by Rose Jenster
Widower with six sons, a good Christian man, desires a wife with school teaching background and stern demeanor as these boys need a firm hand. Spinsters only, no widows.
What man would want a stern wife with a firm hand? Tess wondered, deciding that those sons must be ill-behaved indeed.
Fond of animals, especially hunting. Inherited homestead from family, need a wife to help till the soil and tend the garden, prefer a jolly young lady 17-21, not stout or nagging. Pleasant tempered women only. Fondness for hunting game would be preferred.
Tess giggled before she could stop herself and read the ad aloud.
“So he likes animals, but he kills them? What if you go out there and he likes you just as much and chases you through the woods with a gun?” May snickered.
“I thought the girl wouldn’t stay jolly for long if she’s tending the crops and the garden while he goes off for days to hunt and brings back dead animals for her to clean and cook,” Jane added, dissolving into laughter.
“She probably would not grow stout, doing all the work on the farm, though,” Tess ventured and the women laughed with her.
“Hear this one now, from Idaho: Bachelor blacksmith, 26, ginger hair and whiskers, wants a Christian wife who enjoys music, preferably with own fiddle, who is not afraid of fire or horses. That’s not going to narrow his prospects too much---only a woman who likes redheaded men, doesn’t mind the terrifying blast of a furnace, and comes with her own violin!” May read to their delight.
Jane read a few advertisements aloud and then Tess realized what time it was getting to be and excused herself to walk home. It hung at the back of her mind that she might look for an edition of that newspaper herself next month. She found herself dreaming about the idea, about finding love through the newspapers the way Leah had, the way May Rollings had.
At work the next day as she sewed at work, straining her eyes and bending over her work despite her aching shoulders, Tess felt a smile play at her lips at the thought of the next edition of that paper. Her two favorite ads had been from Montana, one a bachelor son of a shopkeeper and the other a widowed blacksmith with one child. She wondered if they would still be seeking wives in next issue and if she would have the courage to answer.
Chapter 4
BILLINGS, MONTANA, 1885
Luke set off for the stables right after sun-up. He’d screwed up his courage to talk to Henry Rogers about placing an advertisement for a wife. He was nervous, more nervous than he had been since asking Willa to that ice cream social years before. Luke did not want his friend to think him a fool or an imitator. He wanted to convey that he was serious, that he had thought it over and prayed about it almost decided to write an ad for himself.
Henry was at work stitching up some frayed harness by lamplight when Luke came in and took a stool beside him. He picked up another damaged harness and tested the strength of the stitches, turning it over and over in his hands and examining it.
“If you’re only going to pick at it, you’ll make it worse. Either sew it or put it down,” Henry admonished good-naturedly without looking up from his work.
“Sewing is one thing I can’t do. Maybe I ought to learn,” Luke laid the harness aside ruefully.
“I think you’ve enough to occupy your time with the stock and the carpentry.”
“Not quite enough, as it turns out. I was wanting to talk to you,”
“I thought as much since you don’t often turn up before six in the morning for no reason at all,”
“Clever of you to puzzle that out, Henry. The fact is, I want a wife…like yours.”
“Leah doesn’t have a sister if that’s what you mean,”
“What I mean is I wanted to know what you think about marriage.”
“It’s fine,”
“Fine? I came out here at six in the morning for ‘fine?’”
“If you need counsel, Mr. Gibson is a good one for talk,” Henry suggested.
“I don’t believe he can provide the sort of advice I seek. Do you find yourself pleased with the results of advertising for a bride?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find her right away?”
“No. I advertised three months before I got her letter. Turned down over forty women before her.”
“There aren’t even forty women in Montana territory,” Luke said.
“That’s an exaggeration. There may not be forty marriageable women, but surely there’s forty in Billings alone counting the married ones and the really old widows…” Henry joked.
“What did you say in your ad?”
“That I wanted a wife,”
“That’s not very helpful. I’m thinking of placing an advertisement myself.”
“I figured that part out already.”
“So why are you making this difficult?”
“It’s good for a laugh,” Henry said. “In all seriousness, I’m very happy with my life now, and I would never have had that if not for the ad that helped me find Leah.”
“So God sent her to you?”
“In a manner of speaking. I placed the ad, but I think He guided me to her letter or guided her to my ad…”
“I see. So I should write an ad?”
“Only if you want a wife,”
“Which I do.”
“Then write one.”
“Will you help me?”
“Would you like my wife to help you? She would be the best judge of what women look for in a husband’s advertisement. I will ask her to look over your ad once you write it.”
“I happen to have a few with me,” He patted down his pockets sheepishly and produced four slips of crumpled paper, “Ask her which one she likes best.”
“I will. She and Pearl are sleeping now, but later on when I go in for dinner, I’ll show her what you wrote. I can look them over now myself,” A glint of mischief came to his eye.
“Let’s see…Montana bachelor aged 28, widowed without issue, is in search of a wife. Please answer if you like the outdoors and animals. I attend church, and do not take strong drink.
“ If I was a woman I would think you were wanting me to take care of the animals and be outdoors in all kinds of weather tending the sheep.”
“I don’t even mention sheep. You’re doing commentary, making mischief.”
“How about we rewrite it to say, Shepherd and carpenter with no sense of humor or playfulness seeks a pretty wife to weed the garden. That should remove the unwanted respondents who might be too light-hearted for you. Can’t take a bit of teasing?” Henry said.
“Fine, you didn’t like that advertisement, read the others. I can endure the criticism if it produces something to attract a bride.”
“Simple man in Montana who works with his hands and has a homestead wishes to exchange letters with a young lady with a view toward marriage. I am twenty-eight years old, a devout Christian, patient, reasonably clever and will be a good provider. If you are a spinster who would like to live at the foot of the mountains, to see fluffy sheep grazing outside your window, and rows of vegetable growing in your dooryard, if you have the courage to know the independence of a life out West, please answer me. That’s better except for the fluffy sheep. Why ‘fluffy’?”
“My wool is excellent. I’ve made a pretty penny from that fluffy wool.”
“I would not suggest putting ‘pretty penny’ in the ad either. Take out the word ‘fluffy’ and you might use this one. I’ll consult Leah. First I want to read the others,”
“Go right ahead.”
“Carpenter with livestock wants a helpmeet and wife to raise a family on my homestead. That’s brief. Prosperous homesteader with flock of sheep and large garden offers marriage to the right lady who is ready for life in the mountains of Montana territory. Again, you mention the sheep entirely too much. Is that the only quality you have to offer as a husband?”
“Why, what did your ad say?” Luke challenged.
“I asked for a well-read lady for conversation and marriage.”
“Oh,” Luke paused, “I wouldn’t mind someone who liked books. Should I put ‘well-read’…”
“No. You should list things that interest you, not attempt to cheat by using my successful advertisement.”
“Although you’ve been troublesome and teased me, I appreciate your help. I have a stock lean-to to repair out at Phillips’ farm.” Luke took his leave.
After a long day’s work, Luke stopped by the inn to see if Leah had looked over his advertisement. Henry chuckled.
“Yes, and she’s fixed it for you. Here, read it.” Henry passed him a scrap of paper where his words had been crossed out and annotated in pencil, “She used to be a schoolteacher, so she’s corrected your composition. You’d be wise to listen to her suggestions,”
“I thank you both kindly. I’ll look that over tonight and send off a final ad tomorrow. The deadline for inclusion in next month’s edition is near,”
“Then you have no time to waste, or I would invite you in for coffee.”
“I will be on my way. Give your wife my compliments,” Luke said, clutching the paper.
He read over her corrections as soon as he was outside. Nodding his head with approval, Luke stopped off home for a few minutes before setting out on one of his long walks into the foothills to think. He carried a gun but no lantern as the moon was full, and as it rose he would be able to see by its light. Watching as the sky grew silver and then black, the stars close and bright, Luke thought again how much he loved Montana and was thankful to have been born in such a place.
Looking up at that pale moon, he wondered if, by this time next month, by the next cycle of the moon he might have found his future wife. Knowing how slow the mail arrivals were, it seemed unlikely, but he felt hope flicker in his heart for the first time in a long time.
A few cats were on the prowl that night, but Luke was armed and had quick reflexes, so he didn’t hesitate to ramble through the foothills after dark. He had climbed these hills with his friends as a boy and knew every rise in the ground, every blind curve on the path, and where the wild animals tended to roam. He was watchful, cautious of the danger but confident that he could handle anything he encountered.
Luke imagined taking a new wife on such a stroll and wondered if there were a woman out there who had the courage for a walk through the hills of wild Montana with only the moon for light. Would she trust him to keep her safe, to guide her home? Or would she prefer the security of her own fireside and send him out to ramble on his own? He hoped to find a woman who would walk alongside him, someone who would pause, perfectly still, as he did to listen for the call of an owl in the darkness.
He posted the advertisement the following morning, marking the day on a calendar and waiting. The Matrimonial News was published in San Francisco, and he had figured the time it would take for his missive to arrive, followed by the period until the next edition was printed and distributed by rail to major cities. By his calculations, it would be at minimum six weeks before he might receive a reply.
To keep the waiting from being interminable, he resolved to undertake a few projects at home. Luke had a fence in need of a coat of paint, a sheep enclosure he could expand, a battered table he might replace by making a new one. He made himself a list of tasks to complete with a view to making the homestead more habitable, more appealing to a woman from back east, whose standards would naturally be more refined than those of a bachelor.
Late into the night, Luke would work by lamplight, planing the wood grain smooth, turning the legs and carving a vine into the apron beneath the tabletop. It was beautiful. He stood it in his front room and continued to take his meals at the old, battered table he’d inherited from his parents. The table wasn’t ready for use because he had built it for Her.
He had begun to think of Her as a person, a specific individual with thoughts and opinions, who would come to fill these rooms and share his life. The table, every flawless line of it, stood as a testament to his hope that she would answer his advertisement with a heartfelt letter, would come, in time, to sit at that table in the firelight and talk with him until the empty room echoed with their laughter.
***
Tess told Mrs. Winthrop boldly that she had forgotten something at home and dashed off in the middle of the day to retrieve it. It was a lie, perhaps the second or third untruth she had spoken in her entire life. She ducked into the book shop and found the periodicals swiftly. She took a coin from her pocket and handed it to the clerk, unable to look up and speak a greeting.
Shamefaced, she stole out of the store and into an alley. Furtively, she opened the newspaper to the Montana page and skimmed the advertisements. Going over the page twice, she did not find either ad that had appealed to her in the previous issue. Deflated, she chewed her lip, then gave herself another minute to glance at the ads and collect her composure. The man who wanted a spinster schoolmarm to get his six boys under control still needed a wife, she observed ruefully. Then another ad, a new one, caught her eye. It was lengthy, showed more character than most.
At the foot of a mountain, I have made my home. I am twenty-eight years old, a childless widower who wants a family. I have a snug cabin, livestock, and a large garden. If you are a young lady with the courage to live on the frontier and make a life with me, I will be a good provider, patient and kind, grateful for your company and conversation. Please answer me.
She wasn’t certain if it were the bit about living at the foot of a mountain or the "please answer me" that took her heart, but she knew that as soon as she could escape Mrs. Winthrop’s stifling shop, she would requite that plea and write a letter. All day long, she hummed as she worked, drawing the stern eye of Mrs. Winthrop with her unaccustomed merriment.
“Girl, cease that humming. If you are so idle, I shall give you more work to occupy yourself,” Mrs. Winthrop snapped, and Tess subsided.
Still, with every movement, she heard the faint crinkle of the paper she had folded and refolded until it fit in her pocket. She was aware of the stiff bundle of newspaper in her skirt, the promise it held.
Tess found herself plotting like a schoolgirl to sneak away to her room, to find time to write the letter. She could claim a sick headache as her mother did when a new mystery novel arrived from the lending library, but would her mother know it was a ploy then? Perhaps she could play on Rebecca’s sympathies and mention that she was overwhelmed by wedding preparations…there was, though, always the risk that Rebecca would say it was much worse for herself and have a fainting spell to go with it.
On her walk home, she dawdled, reading the advertisment again and again, a smile at her lips. It seemed to be written for herself alone. Something in its wording spoke directly to her heart. She resolved to write the letter and then send to the library for books on cookery, on preserving meats and vegetables. A reader at heart, she would research all she’d need to know as a frontier wife.
In her mind, she had already made this match, thrown her bonnet over the moon for him as it were, without ever having seen his face. The man who wrote that advertisement would be her husband; she was certain down to her bones. That long hopeless future she’d imagined crumpled away, and in its place was a lively brightness, a fireside, a cradle, the warm embrace of her husband.
When she walked in the house, her mother and sister were in the kitchen, so she crept by and stole up to her room without a word. Unfolding and smoothing out the newspaper, she reread the advertisement and took a sheet of paper from her desk, a thick lovely vellum that Leah had given her as a birthday gift several years before. She had saved it for something special and this felt like the right moment.
Dear Sir,
Today I purchased my first edition of the matrimonial papers having been inspired as if pushed by an unseen force toward such action for days. Upon opening the advertisements, my gaze fell upon your words, and they seem to be meant just for me. I believe, if I may be so bold, so arrogant as to claim such—that God has led me to your advertisement. Galvaniz
ed by some divine spark, I took the first opportunity of writing to you, the very same day, only hours after I first read about your mountain, your garden, the prospect of a life in Montana Territory with you.
You may disbelieve me, but I am very shy usually, unlikely to speak or even nod to a stranger, much less to initiate a correspondence with a gentleman not of my acquaintance. Please do not think me so forward, so improper, as to suggest anything inappropriate in your honorable intentions. I wish only to assure you that I am not the sort of lady who writes to strangers, who believes in fate and soul mates. I do not even read those sentimental novels like the ones my sister secrets in her room.
I do like to read. In fact, I’ve just finished Walden by Mr. Thoreau, and I cannot tell you when the written word has so elevated and inspired me as in that exhortation to simplicity and a return to nature and economy. Have you read it? Do you, I ought to inquire first, enjoy reading philosophy or novels or—anything? I like to read and sew. I am a seamstress by trade, employed by one of Albany’s premier modistes. That is how Mrs. Winthrop always introduces herself. She is a stern employer but a very beneficial instructress, and I’ve learned a great deal from her.
I am twenty-three years old and a spinster. I live with my mother and father and my younger sister who is about to be married. I also have an elder sister who has a family of her own. Have you brothers and sisters? Do your good parents, I hope, yet live?
I have spent all my life in Albany and, truthfully, I expect I shall pass the remaining years in this city, as well, unless some strange chance like this one should uproot me. I am very much an habitual creature, following much the same routine and hardly daring to look up out of my little path.
What are the stars like in Montana? I imagine they are very vast and near, while here in Albany one must crane one’s neck and look upward to see a patch of sky unblocked by buildings or gaslights. I find that I miss the moon when I cannot see it at night, though I’ve never had an unobstructed view of it. The city feels crowded and oppressive to me—I do not believe that city living is in my nature. I like space and silence, or I think I would if I had any of either. The frontier lifestyle appeals to me in that way.
