Annie: A Bride For The Farmhand - A Clean Historical Western Romance (Stewart House Brides Book 3)

by Charity Phillips

  It is even more difficult now that winter is here and Christmas is so close. Sometimes I think I hear Father's laughter in the bells above the shop door. He loved Christmas, I think, even more than we did, even when we were just little children. I am the only one of the four of us who can remember Mama with any more than just a glimmer, and I can still so clearly see her smile as she watched Father run throughout the house on Christmas morning, lighting candles and discovering the little presents she had hidden for us. His eyes sparkled like the snow.

  There is snow outside like those Christmas mornings now and I can barely bear to look at it. There should be a tree in the parlor by now, but without Father to bring his big axe out into the forest and bring back the perfect one, the corner is bare. I should have taken the stockings out to decorate the mantle, but I cannot bring myself to even open the box. The quilt I stitched for Adam should be on our marriage bed tonight, but it is still tucked away out of sight where I put it before I could even give it to him, and where I may never look at it again.

  With so many "shoulds" in my life right now, I wonder if I may ever have another "will". My sisters think we should leave Boston. Rebecca says that there is nothing left for us here. I have tried to tell her that our memories are here, and the life that Father worked so hard to build for us. She is not convinced.

  The candle on my desk is fading now and it makes me think about how fleeting life can be. Should I do something now to try to keep my fire burning, or do I stay and perhaps let it fade away to nothing?

  --Jane

  ****

  I was sitting in the parlor overlooking the street in front of our house when my sisters came in looking for me. It seemed I had been sitting in that same place for weeks, but I had little compulsion or motivation to move. There was nothing outside of that parlor that mattered enough to draw me out of it. At least within the parlor, I had my happiest memories, veiled and shaded in the darkness of the last year though they were, to keep my mind occupied.

  "Jane, you need to eat something," Lucy said, coming to my side and kneeling down so she could pet my hair and brush a lingering tear from the corner of my eye.

  She was the baby of our family, born five years after me. It was her birth that took Mama from us, and sometimes when I looked at her, I could see Mama's eyes in the softness of her expression, almost as though she had taken on her spirit.

  "I'm fine."

  "How long has it been since you've eaten?" Rose said in her usual terse, matter-of-fact tone as she came into the room.

  I thought back over the last few days, trying to remember anything that had happened other than the snowflakes falling from the sky.

  "Yesterday," I said, finally remembering the bowl of broth I sipped as I gave my regrets for a Christmas party to be held at a friend's house that weekend.

  "You need to take better care of yourself," Lucy whispered.

  "I think it's time we told her," Rebecca said from where she had perched at the edge of a chair on the opposite side of the parlor.

  From her position, I could tell she was nervous. She only ever acted so formally around us when she felt anxious. I could see a newspaper clutched in her hand. She held it close to her hip as if trying to conceal the words on it.

  "Tell me what?"

  Lucy lowered herself to her hip on the floor beside me and Rose dropped onto the sofa positioned on the far wall. They exchanged glances as if trying to decide which of them would have the task of actually telling me what they were talking about. Finally, Rose sighed and met my eyes sternly.

  "We have been discussing it, and we’ve decided that we need to leave Boston."

  "You have been talking about that for weeks," I replied, turning back to the snowflakes drifting outside the window.

  "Yes, we have, but we are done talking. It is a decision, now. We all miss Father, and we know that you miss Adam."

  I tensed at the mention of his name. I still didn't like to hear it outside of my own mind.

  Rose continued, "It’s been nearly a year and you haven’t got any better. None of us have, really. We have decided that it is time that we leave Boston behind and start new lives away from all of the pain and the uncertainty."

  I looked back at my sisters. I knew they had made this decision and that nothing I could say would make a difference to them. Like the rest of the world, they had moved forward without me.

  "Where do you want to go?" I asked.

  Rebecca pulled the newspaper slowly away from her side and handed it to me. I took it from her and turned it so that I could read the page she had folded open.

  "A Heart and Hand club?" I asked, shock making my voice raise louder and higher.

  "There are men in the Frontier who need wives," Rebecca said imploringly, "They want women to join them and settle the new areas. It would be the perfect opportunity to get away from Boston and have a second chance at life."

  "You say you want to get away from the uncertainty of Boston. What could be more uncertain than marrying someone you don't know and leaving the only place you have ever lived for a place that doesn't even have proper cities?"

  "It is a different kind of uncertain," Lucy offered from her place on the floor beside me. Her voice was soft and dreamy like it always was and it had the easing effect of cool water across a burn.

  "Everything is uncertain now, Jane," Rose said, "Without Father, what do we have left here? There will be no more income now and since he left to fight we have gone through much of his savings. We can't live on what he left us forever, and even if we could, would you really want to? This," she said, gesturing to the paper in my hands, "would give us a chance to be a part of something bigger. It could give us lives that are more than cotillions and entertaining."

  Rose had never been one to enjoy the finer aspects of our lives and had shied away from social occasions and courtship, preferring instead to learn about business at Father's knee and go to salons to talk about the issues of society. Even she, however, looked resigned to the idea that the men advertising for wives could be our new beginning.

  I glanced down at the newspaper again and let my eyes scan over some of the letters. Some of the advertisements were short and to the point, almost aggressive in their tone. Others were softer and more eloquent. I could almost see the men behind them, hear their voices as they spoke the words they had written.

  As I read through the page, my eyes fell on one particular letter, tucked at the bottom as if the advertisement itself was reluctant to be there. I read through it twice and felt my heart aching. It was pain for myself, pain for Adam, and pain for the future that would could have had together. In that moment, though, there was also pain for the man who had written the words I had read, and the life taken away from him that had led him to that one, desperate gesture.

  ****

  Wife and Mother Wanted. Oregon widower looking for a wife for myself and a mother for my young daughter. I am eager to share in the burdens and joys of life and to give her the life that only a father could not afford her. Please respond.

  I read through the advertisement again when I was finally alone in my room after telling my sisters that I needed time to myself to think about their proposition. I think they knew that I would eventually agree; that no matter how I protested, I wouldn't let them leave without me. The night was coming quickly and I lit the lamp beside my bed so that I could continue to consider the advertisement.

  The meager light from the lamp, kept as low as possible to conserve the oil, fell with its greatest intensity on the advertisement, as if trying to give its own form of consent to what I was considering. There was something about that particular message that struck me. The words hinted at heartbreak and emptiness, but also a love for his child that gave this man the strength to do whatever needed to be done to give her the chance of a real family and a happy life.

  It was the heartbreak, though, that truly drew me to the words. He didn't mention when he became a widow, but since he referred to his daughte
r as "young", it could not have been too long ago. This meant he knew the emptiness of losing the person most precious to him, and perhaps that meant that his need was far more for his child than himself. He would never be able to replace Adam, but I could never replace his wife, either. Maybe this was the ideal option. I could help him care for his home and child, and in exchange he would give me the opportunity for a new life.

  It did not mean I would have to love him.

  I let out a long breath and took a piece of paper from the drawer in my bedside table. The light from the lamp was becoming faint, so I decided to put down the paper and the newspaper instead. It could wait until tomorrow.

  ****

  Dear Sir,

  I read your advertisement and I believe I may be a good match for your needs. Please feel free to write to me directly.

  Sincerely,

  Jane Adams

  I put the end of my pen between my lips and read through the short message again. It sounded so taut and unpleasant, but I couldn't think of anything more to say. I didn't know this man beyond the few words in his advertisement. The lonely hearts club that had posted the message had even replaced his name with a reference number, so I couldn't even greet him properly. This man could be anybody and here I was, preparing to offer myself to him as a wife.

  Finally, I gave up trying to come up with anything to add to the message. If my note caught his attention, maybe I would be friendlier in the next letter. I blotted the ink of my signature and slipped the missive into an envelope so I could bring it to the post.

  I tied my cloak as tightly around me as I could and secured my hat close over my ears to protect me from the whipping wind outside. The door had barely opened when I heard Lucy running up behind me.

  "Have you found a match? Are you responding to him?" she asked, her voice still sounding so much like a little girl.

  "It is just a response," I said, trying not to let the sadness weigh down the words, "I won't know anything about him until he writes back, if he chooses to."

  "Did you send a photograph?"

  "I am not going to send a photograph to a man I don't know."

  "Everyone sends a photograph. How is he to know if he can love you if he hasn't seen you?"

  I brushed a long strand of her soft hair away from her face and offered her the best smile I could conjure.

  "He doesn't need to love me, Lucy."

  Without waiting for her response, I gathered the ends of my skirt so they wouldn't trail in the snow and started carefully down the front steps toward the street.

  ****

  February, 1866

  Dear Diary,

  I was not sure what to expect after sending my response to the advertisement. Since it was Christmastime, I knew the post would likely be delayed and that I would not hear from him for a few weeks, if at all. We got through Christmas as best we could. For the third year, there was no Father telling stories in the firelight on Christmas Eve or waking up before any of us on Christmas morning to get a peek at the gifts; it was harder this year, though, knowing that there never would be again.

  The corner of the parlor remained without a tree, but Rose did bring in some holly boughs and a few pine branches to decorate the mantle. It made the room smell heavenly, and for a few minutes, I let myself forget. Rebecca made my favorite egg nog and we sat together for a long time after the other two went to sleep.

  "It will never be the same again," she said, and it was as if she had, in just that very moment, realized it for the first time.

  I did not know what to say to her, so I just held her hand. On Christmas morning, we went to church like always, but I cannot even remember the hymns we sang or whether the sermon was the same as every year. Back home, we exchanged the few little gifts we had fettered away for each other. Rose placed a gift for Father on the hearth. She is never sentimental and it was painful to watch her. None of us mentioned it. It is still sitting there.

  It has been nearly two months since I sent my response to the advertisement. Lucy startled me yesterday by telling me that she has started a courtship with a man she found through the advertisements, and confirmed that Rebecca, too, had gotten a response. My sisters are so excited, but I feel sick.

  What if my letter was just another "should" in my life? He should have responded, or I should have picked someone else. I cannot bear to think of going through the newspaper again to find another advertisement, of writing another response.

  --Jane

  February was torment in Boston. Even as a child, I always thought that the new year should reset the seasons. Winter should end with December, and spring should start the first day of January. Of course, this was never how it worked, and February just meant trudging through knee-deep drifts of dirty, dismal snow that never seemed as beautiful or magical as it did in the days before Christmas.

  I gripped the day's mail in one hand and tried to keep myself from falling with the other. My dress tangled wetly around my legs and I could feel the chill all the way to my bones.

  "Please let Rebecca have made coffee cake," I muttered as I fought my way through the last stretch before arriving at the front door to our house.

  Heaven smiled down on me at that moment because as soon as I stepped inside the blissful smell of cinnamon filled my nose. I stomped as much of the snow off of my feet as I could and removed my snow-caked cloak.

  "Why did you go out in this dreadful weather?" Rose asked as she helped me unpin my hat and brought my cloak over to drape on the grate in front of the fire so it could dry.

  I paused and looked down at the mail in my hands. Nervously, not wanting to raise my voice above a quiet tone for fear it would make the envelope in my hand disappear, I held up a letter.

  "To get this."

  I heard a gasp from the parlor and Lucy ran into the foyer to grab the letter from my hand.

  "You finally heard back from him!" she exclaimed and I could see the romance and sentimentality sparkling in her eyes.

  Her reaction almost made me laugh and I pulled the letter back from her.

  "We don't even know what he said, Lucy. There is no reason to get excited."

  I tucked the letter against my palm and went to my room to remove the rest of my wet layers of clothing and replace them with a warm nightgown. When Rebecca appeared at my door with a cup of coffee and slice of cake, I was sitting in the middle of my bed, still staring at the sealed envelope in my hands.

  "I don't know if I want to open it," I confided in her, "If I don't open it, it's not real and I can keep on pretending."

  Rebecca placed the fork in my hand and smiled down at me in the solemn, wise way she had.

  "It is real, though, Jane. You will never be able to change that. It's time for the eldest sister to stop pretending and start living again."

  ****

  Dear Miss Adams,

  Thank you for responding to my advertisement. I do not know when you will receive this. I did not receive your message until more than a month after its date. I fear the post here is not as fast as it is in more settled areas. I hope to make you feel more comfortable with me, even at such a distance. Most important to that is my daughter. Lillie is four years old and truly the light of my life. It has been difficult, though, to give her the feminine influence I know she needs. As she gets older, I worry that I would not be able to raise her in a way that would allow her to be the woman I know she should be.

  Perhaps it could be you that will give her what I cannot. I hope to hear from you again.

  Sincerely,

  John Grey

  I smiled in spite of myself when I reached the end of the letter. John. It was so simplistic, it seemed almost silly, but somehow, I felt better not only knowing his name, but knowing that it was so similar to my own it only furthered my sense that we could, in some way, understand each other. The rest of the letter, however, made me somewhat uncomfortable. He wrote to me almost familiarly, implying a bond that I hadn't expressed.

  I sighed as
I read through the letter again, forcing the negative thoughts out of my mind. I had replied to his advertisement for a wife and said that I thought I may be right for what he needed. In that way, I had implied a certain bond. It was still so strange to me, though I knew that many young women in Boston, particularly those like my sisters and me who were orphaned by the War, were turning to nuptial agencies and advertisements to find husbands. The options had become so slim in the city that it seemed I hadn't heard of a betrothal between two established families in many months.

  I picked up the envelope again to check the postmark and felt something inside. I had pulled the folded letter out so quickly that I hadn't noticed a small photograph tucked into the envelope. It fell into my palm and I turned it over slowly, strangely nervous about the image I was about to see.

  The picture of John looked back at me and I felt like I was looking across time. A date jotted on the back of the image told me he’d had it taken four years before, which meant it was taken when his wife was still alive. The smile in his eyes was evident even though his expression was emotionless, and I could see the softness and affection there. I wondered if she was standing nearby so that he was looking at her while the photographer took the image, or if the expression was simply from thinking about her.

  I knew that the few pictures taken of me when Adam was alive carried that same look. It felt odd holding that picture and looking down into the face of a man that had since changed so much.

  "Is that him?"

  I heard a voice from my doorway and saw Rose standing just outside. She stepped inside when I nodded and slipped the picture from my hand. I realized that I hadn't had any of the coffee and cake that Rebecca had brought me earlier and I reached beside me to lift the cup to my lips and take a long sip. The coffee was cold, but the strong, bitter flavor jostled me and made my focus sharper.