by Rose Jenster
Felicity,
By the time you get this letter, I will be a married man. I will wed Margaret Williams, the pastor’s daughter here in Cheyenne. She is accustomed to the hard life out West and is a patient, practical woman. She’ll make me a fine wife and fit in this kind of life better than you could. For you I think it was all a fairy tale. I hope it won’t discomfit you very much to find that the daydream did not turn out as planned.
You’re a pretty girl and my bride and I wish you the best. I hope you can find it in your heart to be happy for us…I love my Margaret dearly, and we want the same kind of life.
Sincerely,
Mr. & Mrs. Daniel Have
Felicity’s hands trembled and a harsh sound escaped from her throat. At first she thought it was a sob, that her heart must be broken, but it was recognizably a scoff, a sort of incredulous shout. She sank down and sat on the wooden trunk that she used for a hope chest, as though her legs were unequal to supporting her. Impossible, she thought. It was impossible that he had written such a thing to her, had delivered such a piece of news in so few words, in so callous a manner.
The Daniel she knew and loved had taken her to the ice cream shop on Saturdays and talked with her about her customers at the shop and his frustration with his father’s expectations. They were going to run away together, start a new life out West. Now she thought of it, it seemed so foolish that she had believed it would really happen. When she thought of how she had planned and prepared for that life, the things she had collected to use in her household and the reading she had done to learn about the frontier, she flushed with shame and anger.
Felicity folded the letter neatly and placed it on her small writing desk. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat but a sob broke from her. Felicity clapped her hand over her mouth, thinking it was overindulgent to have a crying jag. However, upon further consideration, she was alone in the privacy of her room, and she had just, in point of fact, been jilted by the love of her life. If there were ever a time to throw oneself weeping upon the bed, surely this was that time.
She sniffed experimentally, finding her eyes already filled with tears of disbelief. Instead of flinging herself melodramatically on the coverlet, however, she thought with an uncharacteristic touch of practicality that such an act would only cause the boning of her corset to jab her painfully in the ribs. So she sat down on the bed and wept into her open hands. Sadness engulfed her and she felt her future happiness was taken from her.
Felicity had always known that she felt things deeply. She had been known to fly into a passion when her brother threw a rock that injured a bird. She had demanded that he gently retrieve the bird and help her to nurse it back to health. Admittedly, their mother had refused to let them bring it in the house, but she was still a person who felt any grief or injustice keenly. So it was that this intensely personal disappointment, this heartbreak, was devastating to her.
It was a catastrophe like nothing she had ever known. Her family was not wealthy—in fact they did not have a cook or a housekeeper as many of her schoolmates’ families had—her father worked in a factory, after all. Still, Felicity was accustomed to a comfortable home, enough to eat, and pocket money of her own doled out by her father. He had given her a clothes allowance since she was sixteen.
Her cunning with trimming and re-trimming bonnets and the occasional reticule had come in handy with economizing in that arena, but her dresses were always well cut and of good fabric, even if she did have them made up simply for lack of funds to fritter away on braid and lace embellishments. She had not suffered privation, had not lost a close family member to disease or misadventure. Felicity had never been much thwarted at having her own way. As a result, this sadness held the freshness of unaccustomed misery. It was an ache that she didn't know how to accept.
Felicity suffered, but she knew that she suffered and that it was a novelty to her. She had read sensational stories when she was younger, in which young girls pined away and died for loss of the one that they loved—in battle or because the man was faithless like hers. Felicity was a romantic, but she was not so romantic that she intended to waste away from the fact that Daniel preferred someone else over her. It was shabby of him, to be sure. She still loved him and the ache carved into her whole being.
Not that she’d have him back on a silver platter if he crawled on his knees from Wyoming to be forgiven! But she had warm, sad, bittersweet feelings for him that she suspected were of the durable sort. Felicity cared for him deeply, and the future they had planned together was sharp in her memory. She did not have the heart to call him names or think too ill of him. Felicity only wished he hadn’t done it, hadn’t handed over her every expectation of future happiness to some other girl. Why was another chosen?
After she had done with crying, she made an effort to straighten her hair and bathed her face with cold water from her pitcher. Though her pier glass told her that her eyes were swollen and her face red, she went downstairs to join her family for dinner. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out and tell the truth.
She slipped into her seat as her father finished saying grace. Her head bowed, Felicity avoided the scolding expression on her mother’s face or the open interest in her father’s. He liked to hear about her days at the shop, the people she saw, the hats she sold, and any gossip she picked up.
Her father had a harmless love of news but worked in a factory with machinery so loud he was unable to talk with the other workers. Usually, she endeavored to satisfy his curiosity with cheerful and amusing stories that put her day in the best possible light. Tonight, however, she hadn’t the heart to be entertaining.
When her mother passed her a dish of stew, she thanked her softly but made no move to lift her spoon.
“You’re awful quiet today, Fliss.” Her father remarked genially.
“Yes, Papa. I—I received a letter and it was not good news. It was from Daniel.”
“Is he all right?” her younger brother, Christopher, ventured. “Did he get bit by a snake or a scorpion or something?” he asked, his lurid fascination with tragedy and eagerness for news far exceeding their father’s.
“He’s well enough.” She hesitated, “I may as well say it. Daniel’s jilted me and married another girl out in Wyoming.” She sighed heavily in the silence that followed and swallowed her emotions.
“He finally got wise to you and your taste in expensive hats,” Christopher chuckled. His mother’s reproving look hushed him up, and he started shoveling in stew without further comment.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” her father said.
“Really, Papa? You didn’t want me to go,” she said plainly.
“I would miss you sorely, Fliss, but your heart was set on moving out to Wyoming Territory, and I’d not have tried to stop you.” He was in pain seeing her grief which she courageously was trying to hide.
“No, you’ve not checked her will at anything since the day she was born,” her mother snapped.
“I’ll own it. She’s my eye apple and has been these twenty years and more,” he said with a rueful smile.
“If I got the pocket money she has—“ Christopher piped up.
“Aw, shut your hole, boy. It’s different with girls. You’re not needing the fripperies and the like.”
“It’s heartless of you to think of something as inconsequential as pocket money at such a time like this,” she burst out, and fled from the table for her room in tears.
Felicity heard her father scold Christopher and her mother huff with annoyance before she shut herself in her bedroom for another long cry.
The next morning, she had a sore head and her eyes were red and puffy from a night of crying. Felicity took a cup of tea but left the rest of the breakfast her mother had kept warm for her and set off to work.
Mrs. Rochester rushed to her side and patted her arm solicitously as she observed that something was wrong.
“What’s the matter, my dear?”
“It’s Daniel,
my—my betrothed. He’s gone and married someone else and left me behind,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“I’m so sorry. Can I do anything for you?”
“No, no, it’s kind of you to be concerned. I’d best keep busy,” she said, trying to sound brave when really she wanted coddling.
“Oh, let me pop over home and make you a cup of tea,” Mrs. Rochester urged until Felicity nodded her acquiescence as if it were a favor she granted.
While Felicity had the shop to herself, she wondered what it would be like if it were her own store. She would certainly put the lavish white hat with its great curling plumes in the front window because it was more eye-catching than the practical straw bonnet with its nice, but simple, pink ribbons that Mrs. Rochester had on display. Perhaps she’d add in a few shelves of gloves and baubles to appeal to customers who wanted something pretty to update an ensemble but couldn’t part with the price of a hat. She made note of the idea to mention to her employer at a later date to be helpful.
By the time Mrs. Rochester returned with tea and shortbread biscuits, Felicity had quite refurbished the shop in her imagination. Gone would be the heavy red draperies and in with a silvery blue silk, soft as moonlight. She would bring in a pair of wing back chairs like the sort one saw in parlors and position them just so before the window, so ladies could sit and admire other customers’ hats and have a moment of quiet in a pretty, feminine shop.
Felicity wondered, as she sipped her tea, why they didn’t get a spirit lamp to brew tea and have little biscuits on offer for a more gracious experience, like the customers were really guests. She was surprised to find that Mrs. Rochester was talking to her.
“Now I don’t discuss it much, but my cousin’s daughter, she met a man through the mail and was set to be his bride like he ordered her up from a catalog same as you’d get seed or shoes.”
“And did he jilt her? Was he faithless?”
“No,” Mrs. Rochester looked rather deflated, “It worked out all right for them, despite his living out on the wild frontier. Truth is, I didn’t much like you going so far off to the wilds.”
“It was a town; it’s on the map down at the public library and everything. I spent a great deal of time at the library reading up on the settlement of Wyoming. I studied about good garden crops, which livestock fare well there, what wild animals threaten the chickens and all that sort of thing,” Felicity said in a soft tone.
“I was all prepared to be a proper pioneer wife,” she said ruefully. Felicity wondered if fighting off tears would be a constant effort. She understood self-pity for the first time.
A lady came in to browse, and Mrs. Rochester stood up to tend to the customer so Felicity could finish her tea and biscuit. The young lady was one who had been at school with Felicity. Her name was Jessamine and she was married to a banker now. She rushed over to her old schoolmate with an expression of bright, avid concern.
“Oh, dear, I’ve only just heard what happened with you and Daniel. Poor you! I don’t know what would have become of me if my John had turned and jilted me at the altar like that!” she exclaimed.
“We weren’t quite at the altar yet, Mrs. Falk,” Felicity said coolly. She realized that this was what she'd be hearing from others as the news spread.
“I just want you to know that if you need a shoulder to cry on, why, you can always come to tea at my house. The baby naps between two and four and after that, my John gets home and we have our evenings quite full of engagements, but you’d be welcome to come to an early tea and tell me just all about it.”
“Thank you, but I’m working during that time,” Felicity said. She did not want to be the object of wagging tongues.
“Oh, of course. Well, I do hope you don’t take it too hard,” Jessamine said and left the shop.
“It’s the talk of the town now,” Felicity mused grimly.
“Sure enough, there will be another scandal tomorrow to wipe yours away, don’t fret,” Mrs. Rochester reassured her kindly.
“Yes, but I won’t marry now. I’m to be a spinster. Daniel was what there was for me, and since that is not to be, I’ll end an old maid.” It hurt Felicity to say those words so others could hear them too.
“I’m sure you’ll be a great comfort to your parents in their old age,” Mrs. Rochester said wisely.
“Yes, I’ll try to be,” she declared a little uncomfortably. While she knew she was amusing and nice to look at, Felicity wasn’t certain she’d ever been much of a comfort to anyone, least of all her mother.
At that moment she felt a real pang of regret, possibly the first in her life, that she hadn’t been more considerate, more helpful to her parents. She resolved right then and there to be better, kinder and more useful. Felicity saw that she was always wrapped up in herself and all her daydreams. She’d had her knuckles rapped at school dozens of times for daydreaming and not paying attention. It might be time, at age twenty-one, to pay a bit of attention to her family and try to improve herself.
Felicity forced a smile onto her face, thanked Mrs. Rochester for being so kind, and set about dusting the shelves and tidying the displays that had been set askew by her curious schoolmate. She sold two hats and put another back in order to reserve it for a lady who might come back for it on the following morning.
Felicity felt positively heroic, having overcome every swell of tears that threatened during the long day and persevering to do her job with good cheer and aplomb. When the last customer left, she wilted into a chair and wept. Mrs. Rochester patted her shoulder and then left her alone.
When Felicity managed to master her emotions at last, she stood and checked her reflection. She was puffy and pale and lacked her usual bloom of health. Well, why should she? She just had her heart broken and would have to spend the rest of her life a spinster, unwanted, and unloved.
Felicity had done her job for the day and could go home to the warmth of her family. She winced a little, remembering Christopher’s remarks about her allowance. Felicity knew that she had more pocket money, especially with her trousseau these last months, than her brothers did. In fact, had as much or nearly as much as her friends with more fortunate fathers.
It gave her a sharp pang to think of her parents doing without so she could fit in with what was fashionable and have the things that others her age had. Felicity went directly to the back room and took the cunning bonnet she’d put away to pay for when she got her wages. She set it firmly on a display stand right in the front window and stalked off.
“Mrs. Rochester, I’ve decided against the hat I had put reserved. I returned it to the display. I hope that’s all right. I really—I think my parents may need the money more than I need another new hat.”
“If that’s the way you feel, my dear. I understand. I’ll just go tidy up the display. You are in my prayers.”
“Good night,” Felicity said and took her leave.
She walked along the street and made her way to her parents’ home. Now she looked at it with the eyes not of a young girl soon to marry and move away, but as a woman who has had fresh disappointment. This might be only home she will ever know.
“I suppose I won’t have anything of my own, then,” she said a bit wearily. Felicity observed the peeling paint around the windows and the small flower bed that needed weeding. She would live here with her parents until they passed away. She would not have the money to keep the house and take care of it on her wages as a shop girl. In the future she would have to go live with one of her brothers, a cuckoo in his nest, in his wife’s way. They would treat her with civility and condescension as the old maid living in the attic. Tears shot to her eyes at the thought of such a hopeless existence.
Felicity had wanted a home of her own and a family, a husband who thought her pretty and amusing. She had hoped for children she could amaze with her cunning little tricks of folding napkins into swans or fashioning neat little boats out of newspaper. Maybe the girl would even love hats and they could laugh together as they create
d designs with flowers they'd attach to the top.
She rushed up to her room without stopping to greet her mother. Felicity changed into an old school dress, two inches too short now and worn thin at the elbows. After she hurried outside, Felicity knelt down and began pulling weeds from among the flowers rather haphazardly. This could be hers, she thought. This small corner of the lawn where she might make something neat and beautiful. She could conquer this piece of earth first, and then figure out what to do with the long, dreadful expanse of the rest of her life. It was a start.
When she was finished, she wiped her damp, dirty hands on her skirt. There was earth under her nails—nails which she kept short but which had never been truly dirty before. Felicity looked at them with more amusement than dismay. Her mind wandered and she imagined what it would have been like to dirty her hands working alongside Daniel in Wyoming, side by side toiling as they built a life out of the wild frontier.
Well, she thought, it may not be Wyoming, but a flower garden was better than nothing.
Felicity felt proud about the progress she’d made with the weeds as she scrubbed up. She went into the kitchen, and her mother dropped a spoon at the sight of her.
“Fliss, what’s happened? Are you hurt?” Her mother looked concerned.
“No, Mother. I’m perfectly fine. Why do you ask?”
“You’re—dirty. I thought, dear, you gave me a turn! I thought you might have been robbed and beaten in the street!”
“Goodness, no. I’ve been clearing weeds out of the flower bed. I wanted to ask you if I might—get some seeds and take care of it myself,” she said, her voice rather smaller than usual.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the day that my Fliss wanted anything to do with dirt and weeds,” her mother chuckled. Although she couldn't put it into words, she was moved by Felicity's earnestness and innocence.
