’s hands and then let them go as if they burned. The footman opened the door at that precise moment.
“Will ye be goin’ then, miss?” he asked in his thick accent from overseas. She glanced down at him and nodded.
He grinned broadly as he held the door open for her. “Wait,” Victoria called just as Anastasia set foot outside.
Anastasia turned quickly and looked at her mother, opening her mouth to fend off another unwanted piece of advice, but her mother simply shoved a fashionable white lace parasol into her hands.
“You do not need to muddy you complexion further with more freckles,” she said, nodding sagely as she pushed Anastasia out of the door.
On that happy note, Anastasia left the only home she had ever known for her entire life.
###
The ride was just as dirty and suffocating as Elise had threatened it would be. Her maid sat huddled in a corner, handkerchief pressed delicately to her nose and mouth to stop her from coughing. Anastasia winced as the carriage hit a particularly rough patch of ground, jostling her hips and jarring her spine. She rearranged her skirts as to not crush them and pulled back the curtain just long enough to see if the terrain had changed any.
The footman had rapped on the top of the carriage some time ago, telling her that they had entered the Montana territory, but it still seemed to be taking forever to reach the ranch. It was her third day on the road, and Anastasia was aching everywhere. She was convinced that she had obtained permanent dust in her hair and engrained in her skin because every time she washed her face, the water turned a muddy sort of brown color that wouldn’t clear up no matter how many times she changed the water and began anew.
The mountains were breathtaking against a cornflower blue sky, purple and majestic, but her foul mood did not allow her to even begin to comprehend the beauty. There was something about this rugged terrain, something that made it seem like it was dangerous. The pine trees stood straight like arrows; the rocks were all jagged and hard to navigate; the mountains looked like dangerously beautiful daggers waiting to slice some poor soul to ribbons the moment they dared to lay a foot upon the soil. Elise lowered the piece of cloth from her mouth, eyes sparking in irritation. Anastasia lowered the curtain before the maid could gripe about the dust and sat back in her seat, contemplating the dull underside of the carriage roof for several seconds and trying to think herself out of boredom and pain.
“How far, Thomas?” she asked, knocking on the roof a few moments later after she had gone through her time tables and grammar rules. “Are we any closer to the ranch?”
There was a moment in which she thought Thomas hadn’t heard her, but then the horses slowed and the crookedly handsome footman—crooked smile, crooked nose, crooked haircut—jumped from his perch atop the carriage and peered in.
“What’d you ask, m’lady?”
“Anastasia,” Anasta
sia corrected automatically. She had tried to get the servants into the habit of calling her by name so that they would feel more comfortable around her, but old habits were hard to break, that she knew. “I queried as to our proximity to the ranch. Are we getting any closer? And how much longer will it take?”
The note of whine crept into her voice without her consent and she bit back another sigh. This traveling was impossible. She was tired of sitting and tired of sleeping on hard mattresses. She was tired of the smell and feel of dust against her skin and billowing off of her clothes the moment she dared touch the fabric. She would be glad to go anywhere at this point, even a strange man’s ranch in the middle of a land that looked more dangerous than useful.
She shifted once again and felt a pang of hunger shoot through her stomach. Wasn’t she always hungry?
Just as she was seriously contemplating asking Elise to fetch her a scone, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. The lack of movement caused Anastasia’s hips to buzz and tingle as if they were still feeling the aftershocks of the rough road. “Miss,” the footman said from above her somewhere, “we have arrived.”
Anastasia drew herself up. “How do I look?” she asked Elise.
“Besides too plump,” Elise said critically, “you look surprisingly well. Considering that you are covered in a day’s worth of dirt and sweat. I do not think that your husband will reject you immediately.”
Such faith her maid had in her, Anastasia thought wryly. The door was opened and Anastasia stepped out, taking the footman’s offered hand to steady her long enough to reach the ground.
It smelled of summer and wild places, and Anastasia took a deep breath in, closing her eyes as a cool breeze stirred the nearly unshakable haze of heat that had covered Anastasia’s carriage the entire way there.
She turned to the house a moment later. It was nowhere near as fancy as her own house was, but it was twice as big and looked to be well made out of stone and log. The barn was adjacent to the house, a looming, imposing structure that reminded Anastasia of the abandoned mansion that people always whispered about being haunted. She wondered if anything but the spirits of the deceased livestock dared to enter the halls of the massive building.
No one was waiting outside for her, as they would have been if she had been going home instead of coming to this ranch. I guess that the courtesy here is much different, she thought to herself, shrugging her shoulders. She raised her parasol and extended it to cover her prone skin. Usually, she wouldn’t have bothered; her skin was already much too freckled than fashion dictated, but she had to make an exceptional first impression so that James McKenzie would be compelled to marry her. Then, the money would be sent off and her mother would be able to make her favorite stew just heaping with beef cubes, Anastasia thought bitterly as she walked through the gate and down the twisting driveway that led to the huge house. They passed at least two more outbuildings, though the third one could have been run down or in perfectly workable depending on one’s view of ‘workable.’
The footman deposited Anastasia’s trunks at the doorstep, and tipped his hat to the ladies before driving away without even a farewell. The two girls stood on the porch steps, staring up at the imposing structure with equal parts of awe and consternation before either of them dared to knock.
Fortunately, the door was opened before the two could battle it out and a slight woman peered out. She was a mousy wisp of a thing, all ashen brown hair and cheekbones, and the kinds of hands that looked skeletal. Anastasia blinked down at her, trying to force a smile.
“Anastasia Fitt,” she said, holding out her hand. When the woman just stared at it, she realized that it was rude to shake hands without a chaperone. Elise hardly counted, the girl was too busy laying her bags down and puffing indignantly at the amount of weight she had been forced to carry.
As the maid woman continued to stare at her as if she were some surprising specimen found on the bottom of her shoe, Anastasia let out an impatient breath. She didn’t like being out in the open like this. The lack of buildings crowding streets and people suppressing the space all around her made her feel as if her clothes had been ripped off of her body suddenly and she had been displayed for the entire world to see. Uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe it. She needed the enclosure of walls and didn’t want to have this tiny woman staring at her as if she were a freak of nature. “I’m Mr. McKenzie’s new wife.”
This should have clarified, but the maid only looked at her with more confusion. Anastasia turned to Elise, wondering what to do. The maid was blocking the entrance with her body, making it impossible to get inside and explain what was going on to James McKenzie himself. Elise shrugged, a slightly smug grin tugging at her lips. She hadn’t wanted this to go through, just like Victoria.
“Mary,” another female voice chirped from inside. “What is going on?”
“There be a woman here,” the maid—Mary, presumably—said as if Anastasia was a harlot instead of a well-to-do woman of high breeding. Anastasia felt herself get hot in the face at the implications.
“Did you ask her what her name was?” the other woman chided.
“No, ma’am. I didn’t get to that part.” Mary turned and shot Anastasia a glance that told her that she should step off of the porch if she knew what was good for her health. Anastasia did no such thing, simply clenched her jaw and raised her chin. She wouldn’t listen to a servant.
“Well, at least let me take a look at this stranger,” the other woman said, and she appeared in the doorway without giving Anastasia any time to wipe the nasty look that was still plaguing her face from the confrontation with the servant.
This girl was tall and limber, like a tree, with hair the color of bark and eyes like green leaves. She gave Anastasia a quick smile, and Anastasia hurried to return it as the woman said, “Are you Anastasia Fitt?”
Finally, she was getting somewhere. Anastasia widened her smile slightly. “I indeed am,” she said and gave a shallow dip of a curtsey. The maid’s face had gone from ferociously stable to uncertain. She glanced back up at her lady, and then looked Anastasia over once more.
“You are dismissed, Mary. The pots from lunch need a good washing and the dog has trailed mud onto our rug again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid girl mumbled, ducking her head and extricating herself from in front of the door.
“I apologize for her behavior,” the woman said, coming onto the porch. She was clad in a plain dress of grey material that had no extra fabric, no frills of any kind. It was so unlike the current fashions that Anastasia was used to, she stared at it for several long moments. When she finally managed to drag her gaze from the well-worn fabric, she saw the woman smiling at her wryly. “Different from city life, is it not?” she asked, fingering the dress between two chapped fingers. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Isabeau McKenzie, sister to James McKenzie.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Anastasia said, blinking rapidly in an attempt to gain her wits back more quickly. He had never mentioned a sister in his letters. She took the outstretched hand and was surprised by the sheer amount of strength Isabeau hands held. She may have been slender, but she had the wiry kind of strength that the dock workers always seemed to have.
“Oh, goodness,” Isabeau said as a gust of wind nearly knocked the three of them over suddenly, howling like a wild beast. Anastasia tried to keep her unease at bay, but it was difficult. Isabeau let go of her hand and rushed to pick up one of the trunks, waving away Elise’s protests. “You had better come inside before it starts blowing. This always happens at about midday this time of year. It makes it impossible to see a thing more than five feet in front of you due to the dust that is being kicked up by the foul wind.” She shot the sky a degrading look, as if her piercing gaze alone would have the power to stop the wind from blowing.
Inside, it was much cleaner than Anastasia thought it would be. The furniture was well-worn but kept immaculate and the lanterns remained clear of dust. There
were no cobwebs clinging to the rafters of the high ceiling, and the slight scent of peppermint pervaded the entire house.
Elise glanced around to look at Anastasia, attempting to gauge her reaction. Anastasia gave her a smile, and Elise nodded. They would both be able to live here, Anastasia thought. It was nice enough and Isabeau warmth had completely thawed the maid’s cold welcome. Why was it, then, that she couldn’t seem to shake the growing feeling of unease?
Isabeau led the two women up to the second floor. Whereas Anastasia’s house lost value on the floor where no one but the family and servants ever visited, the McKenzie house retained the same level of cleanliness and tidiness that it had in the foyer and parlor. The floorboards creaking were the only sound in the house. It was eerily quiet, and Anastasia wondered where everyone was. At her house, there were always maids bustling around, the butler telling Victoria that the newest arrival was ready for tea, and the footmen bringing carriages and horses. Then there were always the noises that would come from outside, the constant chatter of people walking the streets and the neighing of horses as they drew carriages down the lane with choppy noises. Here, there was only the sound of the wood creaking and the unearthly howling of the wind outside.
Anastasia wondered if it was possible to go mad from silence.
She was shown to a room at the end of the hall. Isabeau opened the door and let her and Elise pass first. It was the same as the rest of the house. Well worn, but pristine. The lingering scent of lilacs hung in the air like a ghost of a breath, and Anastasia took a deep breath in, trying to pinpoint the origin. Before she could, the smell was gone, and there was only the peppermint that had somehow followed them up the flight of stairs.
