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

by Rose Jenster

  I grew up in Rochester, New York where I lived very modestly with my parents and my brother. I received my teaching license and set forth to make a new life for myself. I put on airs and behaved as though I were better educated and from a more wealthy family, a family with more status than I have any right to claim. I never pretended to be the daughter of a prominent family who had a fine education, but I never said I was not either. With the manners I affected and the lessons I took at drawing and piano a bit at a time as I could afford them, I acquired some of the accomplishments a young lady ought to have. So I was a pretender to the sort of life I wanted, though not raised that way from childhood.

  I taught four years and lived in the teacher’s dormitory and kept my things spotless and mended. If you take care of things they last a long time without showing much wear, I can tell you. I had rather repair something than replace it because the cost is too dear. I haven’t much, Mr. Rexing, and what little I have, I have worked for myself.

  My cousin Charlotte lives in Billings and likes it very well. She wrote to me to tell me the recent schoolteacher was betrothed and suggested I come here for the job and with the hope of a husband.

  Your mother warned you about the measure of a man. I am not a man but as a human being, I would like to have more integrity to show for my years on earth than I have to offer you. I will tell you only the truth henceforth and I ask your forgiveness for my error. I should have told you I moved to Montana to find a husband, though it is a drastic step and could cause you to view me as unladylike and now dissembling as well.

  Write to me, then, and ask me those questions you said you had. If you cannot see your way clear to correspond with me, I wish you well anyhow. I do hope you will write to me. Telling you this was not easy. I want to go forward with honesty and get to know one another. So, I did the difficult thing and confessed. Perhaps that shows some integrity at least.

  Verity Kemp

  Two days later she had her reply. She opened the mail with her nerves hands shaking.

  Dear Miss Kemp,

  So you are the schoolmistress who came from New York with your private academy airs that sent the board of education near fainting with excitement to secure your instruction at their humble frontier school. So you are the woman who came to my forge while I was working and insisted I stop what I was doing and come repair a stove door that has likely been broken for years on a warm afternoon when you’d no need of a stove. You had the manner of one being sentenced to her death---as if I had told you to go to the devil instead of telling you that you’d have to wait your turn.

  My impression was that young lady sure thought a lot of herself and her own importance. That may be so, and you may have every right to think well of yourself. I do not think so well of you now that I know you set out to deceive me.

  I must say, though, since your first letter came to me so fast after I placed the ad, I reckoned you were in Helena at least. Then I saw your name and I may not go into society much, but I hear a deal of gossip. Your name was in everyone’s mouth a few weeks back, about your pretty ways and how you were reading poems to those children and then those children were saying the poems over to the cows and at the dinner table. You made the children quite mad for poems, it sounds like. More than one man asked if I had seen you around and made free to describe you to me, down to the ‘cunning heels’ of your boots. Nothing like you had been seen around here.

  There was talk of who had seen you first, who was set to ask if he might walk you to church. When I saw your name on my letter, when I recognized it, I thought I’d won some prize in a raffle almost. I was excited, and I don’t mind telling you I haven’t been excited about much since I got my 200 pound English solid box vise (a smithing tool) last year.

  I will write to you, but with some reservation now as I know you are not completely honest. Only know that I’ve never met anyone who was. I was prepared to believe it of you, though, that you were some rare, perfect creature who was untroubled by the faults the rest of us wrestle with.

  My questions for you have changed.

  How do you find teaching school here to be different? Do you like it here? Have you been to the mountains yet or the river? How can you eat Mrs. Hostelman’s food?

  Sincerely,

  Adam Rexing

  Verity pressed her lips together. She had expected his disappointment and she knew she’d earned it. She gave him credit for cleverness at figuring out who she was before she confessed it. Then she wrote back to him.

  Dear Mr. Rexing,

  Thank you for being patient with me. I am a flawed person and thought I struggle to be better, sometimes I fail.

  Teaching school in Montana Territory is more different than I could have imagined. The children are not so clean, nor so orderly as I am used to from my other setting. I have great boys of thirteen years who can scarcely read and cipher, yet little ones of seven who do both. The range of ages and abilities is as wonderful as it is distressing at times when I feel I am inadequate to teach them all as they need to be taught. If you had told me a year ago I would be in the backwoods teaching barefooted children about Wordsworth, I would not have fathomed it.

  I have not been out of Billings at all to see the landscape. I only see the mountains in the distance and I like them a great deal. They give one a sense of awe and stillness and a sort of smallness that is not unpleasant.

  I eat Mrs. Hostelman’s food just fine. She is a kind woman and cooks better than I—though it may frighten you to know it. I told you I'd be honest. Growing up, I learned to make soda bread and fruitcake at the holidays, and a lot of ways to serve potatoes. Meat was scarce and whenever we had any my mother would fry it right up and divide it so the biggest portion was my father’s, next biggest being for my brother and then for the two of us she had the littlest bit. Oftentimes she gave her meat to one of us because we stared at it longingly I imagine. I could kick myself for that, for the childish selfishness. If I could go back I would do a great many things differently.

  I would like to see the mountains. My cousin Charlotte is a dear, but she is quite busy and hasn’t time to take me round for a tour of the countryside herself. I haven’t any other local guide. Perhaps you might recommend a path that is quite safe as I have heard of wildcat attacks in the mountains. I should not like to encounter a wild animal as that sort of danger does not appeal to me at all.

  I am, as I believe I told you, more suited to town than to rural areas. I would like to sketch these mountains myself. I am a fair hand at drawing and I brought my coloring pencils with me from the East. If there is an area you suggest for a pretty landscape without a great deal of vicious predators nearby, I would be obliged. No matter how lovely the aspect, it isn’t quite worth it to be devoured by bears or whatever other wildlife dwells in this outpost of new civilization.

  I began teaching because I enjoy books and children, so it suits me well. I miss my brother a bit, but we have not seen one another much in recent years. So in truth I had no one to leave behind and regret. I confess I am lonesome for someone to talk with. To have someone to talk with by the fire of an evening, about the events of the day or my thoughts on a book I was reading, I think that would be wonderful.

  My questions for you are thus: Do you like being a blacksmith? Do you miss your sister since she moved away? Do you like children?

  Sincerely,

  Verity Kemp

  The next morning, a note waited for her downstairs.

  I would like to talk with you by a fire about a book you have read or a horse I shod that day. I like children. I like being a blacksmith. I like you, it would seem, most of all.

  Will you meet me? My friend Henry Rogers is known to your cousin, Charlotte, and her family. I believe he would introduce us formally if you would agree. I would do things properly as a gentleman—else I would be at your door instead of only this note. It is time we dispensed with these letters and spoke face to face.

  All aflutter, Verity wrote a reply as carefu
lly as she might to ask that they should meet that very day. She wanted to wear the becoming dimity dress but she was afraid to—she wanted to save it for her wedding dress. She wanted that to be the first time he would see it. Verity blushed to think so boldly, but she liked him quite well the more she thought about him.

  She chose a skirt and blouse, neatly pressed, and the pearl pin she bought herself with money she made tutoring students a two years before. It was her only ornament, but she thought it handsome. She thought the occasion warranted a bit of ceremony in the form of wearing her best, or her second-best as it were.

  Verity went to the inn at the appointed time where she met Mr. and Mrs. Rogers, of whom Charlotte had written her previously, of their kindness and warmth. They led her into the inn’s common room and there waited Adam Rexing wearing a starched white shirt with a celluloid collar too tight for his neck. His big hands rested on the table, more at home with a hammer no doubt than sitting idle. He rose from his chair and seemed to keep on standing up, towering over her, hulking almost.

  “Miss Verity Kemp, may I introduce my friend Adam Rexing. Adam, this is Miss Kemp from New York, our new schoolteacher.” Henry Rogers smiled almost mischievously at them.

  “How do you do?” Adam said stiffly and Verity found she couldn’t swallow the lump in her throat enough to respond so she only nodded and sank into a chair.

  Mrs. Rogers served them tea and Verity sipped hers, her hand trembling, unable to take her eyes off her cup. Henry Rogers talked of a child, presumably his own, and Adam mentioned someone called Josiah. Mrs. Rogers had herself been a teacher in New York, which is how she knew her cousin Charlotte.

  She asked Verity several questions, gently as if to draw her out. Verity scarcely answered using just short two or three word replies. She was overcome with uncharacteristic shyness, stealing glances at Adam even when she was speaking with Mrs. Rogers. Their hosts excused themselves to give them a moment alone—although Mrs. Rogers was nearby attending to the dishes to provide them a chaperone.

  “I—I was nervous to meet you,” Verity confessed.

  “And I, you, Miss Kemp,”

  “Please, call me by my first name,” she began.

  “It wouldn’t be right,” Adam responded stiffly and she nodded. He couldn’t call her by her Christian name as they were still basically strangers. Of course they had already met in his shop, but this was a new beginning. The formality pained her, though.

  “Nice weather we’re having,” he said by way of conversation.

  “Yes, I think so,” Verity replied unsure of what else to say.

  They sat in awkward silence, neither of them having much to say. At last, Verity rose and went to thank Mrs. Rogers for her hospitality. She told Adam it was nice to meet him and fled to the boarding house, disappointed. There, she flung herself on her bed and wept. Her face was flushed and her pillowcase damp when Mrs. Hostelman knocked on the door.

  “Message for you dear,” the woman said, leaving a letter on the side table and withdrawing.

  Verity opened it, wiping her eyes impatiently and lighting the lamp to see better.

  Miss Kemp,

  I was concerned I would meet you and find you too worldly for me, too cultured and vivacious. To find you shy, and as nervous as me, was not a relief but a burden of sorts. You see, my friend Mr. Rogers had warned me. He worried in his own situation a few years back that he would not like his bride as much when they met in person as he had in letters.

  I have the opposite problem. I like you even better. It isn’t because you’re pretty, though you are and I reckon you know it, too. It is because you took it serious, like our introduction was as important to you as it was to me.

  I hear you haven’t any kin I might ask for permission to court you, but I want you to know I would ask. That would be next. So I have met you the right way and I ask you if I may come courting. If you would go walking with me I could tell you some things you have every right to know. After the forge is shut down tomorrow, I will come call for you at the boarding house and I hope you will honor me by taking my arm and having a stroll. I will be a perfect gentleman and I believe Mr. Rogers would confirm.

  I find you even better than the letters you sent me and I liked them well enough to marry you on their strength alone. So read what you will into that and come walking with me tomorrow, my dear Miss Kemp. If I may take the liberty to address you so.

  Your suitor,

  Adam Rexing

  Verity clasped the letter to her heart and shut her eyes, smiling. This, this was why she took that dreadful rail journey and uprooted her entire life. To receive such a letter from such a man. Of course she would go walking with him. She would be hard-pressed not to wield some damage to Mrs. Hostelman’s cast iron skillet only for an excuse to see him sooner.

  Chapter 7

  Verity tied the ribbon of her bonnet just below her ear, knowing the soft blue of the wide ribbon picked up the color of her eyes. She would have pinched her cheeks for a bit of color, but just knowing that Adam—that Mr. Rexing, she corrected herself, was coming to fetch her brought a becoming pink to her cheeks and brightness to her eyes.

  Mrs. Hostelman chuckled over her and told her she was pretty as a picture. When he knocked on the door, Verity flung it open and rushed onto the step, tucking her gloved hand into his elbow almost before he thought to offer his arm. He tipped his hat and said good evening to Mrs. Hostelman. They set off down the steps together and he walked her directly to his forge.

  “I fixed the stove door,” he said sheepishly.

  “I don’t reckon I need a fire today,” she rejoined mischievously as Adam chuckled. “But I thank you just the same.”

  “I inherited the forge from my father, Theodore Rexing,” he said. Verity thought she heard a sigh in his voice.

  “It’s very—nice,” she said, finding herself at a loss for comments to make on a forge. What she saw looked like an assortment of huge tools and an anvil. She could identify the anvil, but the rest looked much like medieval torture instruments.

  “This here’s the peen hammer,” Adam said, hefting it easily and passing it to her.

  Verity took it in her gloved hands and if he hadn’t kept hold of the handle, she would have dropped it because of the weight. He replaced it carefully and handed her a set of iron pincers.

  “Do you use these to pluck out the eyes of customers who don’t pay their bills?” Verity asked in a teasing voice.

  “Beastly suggestion. Never. These are tongs I use to hold heated iron.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that but these just look like something from a dungeon,” she admitted.

  “The rack was made of wood and rope, Miss Kemp. I’m sure smiths had something to do with torture but that’s long in the past. I make things. I don’t destroy them.” He said it with emphasis, not lightly or playfully.

  Verity felt she’d made a misstep and realized he takes his work seriously and has integrity.

  Adam set down the tongs and put his hand on a complicated grip structure. “This is my vise. When my father died, he had—had a bad run and the forge wasn’t making much money. I forged new tools for myself and used the existing anvil but I saved up a year for the new vise I needed. “

  “That was my first mistake. If you’ll come walking to see my house, my family home, I’ll tell you what happened, how I lost Alice and how I know better than to make that mistake again with you.” His voice was thick with feeling and sadness.

  Verity bristled at the other woman’s name. She might have bared her teeth slightly but he didn’t see. He led her back down the street and around a corner. They continued up a hill to a very handsome and spacious house with a fenced yard. Adam opened the gate, a decorative wrought iron bearing the monogram T-R-H.

  “Your parents’ monogram?” Verity was curious and admired the detailed work.

  “Only my father’s,” he said gruffly as they passed through the gate.

  Adam opened the doo
r and they stood in an entry hall, with a floral carpeted runner and a pair of hanging oil lamps on either side of a large rectangular looking glass with a gilded frame. He lit the lamps against the dimness of sunset. Adam led her into the kitchen and showed her the water pump, the deep sink, the modern cookstove.

  “Have you been baking cookies?” Verity wondered if he liked to bake, indicating a large earthenware jar on the counter.

  “That’s where I keep my savings, the money I put away,” he said, lifting the lid to show her. It was nearly full of paper banknotes, with some coins in the bottom.

  She nodded, not knowing what to say, as she had never seen so much money in one place.

  “I wouldn’t know how to bake anything.”

  “I can teach you. I learned to make sweets from my mother,” she offered.

  They moved into the sitting room beyond to crank down a chandelier and light those wicks as well. Verity was in awe of the finery, a bit old fashioned but elegant and substantial. She blinked in the dazzle of the lights and moved forward as if of her own volition to the upright piano. She ran her fingers lightly over the ivory keys, playing a few notes to test the tuning and finding it a lovely, well maintained instrument as company in Montana Territory.

  “My brother-in-law used to work for a piano tuner back East. He keeps it fixed up,” Adam said, “You can play if you like,”

  Verity sat down on the little round stool, stripped off her gloves, and her small feet worked the pedal as she played a trilling Irish air. She smiled with enjoyment as she played the familiar notes and when she looked up and caught his eye, Adam looked as if he’d seen a ghost. She rose from the stool and put her hand on his.

  “Are you quite well, Mr. Rexing?” Verity looked worried.

  He nodded, “It is only, my mother. She used to sing that. It’s the Rising o’ the Moon.”

  Verity moved to the sofa, a pretty settee in shades of cream and rose. He sat beside her.