Mail Order Bride- Winter

by Sierra Rose

  “My goodness, this is absolutely wonderful. I’d like to toast my toes in front of that hearth, sip some tea, and stay for hours. But what exactly are you selling, Mrs. Fitzsimmons?”

  The cluster of blonde curls bobbled a little, the brilliant blue eyes twinkled. “Why, everything, of course, Miss Burton.”

  “Everything? I don’t understand.”

  “You just described my little enterprise very well, and I thank you. That’s exactly the sort of atmosphere I had hoped to offer. Will you join me in sharing a nice pot of Earl Grey so we can chat a bit?”

  A slight gust of autumn wind tinkled the overhead bell again, and Hannah hastily closed the door behind her. “I would, indeed. However, I might be accepting your kind offer under false pretences. Recently I became employed by the Turnabout Gazette, and—”

  Mrs. Fitzsimmons clapped her hands together like an excited child, despite the very adult and very distinguished emerald green dress she was wearing, with its square neckline and its embellishments of black filigree.

  “And you would like permission to interview me? Why, what a splendid idea! I would be delighted to answer any questions you have. Here, you take that seat by the fire, as you mentioned earlier, and I’ll see about fetching refreshments.”

  There must be a small kitchen tucked away somewhere in the back, Hannah realized, as she removed her coat and gloves to lay aside. Then she chose one of the fine parlor chairs and settled in.

  The prevailing air was one of sensuous comfort, with the soothing crackle of the flames, and a feeling of luxury, and the perception of escaping the cares of an ordinary, possibly unpleasant world for a little taste of grandeur on the other side. Even the fragrance of lavender sachet and beeswax candles added to the ambiance.

  “You have created a beautiful distraction from everyday woes here, Mrs. Fitzsimmons,” Hannah said, as her hostess rejoined her carrying a tea tray and all the accouterments.

  “Oh, please, my dear, call me Abigail. Yes, I think I have,” the lady murmured with an expression of pride, looking around as she took another chair opposite. “It’s the vision I had in my head, and things seem to have turned out very well. Very well, indeed.”

  Her speech held the faint hint of an accent. Quite upper class, and sprinkled with words not normally used in the rougher, sometimes saltier talk of the American west.

  “Mmm, the tea is delicious. Thank you. Now, tell me—what was your vision for this place, Abigail?” Hannah set aside her cup and saucer to reach for the pencil and pad of paper without which she never left the office.

  “One that, quite frankly, I hadn’t even considered until I landed here.” Abigail took a sip, closed her eyes as if in recall, and continued. “But perhaps I ought to start at the beginning, oughtn’t I?”

  “Yes, that would probably be—”

  “Why, Miss Burton, what a surprise to see you.”

  Hannah, distracted, looked up. And stifled a groan as Dr. Gabriel Havers wandered out from the archives with a book in his hand and one finger marking the selected page. Truly, the man had proven himself to be an unbearable nuisance! Just when she was about to find out the nitty-gritty of Abigail Fitzsimmons’ trek from somewhere else to here—and why—there emerged the bane of Hannah’s existence to interrupt and delay. From Molly’s wedding to Cole’s funeral to Letty’s wedding, he had shown up to participate in the ceremonies as if he were a valued member of the expanding Burton family.

  Well, by all rights, she must somewhat aggrievedly concede that, in a way, he was. His friendship with two of the new husbands was of many years’ standing, so she supposed she would have to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Pasting a false smile upon her too-readable face, she replied in much the same vein, then turned to her hostess. “You’re already open for business, Abigail?”

  “Not quite yet, but I—”

  “I witnessed this vast library being shelved,” Gabriel happily interrupted, “and I simply couldn’t resist—I barged my way in, didn’t I, Abby?”

  “He has honed the art of barging in to a science,” muttered Hannah, between her teeth.

  “Oh, come now, I’m not as bad as all that. You mustn’t give this fine lady the wrong impression, when she and I have only just met.”

  “I’m sure this fine lady has already formed her own opinion, and it may not be as favorable as you would like it to be.”

  Gabriel clicked his tongue several times, chiding. “And just when I was all set to buy this book.”

  The fine lady could be excused for feeling a trifle buffeted at this back-and-forth, this inexplicable sense of animosity radiating between the two. She looked from one to the other, following the comments like a tennis match spectator, then nodded slightly with a faint smile. “You want to make a purchase?”

  He tore his annoyed gaze away from Hannah, and her own deliberate attitude of exasperation, to answer that, yes, he did, indeed, want to make a purchase. This book, in particular.

  With the ease of long practice, Abigail gathered up her satiny skirts and rose. “Ah. Hereward the Wake, by Charles Kingsley. An excellent choice, Doctor. Come along, and you can settle up the cost with me.”

  “And have it wrapped, perchance?”

  Abigail smiled. “In my finest tissue paper, of course.”

  Somewhat confused, Hannah rose as well, to momentarily delay the transaction. “So Table of Contents is a bookstore?”

  “That, and many other things. As I explained, everything here is for sale to the right customer.”

  “You don’t think what you offer in this marvelous shop will prove to be too much competition to others in town? The library, for instance, or the Mercantile.”

  The attractive proprietor paused with another smile. “Look around you, my dear. Does this atmosphere put you in mind of either of those places? “

  “Well, no...More like the Cave of Ali Baba, I must admit. Still—”

  “Exactly. I plan to present a whole new concept to the townspeople, and I hope they will stop by often to take advantage of something so different. And, hopefully, so appealing.”

  Just then the bell jangled, interrupting their conversation; two ladies out shopping for the afternoon had decided to enter, a bit timidly, but quite curious, and Abigail turned to greet them.

  “I’m sorry, Hannah, but I believe I am needed elsewhere. Might we postpone my interview for another time, perhaps? Yes, Gabriel, patience, if you please. Certainly, your purchase must come first.”

  On the way home, Hannah picked up some things from the local store. She carried her bags as the cold wind blew on her. When she stumbled, a bag dropped and the contents fell out.

  Gabe ran over. “Let me help you.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she went to pick up some thread, he did too, and his hand landed on top of hers. She gazed into his pretty eyes as her heart fluttered.

  He helped her to collect the materials she had bought to make a dress.

  “Let me carry a bag for you,” the good doctor said.

  “Thank you.”

  As they walked back to Hannah’s house, they chatted.

  “I’m thinking about doing what your sisters did,” he said.

  “Get a mail order bride?”

  “Perhaps. Many men are advertising for wives in newspapers. I would love to settle down and ask for a woman’s hand in marriage.”

  “But you are an eligible bachelor. Many single women hang on your every word.”

  “You are kind. But there’s only one woman in this town who captures my undivided attention. And she isn’t interested in marriage.”

  He looked at her, and she smiled.

  “Who is she?” Hannah asked.

  He winked. “That’s my little secret.”

  “I will not pry then.”

  “Would you like to attend a dinner party tonight?”

  “Oh, yes. I will be attending.”

  “I would love to spend some time with you.”

&
nbsp; She smiled. “Are you interested in courting me?”

  “We are both unmarried people looking for companionship, are we not?”

  “Careful. I just might tell the girl of your dreams, you’re looking elsewhere.”

  He laughed. “If only you knew who she was.”

  They both laughed.

  “I don’t think I want to marry anyone from this town,” Hannah said.

  “Why not? I think I am a very good prospect.”

  “You know all my faults and weaknesses. Maybe I want to start fresh.”

  “I know all your faults and I accept each and every one of them.”

  She grinned. “So I have a lot?”

  He laughed, and she playfully touched him.

  “Anyway,” she said. “That’s sweet. But if we courted and it didn’t work out, and mind you, we argue a lot, might not be a good match, then gossip would break out. It would be uncomfortable for both of us.”

  “So if it’s a stranger, and doesn’t work out, he can leave.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You are scared of risk?”

  “Very much so.”

  “You should give me a chance.”

  “We are to different.”

  “So we’ve debated lots of subjects, who cares? We have different opinions, so what? You have never taken the time to really get to know me.”

  “I do enjoy our difference of opinion. It’s fun to argue our points.”

  “I know there’s more.”

  “There is. I always see you flirting, smiling. Women fancy you.”

  “I’m charming. Friendly. Sweet and kind.”

  “I just don’t want my heart broken. And then we live in the same town. Seeing somebody every day who caused me great pain would be too much.”

  “I would never break your heart, Hannah. You just need to give me a chance.”

  “Yes, you will never break my heart because we will always stay friends.”

  “Playing it safe. That will get you nowhere in life. Take a chance.”

  “We’re here,” Hannah said. “Thank you so much for all your help.”

  Chapter Two

  “TAKE MY WORD FOR IT, you simply must visit the Table.” Hannah, seated beside her eldest sister during the Thanksgiving Communal dinner, was waxing enthusiastic while she spooned into a generous serving of sweet rich cornbread. “It’s a veritable treasure trove of all things imaginable.”

  Camellia, who had occasionally felt a stab of concern for the circumstances of this last remaining single Burton, was pleased to see such vivacity in one whose mood was so often acerbic. “By all means. She serves tea, you said? And you can just sit about and chat? Sounds very sociable. Like being invited into someone’s home.”

  “It’s just the place for you to put your feet up and relax a bit,” promised Hannah. “Benjamin, dear, would you hand me that plate of relish?”

  “That’s quite an appetite you got goin’ there,” Ben observed mildly, as he complied.

  “This is a day for feasting, isn’t it?” Hannah took the josh in the spirit it was given, and shrugged. “Well, I’m adhering to Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation. Listen, Ben, you need to loosen your purse strings and allow your burdened wife a little freedom. She would loooove the Table.”

  Taken aback, he put down knife and fork with a loud clunk. “I beg your pardon. I don’t believe I’ve ever kept—”

  “After all, you have put the poor thing into a most questionable state of affairs. I’d say she deserves some freedom away from all the household chores. And your demands.” With a deliberate lack of decorum, she licked the spoon in her hand while surveying her brother-in-law with innocent eyes.

  “Now, wait just a minute. You got no right to—”

  “Oh, hush, Ben,” his wife adjured, with her usual easy charm. “Hannah is only chaffing you, in return for all the times you’ve teased her. I would like to meet this Mrs. Fitzsimmons, though, Hen. Is she here today?”

  “I don’t know. Certainly she’s been invited, in the general notice sent out by the council. I’m hoping she’ll join us, so I can get my interview for the paper.”

  The Church of Placid Waters, although modest in scope and size, boasted two important features. One was the impressive steeple which held an equally impressive iron bell, whose musical peal sounded for every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening service, and other spiritual celebrations in between. The other was an attached hall, whose space, tables, and compact kitchen served not only the church members, but also the community at large for special events.

  Such as the one today.

  Thanksgiving, as a national holiday, was barely into its childhood, having been established by President Lincoln, in 1863, to thank the Union Army for its pivotal victory at Gettysburg. By now, traditions were being formed: a gathering of grateful citizenry, prayers and blessings, sociality, and a collective sharing of the year’s bounty.

  Rev. Martin Beecham had provided those prayers and blessings. As he circulated amongst the attendees of his flock, Burton clan members, in particular, having been more touched by grace than usual, thanks to the good reverend’s intervention, returned his smile full force. There was nothing he might ask for from them that the family would not try their best to provide.

  The streets were relatively quiet, with only an occasional reveler deciding to shoot up the peace (the bars doing a brisk business with its regulars). Sheriff Paul Winslow had managed to consume a hearty meal and spend some quality time with his wife before slipping away to relieve both deputies at the office.

  As for Letty and Reese, Hannah could barely stand to look at them, since, married so recently, they were still at that stage of canoodling that made any spectator want to gag. At least, in her opinion, jaded though it might be. They had nibbled from each other’s plates (disgusting) and paused in their inhaling and imbibing to share long, languorous looks (stomach-churning). Really. Had the honeymooners no sense of decorum? No embarrassment of place or time?

  However, if she were to be truly honest (and she usually was, sometimes to the detriment of herself—and others), it wasn’t so much the heart-rending happiness she observed for her sisters and their spouses, but the sense of herself being left out in the cold. A relic. A last dinosaur, meandering on its own, before fossilization set in.

  The spacious bedroom allotted to the Burtons at Mrs. McKnight’s boarding house, slightly cramped but cozy for three, seemed a rattling-around echo chamber for one. A place no longer quite so desirable to ascend to, via a single flight of stairs; instead, she was often driven to seek company in the parlor, along with other singles, during evenings when the empty hours stretched bleakly out ahead of her .

  Since their final departure from that St. Louis mansion, Hannah, more so than her siblings, had known a degree of homesickness she could never have otherwise imagined. She hid it behind an acidic tongue and a vinegary disposition. Not that she wanted to return to her old existence. No, that was out of the question.

  But she longed for the way things used to be, and never could be again, with a fierce pain that sometimes roiled up out of nowhere to send her gasping for breath and nearly bent double in agony. Probably, Hannah reasoned, in her saner moments, she was just having a hard time adjusting to all the changes in her life. Talking with her sisters might have helped ease the transition. Except that Hannah, always an independent soul, would rather fight through this very unpleasant aspect on her own, instead of bothering all three newlywed couples already so busy and settled.

  She had kept in touch with a very few dear friends from the past, sending occasional voluminous letters that said nothing of her disconsolation and everything of adventure in a small town. Would it be feasible to plan for a visit sometime, to renew her acquaintances there? Or would that be like ripping a bandage off some barely healed wound, sending her even farther backward instead of forward?

  Too, finances would dictate the answer.

  For now, she must stiffen her spine and prese
nt a brave front.

  “Your turn will come,” Camellia, ever-sensitive of her sisters’ moods, said quietly. “Don’t begrudge anyone their happiness, Hen, simply because things are not in peak form for you right now.”

  Caught, she managed a shamefaced smile. “What makes you think I am? It’s just that I’m looking around for Abigail, and every time my glance crosses those two—well...ugh.”

  The room, expansive though it might be, was crowded, not only with guests and multiple dishes, but with tables, chairs, and benches. Every family had brought a favorite menu item to pass—fruit breads and sourdoughs, cured sliced ham and fried chicken and beef roasted to perfection, vegetables creamed or baked or sauced, cakes and pies of all varieties. Diners ate, and socialized, and ate some more.

  Restless children, having finished their own portions, were begging to go outside for play time; several babies offered up their own brand of protest to the hum of conversation and laughter which overlay everything. If one were to judge by the noise level, Turnabout’s Thanksgiving Dinner was a howling success.

  And, best of all, the tradition that would follow for decades to come: leftovers. Every attendee would, before departure, divvy up the spoils for a share and share alike.

  “Oh, there she is!” Hannah realized. Too courteous to point, she half-rose from her chair and gestured from across the room.

  With a smile, and a few murmured words here and there, Abigail managed to thread her way through knots of diners until she was able to find a clear area at the Burton table.

  Her attire, on this special day, matched the standard set during their first meeting. An interesting style, of deep rich garnet brocade that provided a perfect foil for her hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. The jacket, with an open collar and long flounced sleeves, boasted black trim and several rows of black buttons down the front; the skirt held its own point of pride, with three tiered ruffles also nicely embellished.

  Hannah, perched next to such finery, couldn’t help feeling just a trifle frumpish by comparison, in her five-year-old green-checked wool. There was certainly no question of updating her wardrobe for the present, nor even for the foreseeable future. So be it. She would make the best of a somewhat discomfiting (for the fashion-conscious) situation, and go on. One does not live or die because one’s garments have gone out of style.