“Do you have peppermint leaves we can steep in the water?” Libbie slipped behind Mary to drape the towel over her aunt’s head and shoulders. “Breathe in the steam. Then let out your breath slowly.” At least, that’s what she remembered of her mother’s instructions. “Sally—”
“I’m on my way.” The young woman dashed from the room.
Libbie looked at the cook’s face and wrapped her arms around her middle. “I’m not skilled at nursing, Mary. Should we call for a doctor?”
Mary’s brows knitted together before she shook her head. “That’s not me decision, miss.”
“You’re right. The decision is not mine, either.” Libbie spun and strode halfway down the hallway then knocked on two adjacent doors. “Wake up, cousins.” She moved across the open space and pounded on Carson’s door. “Your mother needs you. Come at once.”
The next several hours passed in a blur of frenetic activity and interminable waiting. Her cousins argued, the girls sobbed, and finally Carson sent Haines to fetch the doctor. At that point, Sally had to revive Eastre with smelling salts and escort her to bed.
Libbie sat at her aunt’s side, dabbing her forehead with a cool cloth when she fretted. At idle moments, she read through lines from the last letter from Mama—to feel connected, to keep fresh the images of home. A sentence about a soon-to-arrive twenty-first birthday surprise roused her curiosity.
A snort sounded, followed by her aunt’s ragged breaths.
Her grip on the papers tensed. From what she’d seen of her brother’s breathing problems, Libbie knew her aunt’s condition was much worse, and fear crept into her heart. She glanced across the bed to Fayth and Carson, who looked like they’d aged ten years in only a few hours.
The doctor arrived and shooed everyone but Mary from the master suite.
Libbie dragged herself to her room and fell onto her mattress, barely pulling the quilt over her legs. Hours of worry swept through her body, and she fell asleep clutching the letter to her chest.
A raucous caw from a blue jay outside her window woke her, and she jolted to the edge of the bed. Sunlight streaming through the divided pane windows indicated several hours had passed. Grabbing a clean blouse and chemise and yesterday’s skirt, she went to the water closet to tend to her toilette before pausing to look into her aunt’s room.
Fayth slept with her head at the foot of her mother’s bed.
Aunt Betje appeared to be resting and her breaths weren’t as ragged, although the color was still high in her cheeks.
Seeing she wasn’t needed at the moment, Libbie ran downstairs and entered the kitchen. “Morning. I refuse to call it good.”
Mary, Sally, and Dora sat at the small table in the corner, sipping from steaming mugs.
Sally scooted back her chair and pressed a hand to the table.
“Sit, Sally. I can manage for myself.” All three women looked tired, so Libbie prepared her own cup of tea. “Mary, what directions did the doctor leave?”
“Huh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I heard better advice from a root and herb practitioner. He wanted to bleed her, but Carson wouldn’t allow it, calling the practice barbaric.” She pushed to her feet and walked to the counter, touching folded packets of paper. “Alternate sassafras tea to dry her lungs with willow bark tea to lower her fever.” Next, she opened a cupboard and pulled out a dark bottle. “And two tablespoons daily of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound for her “change of life issues” that must certainly be at the root of the problem.” She snorted. “As if a cough and fever are even related.”
The bell on the front door rang.
Libbie glanced at the clock—half past ten. No wonder her stomach rumbled. She sipped her tea and looked for a covered plate which might indicate biscuits or rolls—
“Excuse me, Miss Van Eycken.” Haines spoke in his slow manner from the doorway.
“Yes, Haines.” A bowl in the center of the table held red and green apples, and Libbie grabbed one before turning.
The butler stood ramrod straight with a long envelope perched like a tray on his upraised hand. “A telegram has arrived.”
“For me? Oh, this could be my birthday surprise.” She set down her cup and skipped across the kitchen to retrieve the envelope. Bracing the apple against her waist, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper. Capital letters stretched across the page, but what started her heart pounding was the fact the missive was from Dwight Christofells, her father’s business manager. Then one word pulsed bigger and smaller like it bloomed from the page, and her eyes filled with tears. She cried out, wrapped both arms around her stomach, and the telegram fluttered from her hand. The apple dropped with a thud and rolled away.
“Land sakes, miss, what is the matter?” Mary came close and circled a supporting arm around her back.
Libbie jabbed a finger at the telegram. “They’re dead.”
Haines strode forward and scooped up the paper then read aloud. “This telegram is dated two days ago. Miss Libbie STOP Carriage accident killed both parents.” He paused, the paper crinkling in his hand.
“G-go on.” Blood pounded in her ears and her vision wavered, but Libbie rolled her hand for him to continue reading. “I-I need to hear the words.”
“Oh, miss, I am so sorry. The rest reads: Accounts frozen STOP Larz en route to Cape Town STOP Condolences.”
Being guided to a chair…feeling pats on her back…soothing words that only echoed…receiving a handkerchief pressed into her hand…sipping tea that tasted burnt…falling into blessed sleep. When she awoke hours later, she was numb. Her body felt heavy and not her own. Pain weighed on her chest, and she feared she couldn’t catch a full breath. Mama and Papa gone. No more shining looks of approval from her father for her skill with the boomerang or when roping calves. No more applause from her mother for tapping rhythms on the shinjimba or blowing the sodina well. No more feeling secure within her parents’ love.
What am I to do? Her only close relations, brothers Larz, Deman, and Knox, were so far away. And funds would not be forthcoming soon. She’d heard of an inheritance that wasn’t available until her twenty-fifth birthday, but those details hadn’t seemed important at the time. She’d never heard her father mention the term “accounts frozen” but knew the situation wasn’t good. Why had she frittered away most of her monthly allowance? A lover of music of all types, she couldn’t resist tipping the violinist playing in the Public Garden or the balladeer performing at Quincy Market.
The light coming in the window was dim and shaded, hinting at an afternoon hour. She reached for the glass of water normally put on her nightstand each evening. Next to it sat a plate with two slices of brown bread and a wedge of cheese. Sally. Caring actions of a dedicated servant and friend. She summoned a faint smile. Scooting to the edge of the mattress, she let out a sigh. Time to face the day.
But she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Instead, she wrapped herself into the quilt and carried the plate and glass to the padded window seat. As she munched on the food, she looked through the window at the nearby rooftops, complete with metal widow’s walks befitting a sailing town, and beyond to the Charles River. So many people living in such a small space.
An anguished wail rent the air.
Libbie froze, then set the dishes on the floor, and launched herself to her feet, pacing the length of the room. No more bad news. Tears leaked from her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep from sobbing.
Running footsteps moved past her door and down the hallway.
An urgent knock rapped on her door. “Miss Libbie!”
If I stay quiet, will Mary go away? I know she’s bringing more bad news.
The knocking came again, following the door inching open. “Miss?”
“Did she pass?” Slowly, as if her body weighed twice what it had yesterday, Libbie turned toward the servant and walked close.
“Aye. Gasped like a landed fish then the missus turned blue.” The cook made the sign of the cross and dropped her gaze
for a moment. “I’ll be needing one of yer dresses to be dyed black to start yer mourning year. Fayth will call in a dressmaker to create more for all ye poor young folks.”
“Take the yellow or the lavender.” Mourning garments—a daily reminder of all she’d lost. Her chest constricted but she fought against the pending tears. When she was alone again, she dragged herself to the armoire and removed her plainest gray dress that should be suitable for inside the manse. Family duty mandated she attend to her cousins—no matter the only words of sympathy directed toward her earlier in the day had come from the servants.
The short walk down the hallway to her aunt’s suite felt like a furlong. Quiet cries and sniffles grew louder as she approached. A faint rose scent almost masked the smell of illness hanging in the air. Pausing at the doorway, Libbie took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her tight stomach.
Inside, Fayth and Eastre leaned on one another as they cried.
Libbie slipped into an empty chair opposite the carved wooden footboard of the bed and chanced a look at Aunt Betje’s face. At least she looks peaceful.
Closing her eyes, Libbie sought the hazy memories of happier times. A picnic on Boston Common, flying kites, swan paddleboat rides in Public Garden. Remembering a younger Aunt Betje and Uncle Rupert and how the families enjoyed visits together helped ease her grief.
From the lower floor, a door slammed and footsteps pounded up the stairs.
“No.” Carson dashed into the room and dropped to his knees at the bedside.
The young women grabbed for him and they huddled their heads close.
Tears burned Libbie’s eyes again, and she wanted to give them privacy. “My condolences to you three.” She stood and moved to the door. “I’ll arrange for tea.”
The next morning, Libbie awoke to hushed whispers and soft footsteps in the hallway. After dressing quickly, she looked in the standing mirror and grimaced at how washed out her skin looked against the stark black of the dyed dress. A sigh escaped. She visited the lavatory then walked downstairs. Black cloths draped the mirrors and all the curtains were drawn shut. The pendulum of the grandfather clock in the entry no longer counted time’s passage. Instead, the hands marked the time of her aunt’s death.
In the kitchen, Mary, Sally, and Dora were busy with various tasks, but all looked up, wide eyed, at her entrance.
“Morning, miss. There’s still food in chafing dishes in the breakfast room.”
“Thank you, Mary.” As she walked by the small table, she spotted the printed columns of bride ads from…had so much truly happened in a single day? Needing something to divert her dreary thoughts, she grabbed it and then trudged to the adjoining room where all the chairs were thankfully empty. She needed food, but nothing under the metal lids teased her appetite. Fifteen minutes later, she’d manage to swallow toast, eggs, and a strip of bacon as she glanced over the newspaper and the marriage requests. A peek through a window revealed gray clouds hovering low, making her unsure of the exact hour.
Inactivity didn’t sit well, so she moved back to the kitchen. “What might I do to assist you? Please, Mary, allow me to help.”
“We’ll be needing a wreath for the front door. Ye could gather a dozen or so short branches from the laurel tree back by the stables.”
Grateful for any task that meant she could be outside, Libbie hurried across the back porch and into the yard. Stopping only a moment to gather shears and a flat basket from the gardening shed, she breathed the crisp air and moved along the crushed shell and gravel walkway toward the back of the property. The snipping of the blades and the scent of damp earth reminded her of working at Mama’s side in their small garden. So much so that she imagined being back there and hearing the lilting voices of the villagers harvesting in their own gardens.
“Missy?”
Libbie shook her head against the silly thought and reached for the next limb.
“Miss Libbie Anke?”
At this familiar reference, she whirled and gasped, dropping the basket at her feet. Unbelievably, at the back of the house stood one of her father’s trusted South African workers. “Jomo. Is that really you?” She ran down the walkway and threw herself against the tall, dark-skinned man. For just a moment, she savored this tenuous connection with home before tipping back her head and gazing into his dark eyes. As natural as could be, she slipped into her native Dutch. “Do you know?”
His bristly eyebrows lowered as he scanned her clothes. “I see death has visited dis house.”
Her lower lip quivered. “Not only here in America. Mama and Papa were killed in a carriage accident.”
“No.” For a moment, he hung his head then he pressed his fingers to his eyes. After a deep breath, he looked up and gathered her close into his wiry arms. “I am sorry, miss. Dey were good people.” He eased back and dropped his hands. “Now I know not what to do.”
“But why are you here? In America?”
“I accompanied your birthday surprise. Were you not told?” An eyebrow lifted, he gazed over the expanse of the back yard. Then he clasped her hand and tugged her along the walkway toward the street.
When they rounded the house, she spotted a wagon parked at the curb. Several wide-slated crates displaying black or gray feathers filled the wagon bed. Libbie clasped her hands under her chin and let out a squeal. “My ostriches. They’re my present?” Lifting her skirt, she dashed toward the big birds, clicking her tongue in the familiar cadence to catch their attention. Before her was the pet she’d had as long as she could remember. Koning—a seven-foot tall ostrich. His bulging eyes and knobby head were as dear to her as a kitten’s pink nose and perky ears might be to a child in America or Europe. Cooing, she reached a hand through the slats to stroke his breast feathers. “Which females comprise his harem?”
Jomo chuckled. “You remember his primary mate, Lady. And there’s Gulden, Diamant, Zilveren, and Juweel. A mix of new and experienced breeders.” He moved to the front of the wagon and reached into a well-worn leather satchel. Then he passed her an envelope. “From your papa.”
With an eager grin, Libbie ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter. Through brimming tears, she read of her parents’ wishes for her to establish connections with their old friend, Henrick Dekker in New York, and provide ostrich plumes for the fashion trade. This was to be her contribution to the family’s various businesses. Pressing the letter to her chest, she beamed at Jomo. “They believed in me.”
“Yes, and they loved you and the boys very much.”
The front door slammed open. “What is the meaning of this unseemly delivery, Libbie?” Eyes wide, Fayth stood at the head of the stone steps, hands planted on her hips. “Who do those ugly, awful beasts belong to?”
Those two questions spoken in such a scornful tone informed Libbie her welcome at this house was wearing thin. Her reason for being in Boston at the finishing school was no longer valid or essential. Any marriage match to be made would not be forthcoming from among her parents’ social circle, but would have to be accomplished by her own initiative. Besides, with the family accounts frozen, no additional funds would be wired to the bank for her monthly expenses in the foreseeable future. Her brother Larz would do what he could at the earliest opportunity, but no guarantee existed on when that would happen.
That day, she and Jomo worked side-by-side to build a temporary enclosure in the back yard from the disassembled crate pieces. At the dinner table, Carson couldn’t have been clearer in giving her a firm deadline by which to remove herself and those animals from the premises. Following that tense and uncomfortable meal, Libbie again looked over the letter in the Grooms’ Gazette that she’d already read several times.
Hard-working cattle rancher in Prescott, Arizona Territory seeking wife not afraid to do her part in creating a harmonious household. I’m Dell Stirling, 26 years of age, and of sound body and mind. I own 200 acres with a comfortable house, big barn, bunkhouse and corral, and a vegetable garden. Cattle herd varies in size, depe
nding on season, and I employ adequate hands to manage them.
A compatible match should know she’d have a roof over her head and food on the table always, but she shouldn’t expect fripperies in the house or furnishings. Only practical, sensible women with adequate domestic skills need apply.
Working late into the night, Libbie composed several versions of a response to be sent by telegraph the following day. The trick was choosing words to disguise the ranch’s geographic location in a southern region was Mr. Stirling’s most attractive feature.
October, 1890, Prescott, Arizona Territory
Chapter Two
Dell glanced at Libbie’s latest telegram one more time before stuffing it in the back pocket of his denims. He’d made his decision weeks ago, and his soon-to-be bride had notified him she’d reached Chicago where she’d transfer to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad line. The new mistress of the Bar S Ranch would arrive mid-week, barring an unexpected delay on the tracks or mechanical failure. Nothing left but to make his important announcement to the rest of the Stirling family.
He gave his bay gelding Sparky a last scratch between the ears and closed the door to the stalls on the far end of the barn his dad reserved for family use. A glance down the row showed only two out of twelve stalls stood empty. Prescott was a fast-growing city, and his parents’ decision to open the livery looked to be paying off.
“Are you hiding in here?” Skip stood in the open barn door. At twenty, he was almost as tall as Dell, but not as broad. He lifted his hat, ran a hand through his wavy hair, and repositioned his hat on his head.
“Nah, just getting my horse settled.” Dell met his younger brother’s gaze and grinned. “How have you been this past week?”
“Can’t complain. That stallion I’ve been working is showing progress. At the halter and blanket stage now.” Flashing a crooked grin, he rocked back on his boot heels. “This week, we’ll work with putting on the saddle.”
Libbie: Bride of Arizona (American Mail-Order Bride 48) Page 2
