Charlotte was reclining on a comfortable couch, but sat up to demonstrate she was no invalid. Dressed elegantly and perhaps a touch behind the emerging fashions of the 1860’s, she retained her beauty with what, to her daughter, appeared to be an effortlessness she must hav been born with.
“I’m perfectly fine.” Charlotte repeated, despite a small cough. “My heart was never better. Unlike poor Frances’.” She gave a sad shake of her head, looking at the book she’d set down. “Poor thing. This was her final publication. I shall miss reading her works.”
“Perhaps you should take up the pen, mother?” Matilda suggested, but Charlotte waved the suggestion away.
“No, no. Better to consume than to produce. I fear I’d be a dreadful novelist.”
“But you’ve seen so much of the world!” Matilda reminded her mother, taking a seat beside her. The men claimed seats as well, listening in. “Egypt, Rome, Brazil, Zanzibar, Australia…”
“Yes, we did see much.” Charlotte admitted, recalling her lifetime of travels with George. “We never made it to China, though. I would have liked to have seen Beijing.”
“I can’t imagine the things you’ve lived through.” Matilda prodded. “How I would love to read your accounts from your imagination.”
Charlotte rubbed her chin, thinking about it. “It does seem a pity that with Frances’ passing there’s no one left to write my favorite style of novel. Perhaps it is my charge to carry on the torch. But would you mind dear?”
George shook his head. “Not at all! I think it would be splendid. And you really shouldn’t even be asking me. Do as pleases you, my dear, as always.”
She smiled, seemingly satisfied with her decision. “Than I shall. It will aggravate Catherine to no end, as she is the only family left that it might scandalize.”
Matilda chuckled over the image of her overweight Aunt Catherine huffing in indignance at learning her sister was an author. “That it may well do.” She conceded, knowing it would strengthen her mother’s resolve.
“As your doctor, I recommend it.” Bernard agreed.
“Then it’s settled.” Charlotte pronounced. “I’ll write a story set in Zanzibar, I believe. A romance, or a mystery. Or perhaps both. Such a tale could be invigorating to write.”
The matter decided, the four adults went to the dining room. George helped his wife to get there, and though she insisted she was fine, she didn’t object too greatly. It was clear the couple were still affectionate, even after 40 years of marriage.
The children were already seated at the table, and Charlotte exclaimed when she saw them. “My darlings! Look at how well behaved you all are.” The moment they spied her, they leapt from their seats and rushed to hug her, immediately giving up their attempts at politeness. No one chastised them.
When they were all seated, soup was brought out and served to all. Over the meal, Charlotte looked out at the faces of her loved ones. She could scarcely believe her good fortune. If her health was flicking- not fading, but giving the first few warning signs of advancing age- she had been blessed with nothing but happiness and contentment.
“So few others are as fortunate.” She murmured, and her husband looked up, overhearing her talking to herself.
“What was that?”
Charlotte reached across the table to hold his hand. “I was just recalling how fortunate I am to have all of you here around me. Our lives are so short and at times, painful. But if we are able to find love and good family, it does make living so much more worthwhile.”
“Amen to that, Mother.” Matilda agreed.
*****
Alone at last, Charlotte reached for her first piece of paper and set it before her. The blank white sheet stared up at her, frustrating her creativity. She’d been a life-long lover of literature, but had so rarely experienced the art from this side of the effort.
“Well,” she sighed, smiling at the idea she had in mind for her first novel. “Here we go.”
THE END
The Honored Bride
ONE
"Head up, Charlotte."
Charlotte lifted her chin while her Mama tied the silky green bow snugly against her head. The soft straw hat sat precariously perched on her vibrant red curls, threatening to shirk the pins keeping it secured to her head. Her dress was hot, but that was her fault; she'd opted for long sleeves instead of sleeves capped at the elbow, and the extra few inches made a difference. But the dress was a deep green that flattered her delicate complexion and the ringlets of hair that curled around her face like a magical fire. Most of all, it matched her eyes, like a soft field dusted with dew in the morning. They were the reason Charlotte was being carted off to the West, her Pa said: not her slim waist and impeccable style, or even the generous hips she inherited from her Mama.
"Eyes like a glistening emerald, glowing with warmth, love, and wit" the letter read. Her brother Ned, who had been to college, penned these words of description to hand over to Ellis Ward, who ran the personal advertisements in their own newspaper, and sent ads out to other territories. Ellis, a short, rotund man of about 40, arranged many of the marriages for the young (and not so young) women of Virginia Beach, and seemed certain that Charlotte would be placed in no time.
"Good family, no prior arrangements," he squeaked, spectacles sliding down his generous nose as he rambled excitedly. The tip of his clefted chin had a spot of ink covering it, giving him a funny little goatee. "No health problems---and those eyes!" he crowed, cupping her shapely face between two chubby hands. He smelled like musty paper and apples, a by product of staying cooped up in a one room building and always taking your meals inside.
The bubble of doubt that had begun to blossom in her chest eventually turned to dread as letters began pouring in. A successful tailor wanted her to join him at his shop, and she could take up sewing and become his seamstress (she couldn't bear to sit still that long); a miner who was a widower, had his own spacious property, and wasn't much to look at, but he was a romantic, (he promised); and a fisherman who used to be a lawyer, but who abandoned his trade after the gold rush, and who had a baby boy he was raising after his sister died. Charlotte's stomach turned as her Mama read her these letters and handed over small, grainy photos whenever the men were able to send them. They all looked the same to her, even though they were all so different. Pale skin, browned, self-made, born with a silver spoon in their mouth, it made no difference---every face was a threat to her way of life, promising to tug her away from her comfortable, familiar homestead and plunge her into a life of dizzying newness that would strip her of all she was. .
Then Pa had found Douglass, a doctor who lived alone on a small farm in California. When Pa read Douglass' letters aloud, Charlotte saw vivid landscapes and brilliant colors depicting every word he put down on paper. She could see the golden fields of wheat, picture the fat sheep with their soft curls of white fur like clouds, running between the sturdy legs of the creamy brown-and white cows they had for milking. The bright butter yellow of the sun as it kissed the earth and painted the rose garden a dusky red became an image so familiar it was almost a memory. Douglass himself, although his pictures were as grainy as the rest of them, grew more detailed in her mind: A square head topped with a black hat became a chiseled face with a strong nose and chin, soft blue eyes like the noon sky, and lips so full they used to get him teased in school. She knew his hands were roughened from years of farm work that paid for his schooling, and that he was tall, taller than Charlotte by about eight inches. He favored blue suits and simple black shoes, although he often wore a heavy white coat buttoned over his clothing to protect it. And she knew that he was lonely: a profound, breathtaking loneliness that lifted, he said, when he laid eyes on Charlotte.
"I dunno," Her Pa said one evening after folding up the latest letter thoughtfully. Charlotte was on her bed, eyes closed, a blissful smile glued to her face. Douglass had told her about his first time treating someone with heart disease. It sounded so risky, so difficult, b
ut he didn't boast or brag. He stated everything matter-of-factly but with a very keen insight on morality and human frailty.
Her Pa had different ideas. "Seems...too flowery. Girly, like. You sure this the kinda gentleman you want to buckle down with? And are you sure he's telling all? "
Charlotte sat up, night gown rustling against the sheets of her bed. "Yes, Pa! Flowery?" She scoffed. "I think he's...expressive! What should he want to hide? "
Her Pa's face twisted in surprise, one eye brow lifting. "Expressive ain't raisin' your kids for you, Lottie. Ain't warming your house. "
Charlotte considered this, remembering her father's relative stoicism during childhood. It never alienated her, but it did stop her from doing certain things, like discussing her first crush, or going to him first with good news. She had her mother, it was true, and she was joyous enough for the both of them, but Charlotte wondered what her life would be like if she didn't have to think before interacting with either parent.
That had been weeks ago, and now she was readying for her journey West, to finally meet Douglass and start their lives together. Virginia Beach had been virtually empty of men, as had many of the towns on the east coast. This was what finally drove her father to let go of his reluctance, and he hadn't mentioned his apprehension again. He knew Charlotte should marry if she wanted to become a nurse in truth. Her mother was full of advice.
"Remember to sweep every day, sometimes you forget," she reminded her in the days leading up to her train ride. "And it's going to be warmer out there. So get some dresses with shorter sleeves. See if you can't afford a maid later on, it'll make thing easier when you decide to have children. Try at nursing, dear, but never forget that children make your heart whole. And---"
The advice never stopped, not even now, as Charlotte clutched one of her trunks with both hands, feeling ill, studying her reflection in the cloudy mirror in the train station.
She had a slim package tucked under her arm, one that she'd insisted on bringing West - - - her rifle, well-loved and still in excellent condition. It made her feel stronger, and she had become quite good, even at moving targets. Although most of them weren't fat enough to eat, she'd shot many rabbits in Virginia Beach. She wondered if it would be useful to Douglass, or if he'd laugh to see such a petite woman wielding a gun.
Her parents had bid her a tearful goodbye and the train conductor took her ticket. She nervously boarded the train, carrying only her rifle and ignoring the puzzled looks the men of the train were giving her. All of the women on board were traveling with someone else, and Charlotte was very alone. She spied a compartment with an elderly couple on one side and made a beeline for the door.
The seat was plush and very small, but Charlotte was thankful for the seat. The couple, a handsome pair with white hair dressed in formal wear, gave her a polite smile and a nod.
"Hello, dear," the old woman said. "Travelling alone?"
Charlotte nodded. She adjusted the rifle next to her. The old man couldn't seem to keep the question from bursting from his lips.
"That a gun?"
"Ned!"
He smiled sheepishly at his wife. "Sorry, Nora. It's not often you see a girl traveling alone, with a gun. "
"It is a gun," Charlotte said before Nora could scold her husband further.
"Are you heading to a new home?"
She waited a moment before replying, "Yes. I'm staying with family."
This satisfied the couple, and, thankfully, seemed to open a floodgate. They bent Charlotte's ear the entire trip, and though she was grateful, she found herself distracted for much of it. She was thinking about her new life, and how she would convince Douglass that she could be a wife and a nurse. At least for a while. Children made Charlotte jumpy, as she was convinced she'd harm them or lose them or let them drown. It didn't occur to her to try to work around this fear, and it made some of her interactions in her town's clinic downright unpleasant.
When she finally reached her destination, Charlotte's body was crying out for a round meal and a warm bed. The train barreled through the verdant scenery, then melted into plains and patches of towns with factories in between. Enormous carriages idled at the waystation, and the steaming vehicle chugged to a stop just beyond the line of horses. Charlotte took the conductor's hand and moved to find her trunks, clutching her package as if it were a life raft keeping her afloat in a sea of people. The crowd moved around her indifferently, and she waved off a porter who tried to help her with her second case.
Grunting, she carried her items to a tall clock and stood next to it, desperately wanting to blend in. Her rich green dress stuck out among the more casual cotton dresses most of the young ladies wore. One woman strode by wearing a riding habit, heavy skirt swishing around pointed black boots as sharp as her angular, haughty face. Charlotte looked between the bodies, looking for her man.
Finally, she saw a tall figure walking against the crowd, moving toward her. The man wore a simple three piece suit in a dark blue. He had thick black hair styled away from his face and curling gently around his ears. His square face was indeed handsome, chiseled and intelligent, with a curious scar near his right ear in a long line the length of a finger. He wore a neat beard, as black as coal. His blue eyes were the exact shade of a cloudless afternoon sky, and they held all the warmth of a summer day.
When he got to her, he smiled and reached out his hand for hers. His hands weren't as roughened as she was used to. His lips met her fingers briefly, and she felt a flash of heat ripple through her body before she could contain it.
"Miss Charlotte Evans?" He said. His voice was like warm syrup being gently folded over hot cakes.
Charlotte nodded, feeling a blush creep into her face. "Yes."
He lifted both of her trunks easily. "I'm Douglass Owens. But I'm sure you knew that." she saw his cheeks lift in a smile.
Charlotte followed him to one of the carriages, a modest car being pulled by two beautiful horses the color of sandalwood. He loaded her trunks in the back, and Charlotte handed him her rifle.
"A gun?" he asked, surprised. "You shoot?"
Charlotte smiled modestly. "A little. I can do simple things, rabbits and ducks mostly."
She felt him evaluate her, scanning her with his hypnotic eyes. "Good. Maybe bag a few deer for the holidays. Sometimes I give food to some of the town's less fortunate, those folks without children or who are lame or dying."
Douglass helped Charlotte into the carriage. His hands were strong, and she noticed he sat with space between them, careful not to touch her. He seemed so good hearted.
"You're very charitable," Charlotte said, hoping she didn't sound like she was kissing up to him.
Douglass watched the scenery move as the carriage jolted forward and turned a corner, revealing a wide street lined with shops and, further back, with houses. Some shops had apartments on top, but many buildings looked in desperate need of repair. A few children dotted the streets here and there, stopping to watch the carriage pass and peer at the smartly dressed people inside.
"Did your journey go well?" He asked, turning his eyes to her.
She resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze. "Quite," she answered shyly.
"Excellent. Do you have any questions, Miss Evans?"
She was shocked at hearing him continue to address her so formally. "Please, call me Charlotte. And I may I call you Douglass?"
"Of course, my mistake," he said, seeming embarrassed. "I simply don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"If we're to be married, I'd like you to be comfortable," Charlotte ventured. "If I may say so."
Douglass' handsome face broke into a relieved smile. "Of course," he said again. "Charlotte."
Her heart skipped a beat to hear her name from his lips. "I hope I'm not interrupting your schedule, by the by. Taking you from patients."
Douglass shook his head. "I cleared my schedule for this. I wanted to give you a proper welcome, and be able to show you around so you can be certain this is
what you want."
His voice was so quiet and careful, Charlotte thought he must be talking about a sacrifice instead of a marriage. "I don't see myself changing my mind," she said, trying to mask the uneasiness in his voice. She was under the impression that this was decided---they were to be man and wife, and they would be there for each other and perhaps eventually fall in love. She would bear him children, or perhaps just one. In any case, she intended to stay for the duration.
Douglass looked at her, his blue eyes unreadable. "I know, but I don't believe in shotgun weddings, and I'd hate to have you here if you decided this wasn't a good fit. You'll have your own room until you're comfortable, and we'll simply be friendly at first. "
Charlotte looked at her hands, thinking hard. She had expected a gentleman, but not to have any courting he might do completely postponed. What sort of man paid to have a woman come across the country to marry him, sight unseen, and then hold her arm's length? Was she too young for him? Or perhaps not pretty enough? Charlotte was quite used to being flattered and chased by most men she met, but everyone had their own tastes. She couldn't fault him if milky skin and red hair weren't his cup of tea.
Douglass was looking at her strangely. "I'm afraid I've offended you, and I didn't mean that. I just don't want to assume you're going to be happy here, until you see everything for yourself."
Charlotte finally looked up him, offering him a weak smile. What else was there to see? A farm, some animals, a house. Was he perhaps still living with his parents? Maybe he wasn't really a doctor? Or maybe, Charlotte thought in a panic, he was already married, and was collecting wives like some sort of pervert. She imagined the woman from the train station with her angular beauty greeting them with a sneer from the front door. Her cheeks burned crimson, and she longed to bury her face in her hands, but she wouldn't dare appear so weak in front of this strange man.
ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories) Page 119
