Mail Order Brides Collection Boxed Set: Felicity, Frank, Verity and Jessica, Books 3-6 (Montana Mail Order Brides Series)

by Rose Jenster

  This daydreaming didn’t suit her, really. She’d far rather take action. So Verity wrote the one letter she knew she could manage handily—a letter of application to the board of education of Billings in Montana Territory, where Charlotte had indicated the teacher was soon to marry and leave a convenient vacancy. She didn’t much care for the idea of answering an advertisement. But,she might prefer to choose a man in person if they were really so thick on the ground out West as Charlotte insisted.

  The more that Verity thought of it, the more she warmed to the idea of having her pick of good men out West. She only wanted one and had no wish to flirt or lead anyone on. No, she only wanted the steady devotion of a good man. If Charlotte was to be believed, there were plentiful good men there and one of them surely might become a fine husband for Verity. So, she would travel there for work, but she might stay for love.

  Verity walked back to town and mailed the letter. It was a decision she arrived at after much reflection. Whether Miss Ivy’s unexpected engagement had required her to move to teach orthography or not, her position as literature and poetry instructress had to have been advertised. That was the way that Miss Emily Law of England applied.

  Probably Miss Debenham, the headmistress, had wanted a teacher who spoke fluent French. She must have advertised very widely indeed to have secured replies from across the sea. Verity reflected that the academy had not been satisfied with her classroom performance and had perhaps only given her the demotion out of desperation to fill Miss Ivy’s job.

  The academy was in a pinch since Miss Ivy's departure was so sudden. It seemed a new insight and revelation for Verity to realize that she was not valued at Vaughn, even if she didn't want to admit. Montana Territory now made sense if there was any chance of her being hired. She had listed Charlotte as a personal reference, hoping the familiar name would go a ways to getting her consideration for the position.

  Verity taught Lord Byron and Wordsworth and thought every day that this might be her last opportunity to read Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage to a class of eager scholars. No doubt Miss Law would read it in French even though it was composed in English—just to show that she could! Verity took time to cherish the reading of each poem, even the marking of each student essay as if it would be the final time. It made her a more thoughtful reader and speaker and teacher, she knew. She cared a lot about the girls and wanted them to have inner depth and not just the outward signs of elegance. What really mattered most was one's heart and kindness.

  After checking the post one afternoon, Verity was delighted to receive a letter with a reply favorable to her credentials, Her new life would begin! Verity happily turned in her notice to Miss Debenham and wrote to inform Charlotte. Then she hurried into the telegraph office in town to wire both Charlotte and the boarding house proprietress, Mrs. Hostelman (whom Charlotte had once mentioned in a letter) to speak for a room after she arrived. The letter from the board of education had included a rail ticket and Verity thought seven days was plenty of time to ready herself before leaving New York.

  She stopped off and bought a length of pretty sprigged dimity for a new dress and some white lawn for a blouse. Verity would spend her evenings for the next week piecing and sewing both items for her new life. She didn’t think there would be much in the way of selection when it came to shopping out West and the dimity—well, she thought it would serve for church in spring and summer for several years. The pale rose shade sprigged with tiny buds of pale violet was perfect for services, but in truth, she selected it for a wedding dress.

  If the best should happen, if a shopkeeper of interesting man should ask for her hand in marriage, she would be outfitted for the ceremony in that gown. She contemplated adding sophistication with white gloves, and the pearl pin she only wore for the annual Vaughn academy concert and graduation ceremonies.

  Verity had surprisingly little to pack. She had a trunk but it was scarcely half full until she added her books. Most of them had been purchased at a second hand shop a few from the library sale. She had her Shakespeare, a beautiful volume bound in green leather, the crisp, fragile pages crabbed with her handwritten notes in the margins. She was ready, was, in fact beyond ready to leave Vaughn Academy behind her. It was a fine institution but it wasn’t for the likes of her, with her humble beginnings and her inability to speak other languages. Montana Territory, she hoped, would have far more simple expectations.

  Verity sat on the train and ate her sandwiches and drank the little bottle of buttermilk she’d brought along. Once she had eaten and watched the familiar landscape roll away behind her, the novelty of the journey had worn off and she simply wanted to be in Montana Territory to begin her new life. Impatient for the change once she’d committed to it, Verity found it hard to wait. She tired of staring out the window on the long journey. At every station where they paused, she found herself pressing the toes of her boots to the floor as if she might, by pushing, hurry the train along!

  She hadn’t any letters from a sweetheart that she might read for comfort on the long trip. Instead, she read Charlotte’s accounts of the West and her sweet, urging letters beckoning Verity to come live there. They made Verity feel hopeful and helped her to stop questioning this impulsive choice she’d made. There were many hours to pass and so Verity did the thing she liked best of all, reading books that were her closest friends.

  She read tragedies of Shakespeare on the train. Her hefty book was unwieldy, hard to balance in gloved hands on a narrow train seat, but she lost herself in the words, in the plights of Lear and of Brutus. They never failed to bring tears to her eyes and she found herself dabbing at her eyes discreetly with her handkerchief at a rail station when she changed trains. Let them think, she thought loftily, that I have a cinder in my eye from these beastly, dirty locomotives.

  Verity hoped that she’d find Montana agreeable since she planned never to step foot on another rail car after days jostling around in the hot, smelly train, never truly able to get comfortable and relax in such a crush of people. The open spaces the frontier promised sounded truly appealing.

  Chapter 4

  Dear Cousin Charlotte met Verity’s train and directed a porter to send the trunk to Mrs. Hostelman’s boarding house. “I’m so pleased you’ve come West, Verity,” Charlotte said, hugging her, “You look even finer than when I saw you last. I hope you don’t mind getting your hands dirty,” Charlotte gazed at the white cotton gloves her cousin wore.

  “Teaching isn’t very dirty work, cousin,” Verity assured her, “It isn’t as if I’ll be shoveling coal.”

  “Er, I expect you will. In winter at least,” Charlotte chuckled.

  “The janitress does that surely!”

  “There is no janitress here. It’s a one-room school, Verity! You’ll tend the stove and sweep the floor,” Charlotte said, surprised that Verity expected anything less.

  “I suppose it will be an adjustment but I welcome the change. I can learn to work the stove and I already know how to use a broom!” Verity knew she could take on different challenges.

  “You’ll love Mrs. Hostelman. She’s very sweet. I’d be careful of eating much of her cooking though—all that heavy food is like to give you the stomach ache,” Charlotte said, squeezing her arm.

  “Thank you for the warning. I will pay attention!”

  They made plans for Charlotte to visit the following day and once at the boarding house Verity took the opportunity to settle into her room. She removed her gloves, unfastened her top two buttons and set about washing. Verity poured the chilly water from the ewer into the bowl and bathed her face, throat and hands. She breathed in the rose-scented soap she’d brought from New York like sweet relief. Once she had tidied her hair, she went downstairs and made Mrs. Hostelman a gift of just such a fragrant soap, new in its wrapper.

  “Land sakes, girl, you don’t have to give me presents!”

  “I know that, Mrs. Hostelman, but never forget you’re doing me a kindness taking me in like this so I might have
a respectable and lovely place to stay!” Verity said winningly.

  Mrs. Hostelman was obviously pleased with the praise and offered Verity fresh cream with her tea. She sat and listened to Mrs. Hostelman’s friendly gossip—all good-natured—and sipped her sweet and creamy tea, thinking it the most delicious thing she’d ever had. The cup of hot tea and the friendly talk about the neighborhood restored Verity’s spirits from the exhausting train journey.

  She turned her thoughts to the schoolhouse, the pupils, the prospect of being wooed by if not a crowd of eligible men, at least one or two of the right sort, thoughtful, cultured Byronic types. That is, if such men lived in the Wild West, of course. If not, then perhaps she might meet with a bachelor shopkeeper who belonged to a lending library. One had to relax one’s standards a bit on the frontier, she thought.

  * * *

  Mr. Wood of the board of education gave Verity a tour of the schoolhouse to get her acclimated. It was a bit of an exaggeration to call it a tour since it involved opening the door and showing her where the bell and pointer were. Another part of it was how to wiggle the iron door of the stove to get it to stay shut. There was only one room and the door on the stove was broken.

  The students were all from nearby farms and ranches or belonged to families who lived in town itself. Nearly half her pupils were taller than her height, including the girls. Verity had a small, neat figure but she stood only just above five feet in height. These farm grown children were at least a head taller than she, once they were eleven or twelve years old. It was disconcerting to say the least.

  She made a point of standing straight and tall on the little platform at the front of the room where her desk stood before the blackboard. Verity opened each day’s class with a reading from the Bible and a sonnet from Shakespeare. Between the two, she thought, the children would receive some education no matter what. It was in her second week that one of her students, barefooted as usual, raised his hand after she read aloud.

  “Yes, Paul?” Verity was happy to see him participate.

  “I have learned that one off by heart and I was wondering if I could say it tomorrow at opening time after the Bible?”

  “You’ve learned it? By memory?”

  “Yes ma’am, I have. I like it real well,” he said searching for approval.

  “Why, then after your lessons you may recite it for me, and if it is accurate, you may speak it tomorrow after the Scripture reading, Paul,” Verity said, feeling pleased and surprised that one of her students had liked the poetry well enough to memorize it.

  He nodded his thanks and resumed his seat in the back with the older students. Paul was perhaps fifteen years old but because of working on the family farm he had only completed five years of schooling, placing him in the same McGuffey Reader as children of ten and eleven.

  She made a mental note to bring a volume of poetry from her trunk to lend him. He had an excellent memory for things he heard, but his reading lagged behind. It would be good for him to practice at home at night and he seemed to have a love for learning.

  She called the first class forward to recite and listened to their sums and Bible verses. Verity praised them for memorizing the first five Presidents. She set them a reading assignment and had them copy the sums off the blackboard to their slates while she called forth the next class. After she taught the day’s history and orthography, she rang the bell for the lunch break.

  Verity had taught for four years in one of the finest East Coast girls’ academies and never had she worked so hard, nor taught so much in a single day. Instead of twelve or fourteen primped and polite girls from the upper class, she had above thirty students ranging from ages five to seventeen. Half of the students couldn’t read well enough to complete their assignments. She wanted to help them and felt that her life had a meaning.

  They also didn’t wear shoes which surprised her. In the warmer months evidently they saved their shoes for Sunday best so as not to wear them out. Instead of filing through corridors, uniforms pressed and homework completed like her students at the private school back in New York, these children ambled in with dirty feet. Their books were dusty from being laid on the ground for a game or a rough and tumble on the way to school. She knew that her Montana students also had many chores to complete back at their farms or homes and their lives were not easy.

  Verity went home to the boarding house each night, often too tired even to eat more than a few bites. She exerted herself to help Mrs. Hostelman with the washing up and to be friendly, but what she longed to do was lay a cool cloth across her eyes and go to bed long before the sun set. Instead she jotted down lesson plans and sifted through her books for passages to read aloud or to write on the blackboard for the pupils to copy for handwriting practice. Still, most nights she was asleep early, sometimes still in her blouse and skirt, hair even pinned up.

  As her class let out for a term break due to field work, Verity’s thoughts turned to the prospect of matrimony. In truth, no suitors had turned up to ask for her hand in marriage. She hadn’t socialized during the half-term she’d taught because she was getting used to the workload. It turned out she was too busy to do much more than teach, keep her laundry clean and help out at the boarding house.

  Chapter 5

  Verity's sole outing was church on Sundays and she always sat with Charlotte. She had made no effort to socialize and had even turned down Mrs. Rogers’ invitation to join the sewing circle. It met during the school day, making her attendance impossible. Now that she had a two weeks’ holiday, she thought to look around herself and see what opportunities there were to get to know her new neighbors. Charlotte had wanted to help her shortly after arriving to make some introductions, but Verity declined at the time.

  The first day of her break, she failed utterly. She spent the day repairing books at the schoolhouse with her pot of paste and scissors. Verity set about polishing the stove as well. When she tried to polish the door, it slid down on the crooked hinge and hurt her finger. Annoyed, Verity wiped her hands on a rag and got to her feet.

  If there were repairs to be done at this schoolhouse, they ought rightly to be done over the term break and she would see about it today! She asked a shopkeeper sweeping his steps where she might find the blacksmith. He pointed her in the right direction and she stalked off to the forge.

  There, a hulking man stood with his back to her, working the billows to increase the flames. She took an involuntary step back from the rising heat and cleared her throat to get his attention.

  “Ahem. Excuse me, sir, but I am in need of some help,” she said clearly.

  He turned around and his eyes settled on her. Verity felt impossibly small, childish almost as he towered over her.

  “The stove door, at the schoolhouse?” She wasn’t sure why her voice raised in question,. “It needs fixing—I mean repair. It needs to be repaired. Could you come along and look at it?” Verity felt awkward making her request.

  “Not now I can’t. I don’t reckon it’s an emergency though anyway,” he said.

  “And why would you say that?” Her eyes narrowed at this workman’s temerity.

  “Because it’s planting season and you’re not like to fire up the stove to ward off a chill today,” he said.

  His eyes were very blue and she thought he looked rather rudely about to laugh. About to laugh at her! She had no choice. She made a ‘hmph!’ sound, turned on her heel and flounced off. It was a very energetic flounce, meant to be insulting. How dare he dismiss her so!

  Surely the needs of the schoolhouse were important to the entire town. She wondered if she shouldn’t say something to Mr. Wood about getting the stove door fixed since her efforts were ignored by the obnoxious blacksmith. Of course a town the size of Billings only had one blacksmith, so she couldn’t appeal to the sympathy of any rival tradesman with her tale of how mistreated she’d been by this one.

  Verity decided not to bother the board of education with the stove door and surly tradesman problem,. She
thought perhaps the man would repent of his unkind behavior and come to the schoolhouse to apologize and repair the door swiftly. Verity waited there until it was nearly dark. No evident fit of remorse had smote the blacksmith.

  She returned to the boarding house by way of the mercantile where she bought a stick of lemon candy to cheer herself up and a copy of the matrimonial news. It was purely an amusement to her, of course. Verity wanted to see how these Western men described themselves compared with how she found them in real life—unhelpful and lacking in basic manners. It should make her laugh at least, she thought, after she’d helped clear away the supper dishes. She wanted to read the fiction of how these so-called cowboys saw themselves and contrast it to the reality, which was far less of a romantic adventure.

  As soon as she had scoured the stew pot and said good night to Mrs. Hostelman, Verity hurried to her quarters to wash up, light the lamp and read. She opened her notebook from New York and nearly laughed at her so-serious lists of bachelor shopkeepers and widowed ranchers and how she had ranked them as possible husbands.

  There was no need for such extreme measures. She had a job, a nice room, a group of students in need of her knowledge and her refined manners. What wish had she for an ordinary rustic man who had to place an ad to find a woman?

  The first few advertisements were entertaining. A farmer with nine children who described himself as spry and handsome—anyone who called himself spry was either old or had rheumatism and was pretending not to have it! She noted that in the margin and giggled.

  Another man announced that he had ‘abundant curly hair’ and played the concertina. Verity actually snorted with laughter at the image of a clownish man with great masses of curls squeezing on an accordion and tapping his foot while desperate Eastern spinsters tossed flowers at his feet. Beside that advertisement, Verity drew a little stick man with huge curls coming out of his smiling head and a zigzag to represent his concertina.