by Bella Bowen
DARBY:
Bride of Oregon
American Mail-Order Brides Series
(Book 33)
By Bella Bowen
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Lesli Muir Lytle
www.bellabowen.weebly.com
Darby: Bride of Oregon © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
Amazon KDP Edition License Notes
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This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To the authors of Pioneer Hearts
A generous group of writers…
who welcomed me
into their bosom
like a handful
of peppermint sticks.
*wink wink*
Darby
CHAPTER ONE
Oregon?
“Might as well be the other side of the world,” Darby muttered, and allowed her eyes to move on to the next advertisement for mail-order brides. The print was small, so she concentrated and pulled The Groom’s Gazette closer, content to remain on the floor of the small attic room she shared with Margaret. Closer to the floor, the air was slightly cooler.
“That one’s spoken for,” a long slender arm draped over her shoulder and pointed at the ad she’d been trying to read. “And that one.” Her roommate pointed to another, and another. “And those two.” That left very few ads that hadn’t been crossed out.
Darby sighed impatiently and pointed to the Oregon note again. “What about this one?”
Margaret snorted indelicately. “O’course it’s still available. How many well-bred British women do you know who are willing to go marry an American just because he put a notice in a magazine? The fellow’s off his nutter, if’n you ask me. Reaching for the moon. May as well ask for one of the Royals from Buckingham Palace.”
“I was well bred—for a wee while,” Darby muttered, though not truly up for a fight with her friend.
Margaret shrieked and pulled the Gazette out of her grasp, jumped up on the bed and held it high over Darby’s head. Seated on the floor as she was, it would be pointless to reach for the thing. After all…she felt an urgent need to freshen up her well-bred manners.
“My dearest Margaret,” she said in her best imitation of Queen Victoria herself, “it is unbecoming of you to bounce on the bed. I insist you come down from there at once.” She snapped her fingers. “Where are my ladies in waiting?” She looked at her lap and gasped. “And how, may I ask, did I happen to be sitting on the floor?”
Margaret collapsed on the thin mattress in a fit of giggles—which brought The Grooms’ Gazette back within Darby’s reach. She had no trouble snatching it away while her roommate laughed herself senseless. But just in case her friend thought to steal the magazine again, Darby scooted around and pressed her back against the far wall to search for the ad again.
It wasn’t a problem, really, to keep up a high falutin’ accent. She’d grown up near the English border and was well accustomed to the feel of the arrogant inflection on her tongue. She’d mocked her English neighbors often enough.
No. Maintaining the charade wasn’t the worry. Convincing the American gentleman that a last name like McClintock was as much English as it was Scottish wasn’t much of a worry either.
The only thing that might jeopardize a rather agreeable business/marriage agreement was a minor thing, really. And it might never be a problem at all if the man truly treated her as if she were a well-bred Englishwoman. He needed a wife to complement his position as a public official, the ad said. So there was no doubt his bride would live a life of refinement.
So it stood to reason that, while living this refined life, the chances of losing her temper would be slight.
Truthfully, it wasn’t the temper so much that was the problem—it was the fact that, when she did lose that temper, her Scots brogue came to the fore, and she wasn’t afraid to give any man a genuine Scotch blessing if he deserved one. But how likely was that to happen if she were to lead such a demure and docile life of the truly advantaged?
What she dared not examine too closely, however, was her foolish desire to find happiness in marriage like the bliss her parents had known—before her father had died in the coal mines trying to rescue his men. Soon after, when greedy business partners had cheated Darby’s mother out of everything, the woman had died of a broken heart at the thought of leaving Scotland, and leaving her husband’s grave behind.
And if Darby were lucky enough to find true happiness with this Oregon man, she would one day be able to tell him the truth, that she was really just a Scottish lass at heart. But one day sounded so far away.
“Margaret?”
“Mm?”
“How long does it take, do ye reckon, to make a man fall in love with ye?”
Her roommate rolled onto her back and sighed at the ceiling. “I don’t rightly know, Darby, girl. More than a morning—I’ve tried enough times to know—but less than a night, if the trollops are to be believed.”
Though Darby knew it wouldn’t be as simple as that, the idea gave her hope.
Margaret snorted. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it?”
Darby frowned and lowered the Gazette to peek over the top. “What do you mean?”
Margaret rolled up onto her elbow to level a stern look at her. “I mean, it doesn’t matter if you get that fella to fall in love with you or not. He’ll promptly fall out of love with you the moment he hears that brogue.” She made a tisking sound with her teeth and shook her head. “I read the whole page, love. I know the ad specifies no Scotswomen need apply.”
“He’ll never know—”
“Hah! You lose that temper of yours six times a day and seven on Sundays. The only way you’ll fool him is if you cut out your tongue!” Margaret reached over to the small vanity between their two beds and plucked up the shears. “‘Ere, now,” she teased with a Cockney accent. “Open up, love. I’ll be real quick like.” She rapidly snapped the blades together and grinned.
Darby feigned a pout. “I don’t need to cut it off, Margaret. I can just…bite it when I need to.”
“You don’t need shears, then.” The girl tossed the blades back to the table and sprawled out on the bed again. “You’ll cut it off with your teeth before he gets you a mile away from the train station.”
Darby chewed on her tongue a few times, wondering how much it would hurt to have it cut off, then stopped before Margaret might notice and start teasing again.
Six times a day? Truly?
She crawled up onto her own bed and turned to face the wee round window. But her Sunday af
ternoon nap would be better spent finding a way to tame that temper. In the morning, she would take the train to Beckham, to see this Miss Miller, the woman who helped place mail-order brides with the right grooms. If Darby put her acting skills to the test, and could convince a discerning woman she was a well-bred English lass, then convincing a man should be easier still.
On top of that, Portland, Oregon was hell and gone from Lawrence, Massachusetts. The ride would take a week, at least. And it would take even longer for Miss Miller and the Oregon gentleman to correspond. So, if Darby were to cut back, lose her temper once fewer each day, she would be free of the vice before she ever boarded the westbound train. Then she could practice a cool head all the way there.
All the way to Oregon.
Hell and gone from Lawrence. More than hell and gone from Scotland.
She could almost imagine the sound of her mother weeping, standing next to the cross that marked her grave in a lush, green glen—weeping for the fact that her child considered putting even more space between them.
But what choice did Darby have? If she remained in Lawrence, she might end up in the oldest profession just to stay alive. With so many women needing work all at a go, there was no respectable employment to be found. And since she’d stayed at Margaret’s side when she’d fallen ill, that first day after the mill fire, Darby had lost the chance to fight for what few opportunities there might have been.
She bit her lip and asked God to forgive her. She hadn’t meant to sound bitter and ungrateful, even in her private thoughts. It hadn’t been Margaret’s fault she’d fallen ill, and Darby was glad she’d had no work at the time, so she could care for her friend. One day, she’d be rewarded in kind, she was sure.
Luckily for her friend, Margaret had family in the south. She would be leaving in the morning for Atlanta, Georgia, where she would be caring for an aging aunt whom Margaret adored. At least that was one friend Darby wouldn’t have to worry about.
However, there were many, like Darby, whose only alternative was to take a chance as a mail-order bride. It was barbaric, truly. But she was coming to believe the only difference between modern times and medieval…were the fashions.
When the day came that Darby needed someone to care for her, she trusted the Lord would send her someone. And if Darby was a very good lass and learned to quell her temper, that someone might even be a gentle, loving husband from Oregon.
A gentle, loving, and forgiving husband.
She imagined a handsome gentleman sitting next to her bed, worrying at a wet cloth draped over her forehead, taking her hand in his and gently stroking her fingers while he murmured happy thoughts and lulled her to sleep.
She imagined him falling asleep in his chair, so worried he’d be for her well-being.
She stirs.
He wakes.
She mumbles.
He moves close to listen in case she is asking for water, for him.
But all that comes out of her mouth, in her delirious state…is a string of Gaelic curses!
“Damn!” Darby flung the magazine forcefully across the small room. It spun and flew to the top of the door before falling straight to the floor with a smack.
“That’s four,” Margaret said without opening her eyes.
Darby stuck out her tongue in the girl’s direction.
“And that’s five.” Margaret pulled her elbows behind her and lifted up to look at the magazine now in pieces by the door. “But don’t fret, Darb. It’s Sunday. You’ve still got two left.”
CHAPTER TWO
Rand stood by helplessly while another poor sod was lifted into a dingy. This one, he couldn’t save. As the Phantom of Portland, he had to let some slip through his fingers or he would lose credibility as a diabolical figure in the underground community. And unfortunately, he had to instigate some other crimes to maintain that reputation.
That night’s victim possessed the three qualities Rand required from all his Shanghaied victims. First of all, he was without family. With the help of a clever-tongued lady of the evening, he’d learned the man had left a sister back east and never planned to see her again. That was good enough for Rand, especially since he’d stalled so long since he’d last sold an able body.
Secondly, the man was guilty of a handful of sins, including striking a woman. That incident, Rand had witnessed himself from the large picture window of his office. He’d ordered the man followed, which led to the decision to earmark him for a dead drop.
And finally, the victim was relatively healthy. If there was one thing Rand refused to do, it was sell a scrawny, weak man to the vicious sea captains who demanded new members for their crews bound for China. It was an awful life, a difficult life, and few survived more than a year or two. A healthy man had a better chance. Rand liked his victims to have some hope.
It helped him sleep at night.
But selling able bodies to the captains directly also helped the Phantom’s reputation. A man with a strong back and a strong constitution meant Rand earned not only a pretty penny for each of his offerings, but also a reputation as an excellent judge of the flesh.
The unexpected benefit of this was that his competition in the villain department grew more particular about the able bodies they chose too. Children had disappeared from the market. And if one did appear, he had one of his men buy the child outright. Then they either got the child and parents out of town, or, if the child’s parents couldn’t be found, a new family was located outside of the city.
Of course his rivals still preyed upon any bloke they could get their hands on. The captains weren’t picky by any means. But thanks to Rand’s improvement in viable products, those rivals often threw back more pitiful blokes that were likely to die after a few strikes of a lash.
So, in a roundabout way, Rand had saved some of the scrawnier, more pitiable creatures who wandered into the wrong part of town, and by some miracle, wandered back out again. A little more worse for wear, a severe ache in their heads, but often oblivious to the horrid fate they’d escaped.
The hardest parts for Rand was when a woman was caught in the web of traps below the city. It happened on a regular basis. Nothing he could do to stop it. But what he could do was save as many of them as possible.
It was rumored the Phantom had a taste for female flesh. And, thanks to his daylight persona, he was able to spread whatever gossip he wished. But this particular rumor provided an excuse for buying as many female Shanghaied victims as he did. They, too, would surface in another town where no one would know how close they’d come to being the plaything of an entire crew.
He’d saved lives. Every night he saved as many as he could. But he would never be able to save them all as the Phantom. Eventually, his public and political persona would save them by the thousands.
But when he was unable to save one…
When he failed, for one reason or another, he almost wished he’d never heard about them. Of course, with his ear to the ground and a small army of spies in his employ, he knew every cage below ground, and each time a soul was placed inside one. There might have been one or two a week he didn’t know about, whose captors were too quick. But it was almost a relief not to have known about them, so he couldn’t regret what he could not do to save them.
But the women…
It didn’t matter what choices the woman had made in life, whether she was an innocent wandering down the wrong street, or lured through the wrong doorway. Or whether she was a trollop who had acquired a serious illness or disease, and her boss wanted to be rid of her. No matter what the story, a woman was a woman and should be protected from the vices of men.
So when he could save them, pay a pretty penny and take them to his secret den of iniquity—only to be sneaked out of town at a later time—he would do it. And when he was unable to free a girl because he couldn’t pay the asking price, or because her captor refused to deal with him, the following days were hard to bear. At least twice a month, sometimes more, he had to lose himself in
strong drink and dark rooms until the guilt faded.
His elegant bride, if he ever found one, would just have to turn a blind eye when he didn’t come home at night, and still wasn’t in his bed in the morning. But if he held out for the right woman—a well-bred, aristocratic woman—she would know better than to meddle in her husband’s business.
They were trained that way, as he understood it. They were born and bred to be silent, dignified dolls who spent all their free time planning social events and studying fashion—none of which would get in the way of his real work.
But what if none of those women had a reason to read his advertisement, let alone answer it?
CHAPTER THREE
“Welcome, Miss McClintock.” Miss Miller greeted Darby into her office and they both took up the pretense that three other women weren’t sitting in the long hallway waiting their turns. The young woman’s home was a busy place that morning. No doubt a good many desperate women in town had perused The Groom’s Gazette on the weekend and were still trying to work up their courage. Darby was just glad to have arrived early.
She put her nose in the air and strode through the doorway like her knees were tied together beneath her skirts—which they were. She’d been fanning herself furiously in the hall, worried the silly idea was about to backfire on her, but the tie hadn’t fallen off…
Yet.
Unfortunately, the woman focused her complete attention on her, so Darby couldn’t discreetly bend over and slide the silly ribbon up higher, or better yet, take it off.
I’m Queen Victoria. I’m Queen Victoria.
It was a fact, she’d pretended to be the queen since she’d risen from her bed that morning. It didn’t matter if the other ladies in the boarding house had wondered if she was ill or not. She’d hardly noticed the odd looks at breakfast, her mind had been that intent on holding tight to the character she needed to play for the interview. And she’d been doing such a fine job of it she’d nearly introduced herself to Miss Miller as Victoria McClintock!
