Mail -Order Cousins 1

by Joyce Armor

  Mail-Order Cousins 1:

  Sophie

  Joyce Armor

  Copyright 2018 Joyce Armor

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover: Vila Design

  Trusty Reader: Chris Gale

  Expert Formatting: Jesse Gordon

  Mail-Order Cousins: Sophie

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania, 1874

  Although the cousins’ situations were all different, they could agree on one point. Sophie, 20; Per, 20; and Lindy, 21, all felt a need to leave Pennsylvania and find new lives. They were very diverse themselves but united in purpose. Sophie was blond, fair-skinned, tall and willowy. She was a fighter, and she could be obstinate. She could also act impetuously. Per, with alabaster skin and ebony hair, looked like a china doll. She was worldly and a cynic, always playing devil’s advocate, while Sophie took a more sanguine view. Lindy, auburn-haired and her Irish father’s daughter with green eyes and a smattering of freckles, was somewhere in the middle, not always optimistic yet not overly pessimistic. She had a sharp mind and she was cautious, the kind of person who came up with great ideas but wanted someone else to try them first.

  So it was Lindy who initially broached the subject. Originally, it was just an abstract concept, to somehow find a way out. Sophie was the first one to actually act on the agreement. As she cleaned Uncle Ephraim’s study one day shortly after the cousins made a pact to escape their circumstances, she picked up a copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer and absently browsed through the pages. She was just about to close the newspaper and get back to her cleaning when she spotted the matrimonial ad.

  Successful merchant, age 30,

  seeks good, innocent, loving

  wife. Write to Charles Shanley

  c/o the post office in Stonehaven,

  Nebraska.

  Stonehaven, Nebraska. It sounded like a nice, picturesque place. A nice, far enough away place. And Charles Shanley was a successful merchant. Thirty was not too old, was it? No. Maybe she could have a good life with this man, one where she didn’t feel beholden or like a glorified servant.

  Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Portia Armstrong had taken in Sophronia Ann Wheelright seven years prior, when she was 13. Her parents had died of the cholera, and the Armstrongs had never let her forget what a wonderful, charitable act they had performed in taking on her care. Lindy’s parents were raising seven children and could not afford to feed another, and Per and her wealthy, widowed mother were always traveling. It was Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Portia or an orphanage.

  Sophie carefully tore out the page with the ad and discarded the newspaper as she always did. Later that afternoon, when her chores were completed, she locked herself in her little attic bedroom and opened her small trunk, which held nearly all her belongings. Her “charitable” aunt and uncle had never seen fit to loan her a bureau or armoire, not that she could have crammed anything of size into the tiny room anyway, and neither would they let her bring many of her belongings when she left her home. So most all her possessions were in the trunk.

  She carefully searched through it, and there on the bottom was the writing tablet she had used for her French lessons when she was 13, not long before the disaster struck. Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Portia refused to provide a tutor or send her to school, saying they could not afford it and a girl did not need an education anyway. She knew her parents had left her enough money for that and probably much more. Papa was a banker. They weren’t fabulously wealthy yet lived quite comfortably. Sophie was smart enough to realize that she would probably never see her inheritance since Papa’s sister, Aunt Portia, and her husband had control of it.

  What her dear aunt and uncle didn’t know is that Papa, as he lay dying, had directed her to his safe, where she found more than five hundred dollars. He told her to keep it for herself. It was now hidden in a secret compartment in the trunk. Her guardians also did not know that she was self-taught. Most nights after they fell asleep, and any time they were both out, she would make her way to the extensive library and snatch a book or two to take back to her room. In six years, she had read just about every book in the library and now had knowledge on everything from animal husbandry and finance to healing and plumbing. She chuckled at that thought.

  “You never know when I might need to breed some prime stock or dig a well,” she had told her cousins.

  Sophie plopped down on the bed—her only place to sit in the little room since Uncle Ephraim had removed her small table and chair when she talked back to him—that was the fighter in her—and flipped through the tablet.

  “Ah, le français,” she smiled and just as quickly her eyes clouded over as she remembered all she’d lost.

  She sighed, looking at the tablet and at her slightly frayed pale gray gown. She brushed some dirt off the skirt and shook her head. She had enough money to buy an entire new wardrobe. That would alert her guardians, however, that she was not destitute, which would never do. Willing herself to get back on task, she studied the paper. Though the tablet wasn’t expensive vellum, it was usable; it would have to do. She rummaged around in the trunk again and came up with a pencil, one she had whittled a point on with her father’s pocket knife. It was the only remembrance she had of him besides the money, one she also kept hidden lest her uncle take it away. If Mr. Shanley thought less of her because she used a pencil and not a quill pen, then he was not the right man for her anyway. That decided, she sat down again on the bed, balancing the tablet on her lap. It took her several starts and stops before she came up with a letter that satisfied her. Would it satisfy him? She wondered. Well, best not to spend time worrying on something over which she had no control.

  Dear Mr. Shanley,

  I was intrigued by your advertisement in The Philadelphia Inquirer seeking a wife. I am 20 years old, soon to be 21. My parents passed away when I was 13. I have lived since then with an aunt and uncle who have hinted that it is time for me to move on. I agree.

  I am a good, honest person and a hard worker. I have never really had a male friend but believe I would make a good mate. I am 5 feet 6 inches tall and thin but healthy, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. I am a decent cook and love children and animals.

  If this sounds acceptable to you, please write to me in care of the Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania, post office.

  Most sincerely,

  Sophronia (Sophie) Wheelright

  She almost added that she was well educated but did not want to scare him away in case he wasn’t. She hoped he could read between the lines where she noted she had never had a male friend. She just could not make herself write that she was “innocent.” It sounded too personal for a first letter. Or any letter, for that matter. Now to find a time she could get to the post office and mail it. Fortunately, she still had most of the money from Papa’s safe. God knew the Armstrongs would never give her a blessed dime.

  Chapter 1

  They had exchanged three letters
each, and Charles Shanley was everything she could want in a husband—kind, thoughtful, intelligent, generous. And he apparently didn’t mind her pencil or paper, which she took to mean he wasn’t a snob. It felt glorious to conduct this romance under the Armstrongs’ roof without their knowledge. She would like to be a fly on the wall when they realized she was gone. Not that they would miss her. They would miss her labor, and they would probably miss berating her. Mr. Shanley had sent her train and stagecoach fare, with more than enough for meals along the way. If Sophie had any doubts about this undertaking, it was just because she was outside her frame of reference and felt unanchored.

  Still, she had prepared for the trip as if she were 100 percent certain. Without her guardians’ knowledge, she had bought material and fashioned two day gowns and a wedding dress and replaced her worn-out chemises and other under clothing. She also purchased additional footwear. Sophie was frugal and knew how to strike a bargain. She had nearly $460 left to take on her journey, not counting the money Charles Shanley had sent.

  She left home in the dead of night, making a true adventure of the escape when she might not have needed to. Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Portia may have been happy to see her go. Yet she had a niggling feeling their hints about her leaving had less to do with her setting out on her own and more to do with her uncle finding her a husband. Her guardians were both materialistic and liked to flaunt their wealth, so it was no stretch to think her uncle might be scheming to match her with someone who could expand his holdings. Needless to say, she had little faith in his ability to take her desires, her sensibilities or even her welfare into consideration.

  Per was in Venice, but with Lindy’s help, Sophie was out of the house, wearing a dark blue traveling dress she had made with material she had bought when the Armstrongs were in Philadelphia. She was on the train before her relatives knew she was gone. It was only then, as she watched the towns of Pennsylvania speed by and give way to the countryside in the golden hues of summer, that she had second thoughts. The saying “All that glitters is not gold” kept popping into her head. It certainly applied to the Armstrongs, who showed a different face to the world than the one she saw at home. Could it be true of Charles Shanley? Sophie sighed, closing her eyes in hopes of sleeping away her mental meanderings. She had thought better of “borrowing” a couple of books from the Armstrongs’ library and now wished she had done it.

  A social creature and missing those heart-to-heart chats she shared with her cousins, the weary Elizabethtown traveler made friends on the train with a large older woman who was journeying to North Platte to visit her daughter. Sophie shared the story of her impending marriage with Mrs. Jennings, expecting the rather severely dressed woman, wearing brown head to toe, to voice her disapproval. Perhaps she was looking for someone to talk her out of the venture. Instead, the prim lady complimented Sophie on her bravery and wished her much happiness. Bravery? She hadn’t thought of it that way. She knew it was a compliment and it should have made her feel better, but somehow it weaved its way into her doubts. She wouldn’t need to be brave if she weren’t walking into a frightening situation.

  Sophie and Mrs. Jennings said their goodbyes at the North Platte station, where the older woman flew into the arms of her waiting daughter as her son-in-law looked on, amused. The whole scenario reinforced a notion Sophie had carried with her since her parents’ deaths: Things and people were often not as they seemed. To look at the older woman and her starchy dress and posture, one would think she was a cold fish, yet she obviously felt emotions deeply and was kind and loving. The woman could not have been nicer to Sophie. Her aunt and uncle, on the other hand…She stopped the unpleasant thought before she could finish it. That was the past, and she was hastening toward her future. Carrying the bag she had purchased and filled with her new items and the contents of her small trunk, she stepped up to the ticket counter, where a middle-aged clerk was counting paper bills.

  “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me how to get to the stage station?”

  He looked up, yanking a pencil from behind his ear, obviously irritated that she had interrupted his counting. She noticed the pocket on his starched white shirt bore a stain. Coffee, maybe.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  He gave an exasperated sigh, yet begrudgingly gave her directions.

  Men!

  Two hours later, a driver tossed her bag atop a stagecoach as she stepped inside. She nodded to the three other people already seated, a black-haired, freckled young woman with a child who looked to be around five, and a rather attractive and very large, auburn-haired man who sat across from them. A cowboy or ranch hand, she imagined. The little boy, his brown hair curling, wearing wrinkled blue trousers a little too short for him and a red collared shirt, was stretched across the seat, so Sophie had no alternative but to sit next to the man. She subtly inched her way as far away from him as she could and was rather certain he didn’t miss that, as he chuckled. She could feel herself blushing.

  The driver called out and the stagecoach suddenly lurched ahead. Sophie almost slid off the seat, but the man’s tautly muscled arm reached out and grabbed her elbow just in time. That had her blushing again as she mumbled a heartfelt “thank you.”

  As the stagecoach bumped along the rutted road, the young mother, Elsie Frye, comely in her purple calico dress, became chatty and Sophie began opening up. Elsie and her husband and son Eli lived on a farm near Kearney, where they raised corn, sorghum and beets, as well as sheep and chickens. The young woman and her son had traveled to North Platte to visit her parents. As Eli slept, apparently the man did, too. His worn Stetson was tilted down, covering his face. Sophie found herself sharing with Elsie the story of her parents’ death, her miserable existence with her aunt and uncle—she really needed to get over that pent-up hostility she felt toward them, she realized at one point—and her mail-order bride status.

  Duncan MacGibbon rarely slept on stagecoaches or trains. It probably came from growing up in the highlands, where danger lurked everywhere. He found himself intrigued by the pretty blond woman’s story. She was tall and…what? Wispy mayhaps. Very appealing, with sky-blue eyes and a straight nose. Her skin looked soft enough to…Well, best not go there. The woman obviously was one of those who had no secrets; all her thoughts spewed out of her mouth. In fairness, though, he had to admit she wasn’t shouting out her tale but speaking softly. She no doubt would be embarrassed to know his hearing was excellent and he took in every word she spoke.

  “Where are you headed?” Elsie asked.

  “Stonehaven. It’s in the southern part of the state.”

  “And what does your husband-to-be do?”

  “He’s a merchant of some sort.”

  She just now realized he had never answered her question about what kind of business he owned. He had somehow distracted her. That made her feel foolish.

  “It’s exciting, isn’t it? I admire your courage.”

  There it was again. Eli accidentally kicked her at that point or the Elizabethtown native might have shared her troublesome doubts. They spent the remainder of the trip to Kearney munching on turkey sandwiches Sophie had bought in North Platte and peaches Elsie provided. They offered food to the man, who declined. He had an odd accent, Irish or Scottish, Sophie thought. Maybe Welsh. Sophie had observed him while he slept, trying to figure him out. She decided the man was ruggedly handsome and most likely knew it. He was dressed as a cowhand, in denim trousers, a light blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a brown leather vest. His face was ruddy and very manly, she remembered, like he worked outdoors, and thick eyebrows rimmed beautiful greenish-gray eyes, she had noticed when she boarded the stage. Piercing eyes. Discerning eyes. She had a feeling he didn’t miss much. He was a man’s man and a little dangerous, she surmised. He looked like a cowboy and yet something was off. Sophie tended to study people, and she was almost positive there was more to him than that.

  “Good luck with your marriage!�
�� Elsie called out as she stood with her tall, blond husband, who looked Swedish. Eli ran around their bags, full of energy after being cooped up on the stagecoach. Sophie smiled, only slightly embarrassed at Elsie’s proclamation, and waved as the coach pulled away.

  Now it was just the two of them and the inside of the coach felt somehow smaller. As soon as Elsie and her son had disembarked, Sophie had transferred to the seat opposite the man. They were barely on their way when he smiled.

  “So ye are a mail-order bride, are ye?”

  She blushed yet again, just managing to hold back a gasp. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “I always sleep with one eye open, lassie.”

  She adjusted one of her slippers, which was pinching, then looked up at him.

  “You’re Scottish then.” She recognized the accent now, though it had become Americanized.

  “Aye, though I have nae seen me homeland in several years.”

  She found herself interested, just as she was intrigued by the young mother’s story and the background of the older woman on the train.

  “What brought you to this country? I’m Sophie Wheelright, by the way.”

  “Duncan MacGibbon at your service, m’lady.”

  He bent as if to bow, and she smiled. If Charles Shanley was half as charming as this Scottish rogue, she would be more than pleased. Mr. MacGibbon did not continue and she looked at him expectantly.

  “Oh, aye, me story. Well, ‘tis a complicated one, for sure. I came to America in ’67, looking for me brother Morgan, I was. He had come three years earlier. It took me two years, but I come to find he was killed in yer War Betwixt the States, running a blockade near Charleston, in South Carolina.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. MacGibbon. To perish in a war that was not even his. How very sad. It wasn’t my war either, by the way.”

  “’Tis Duncan ye’ll be calling me if I may call ye Sophie.”