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About Author Kimberly Grist
Copyright © 2020Kimberly Grist
Cover by Virginia McKevitt
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All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the author.
ASIN: B08543MB3F
DEDICATION
To my very own Pastor Nelson, my best friend, love of my life and live-in biblical scholar. And to my friends and family who have both inspired and encouraged me, I am immensely grateful for your love and support
Chapter 1 Proxy Daisy
On participating in a matchmaking venture…
“Once I start corresponding, I hope my match has the good sense to quote Shakespeare.
I want to be compared to a summer’s day and hear his declaration that his love
for me will be as deep as the sea.” - Miss Daisy Leah Murphy.
Counting Stars Orphanage – Collier, Tennessee – November 1891
The November wind whistled. Splatters of rain pinged against the window in the former surveyor cabin converted to a one-room schoolhouse. Twenty-two-year-old teacher, Daisy Leah Murphy’s mouth twitched at the sight of the younger children’s worn boots swinging back and forth under their desks. Their eyes wide, they awaited the next spelling-bee word.
The door creaked, drawing her attention to the smiling freckled face of her roommate. Magnolia carried a large basket covered with a checkered cloth. They’d both arrived at the Counting Stars Children’s home during the yellow fever epidemic fifteen years ago. When they aged out at seventeen, the girls took positions at the orphanage to assist in the care of the children in exchange for room and board.
Few jobs were available in the area for women, and it was difficult to be self-sufficient. Thankfully, their roles as teachers, cooks and caregivers in the orphanage supplied the needed room and board. Conversely, there was a shortage of young men in the area, and most of the boys at the orphanage were able to pursue their chosen vocation before turning eighteen.
Magnolia’s faded skirt rustled as she made her way to the front of the room and removed her slightly damp scarf to release a riotous display of blond curls. “The rain is picking up. I thought it best to bring lunch to you.” Magnolia set the basket on her desk with a thud and leaned toward Daisy. “Reverend Jackson stopped by with the mail, and Mrs. Shelby would like to meet with you in her office right away.”
“Was there anything from Memphis Rose?” Daisy whispered.
“One letter must have been delayed because there are two from our former roommate, now soon to be married, mail-order friend,” Magnolia beamed.
“She’s not a mail-order bride.” Daisy raised her chin. “Memphis is a young woman being courted by an eligible bachelor. The fact they were introduced by mail is inconsequential. Especially since she was matched by our pastor and matron of the orphanage.”
“It’s a lot easier to say mail-order.” Magnolia winked. “Mrs. Shelby said to bring your lunch with you.”
Daisy gave a half-smile and accepted the sandwich wrapped in a checkered cloth. “Thank you. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Take your time.” Magnolia's gaze wandered from the students sitting wide-eyed to the black-painted wooden wall serving as a chalkboard. “I was the spelling bee champion on more than one occasion.”
Daisy followed her gaze. Except for the recent whitewashing of the log walls and the transition to double-seated desks, the room was the same as it was when they were students. “You’re an even better cook.” She called over her shoulder, grabbing her wrap and hurrying out the door.
The soft patter of rain fell onto the nearby pond, creating hundreds of circular ripples. Short, raspy croaks sounded from the chorus frogs who sang from their hiding places. Daisy paused to throw her shawl over her hair, mesmerized by the varying colors of orange and russet leaves in a nearby thicket of willow oaks.
A gust of wind rattled her skirt and she shivered. The Tennessee weather tended toward long, hot, muggy summers and short, cold winters. Though the temperature remained mild, the rain and the wind were reminders of the approaching change of season. I wonder what the weather is like in Texas.
Continuing on the clay path, she waved at the elderly volunteer who was assisting several teenage boys in harvesting the remainder of the fall garden. “Afternoon, Mr. Brady. It’s about time for lunch, isn’t it?”
“We’ve already eaten, missy.” Mr. Brady tipped his worn straw hat. “Don’t worry. We left a sandwich or two for you and your students.”
“We thank you for thinking of us.” Daisy pressed her hand to her stomach and took in a deep breath. “Looks like you are making good progress this morning.”
“We probably have another week or two before the first frost. Looks like our last crop of vegetables will be plentiful.” The man’s wrinkled face broke into a wide smile.
Ben, the oldest youth, removed his hat, displaying dark wavy hair. He motioned his long arm toward leafy green plants in the backfield. “There’s only one vegetable out here I don’t care for, and that’s collards. Wouldn’t you know we have a bumper crop of it? Miss Magnolia will be serving it morning, noon and night this winter.”
Daisy blinked. For a moment, memories flooded her mind reminding her of a time years ago when the children were grateful to eat anything put before them. As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Brady caught her gaze. He’d volunteered to coordinate instructing the children and youth in farming skills. Over the years, his tireless efforts allowed the orphanage to become self-sustaining. His deep gray eyes were misty.
“We have a lot to be grateful for then.” She grinned. “I’ll swap your collards for my portion of black-eyed peas any day.”
The two laughed. Daisy increased her pace, lifting her skirts to avoid muddying her hems, which did nothing to keep moisture from entering the hole in her boot. She trekked to the two-story cabin, which housed more than two dozen orphans. Once inside, she passed the former parlor, converted to a nursery for infants and toddlers. Her damp socks squished and her boots made intermittent squeaks across the split-log floors of the orphanage’s office, which also doubled as the library.
“Have a seat, Daisy.” The matron of the orphanage poured an aromatic brew into a china cup. “This is the last of the new blend of tea from the pastor’s friend in South Carolina. The arrival of correspondence from Memphis Rose is something to celebrate.”
“Magnolia mentioned you received two letters. I’m excited to hear what she has to say.” Daisy accepted her cup, which now included a celebratory spoonful of honey.
The orphanage matron retrieved her spectacles from the chain on her neck and positioned them on her nose. “Go ahead and eat your sandwich and enjoy your tea. It’s time for us to quit stalling and discuss our next steps.”
“Next steps?” Daisy glanced between Mrs. Shelby’s pale complexion to her tidy bun, her blond locks now outnumbered by white.
“One of our goals is to prepare the children for a life outside the orphanage. The apprenticeship program has been a great success for the boys. Our new matchmaking venture is finally something we can offer our girls.” Mrs. Shelby stared over her teacup. “Although none of the children here were born to me personally, I can’t imagine loving any of you more.” Mrs. Shelby’s mouth trembled. “For our older girls—now women—in my efforts to keep you safe, I’ve been
overprotective. In some ways, I’ve done more harm than good and stifled your growth.”
Daisy shook her head. “I can’t imagine where we would be if it weren’t for you and this children’s home. You’ve done nothing but offer care, encouragement, and love.”
“It was only a few weeks ago, I had a similar conversation with Memphis Rose. Who could imagine a widow with no children of her own blessed to raise so many?” Mrs. Shelby stared at a painting of a bearded man, depicting Abraham staring into the starry sky. “Which is why it’s difficult to encourage you to leave.”
Daisy twisted the napkin in her lap. “What are you saying?”
“Sit back and relax, dear. I love you and am not about to cast you into the streets.” Mrs. Shelby reached for an envelope. “I’ve received such wonderful news from your former roommate, better than I could imagine.”
“She’s happy then?” Daisy glanced down at the checkered cloth in her lap, which contained her now misshaped ham sandwich.
“Extremely. I was relieved when Memphis chose to correspond with the son of my childhood friends.” Mrs. Shelby’s face flushed. “You remember me telling you how I was infatuated with her fiancé’s father, Michael Montgomery, when I was a girl? It sounds as though he is very much his father’s son, a wonderful young man.”
Daisy sighed. “I’m glad. Did she say when the wedding will be?”
“Christmas day.” Mrs. Shelby peered at Daisy over her reading glasses. Her mouth lifted in a sly smile. “Now, it’s time for you to make your choice and become our second volunteer in our new venture, Heaven-Inspired Matrimonial Matches.”
Daisy took a sip of tea, thankful for the distraction. She’d been part of the process almost every step of the way when her friend Memphis selected from the candidates. Somehow it seemed best to cast aside any romantic fantasy and choose to correspond with a man recommended by people she could trust.
So why are my knees knocking?
Mrs. Shelby offered a half-smile. “Selfishly, I’d like to match you with someone close. Between the yellow plague epidemic and gold fever, there are few eligible men of marriageable age in these parts. Fortunately, I have a stack of letters from men out west, recommended by their local churches. We’ve received additional correspondence since we last spoke and selected a variety we would like for you to consider.” Mrs. Shelby extended a list of applicants. “Take the rest of the afternoon and ponder the men on this list. There is basic information beside each one; for example, age and what they do for a living. Tomorrow, we’ll meet again to discuss who you’ve selected.”
Daisy bit her lip. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Shelby stood slowly and reached in her pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot. Take these letters from Memphis. She has recommendations from some of the applicants on our list she’s met personally.”
“Did she say anything about Mr. Taylor, the sawmill owner? He is the one who is raising his niece and nephew.” Daisy reached for the bundle of letters.
“Yes. She also mentioned a deputy, a rancher and a new applicant, who owns the grist mill.” Mrs. Shelby’s mouth twitched. “It seems Carrie Town, Texas, is a land flowing with milk, honey, and fine-looking men of good character.”
Chapter 2
On becoming a mail-order bride…
“I have a peace about this matchmaking venture. I know God is going to send exactly who He has in mind for me. My future husband will be perfect.” - Miss Daisy Leah Murphy
The increased intensity of the wind caused Daisy to look up from her correspondence. She laid the letter on the upside-down crate used for a desk and glanced toward the crescent moon encased in the small attic window.
Magnolia climbed the stairs, a large book clutched to her chest. She paused to adjust the wick on the oil lamp to cast a soft light into their dormitory. “I just finished reading a bedtime story to the younger girls. They wanted to hear Little Women again. Thankfully, I talked them into ‘Puss in Boots.’ At least, I’ll have a reprieve for one night.”
“I thought you liked Little Women.” Daisy’s eyebrows narrowed as she studied her roommate’s downturned mouth.
“It’s just a bit too similar to real life for me. I prefer to read a whimsical version. It softens the blow.” Magnolia flopped onto her cot covered in a patchwork quilt.
“You’d rather influence the young girls with a story of a deceitful cat who lies and manipulates to get what he wants?” Daisy drummed her pencil on the desk.
Magnolia motioned toward Daisy’s boots now lined in fresh newspaper. “I believe it was the thought of a cat in fancy footwear that inspired me this evening. However, as much as I admire his boots, I agree. Puss is not a good example.”
“One of my favorites is ‘Thumbelina.’” Daisy nodded toward the well-worn copy of fairy tales lying on Magnolia’s bed.
“Hm.” Magnolia tapped her finger on her cheek. “A providential choice. Are you comparing yourself to the tiny creature kidnapped from her home with the threat of marriage to a large and cryptic toad?”
Daisy scrunched her nose. “You’re right. What a terrible choice of stories for young girls and young women as well.”
“If my memory serves correctly, Thumbelina avoids several disasters because her friends offer assistance.” Magnolia perched on the end of her bed. “You’ve been up here for hours looking at the list of bachelors waiting for an opportunity to correspond with you. I thought you made your choice a long time ago.”
“It’s the same list with a few additions.” Daisy glanced up and studied the massive logs forming the angled ceiling. “For months, I said if given the opportunity, I would write to David Taylor, a sawmill owner in Carrie Town, Texas. Now the time has come for me to commit, and I’m terrified. Everything seemed much easier when I was advising Memphis.”
“Why not take a clue from ‘Thumbelina’ and let your friends assist?” Magnolia rested her chin in her hands. “Tell me again what Memphis said about the deputy.”
“She said Leo Weaver is handsome, funny, and has a way of making people feel at ease.” Daisy flipped the letter over. “He assists his father with the family farm, is a talented furniture maker, and works as a deputy part-time.”
“Intriguing and industrious.” Magnolia tilted her head. “Sounds like while he’s busy working, you’d be at the homestead. Are you reconsidering your stand against living on a farm again?”
“No,” Daisy shuddered. “You know I have an irrational fear of chickens. Once I marry, I hope never to milk a cow, gather eggs, or plant another kernel of corn.”
“Since the sawmill owner lives in town, I doubt you’d have to worry about a garden or chickens. What’s there to consider? Did Memphis mention something about him that was objectionable?” Magnolia bit her lip.
Daisy scowled. “She said he wears his hair in a stylish manner and has a mustache.”
Magnolia reached for the paper. “Is that all she had to say about the man?”
“No.” Daisy sat next to her friend and brought the paper closer to her face.
I’ve spoken with David Taylor on several occasions. He attends church regularly with his precocious nephew and sweet niece. He is polite, a successful businessman, and well-thought of in the community. I recently had the opportunity to spend additional time with him at a square dance. He is a wonderful dancer and patiently helped me to learn the steps. Our conversation was centered around Mr. Taylor’s concern for his niece and nephew.
“Which lines up with the letters of recommendations Mrs. Shelby received.” Magnolia pressed her hand over her heart. “Can you imagine living in a community where they have socials and dancing?”
“I do feel relieved about what Memphis says about the town and the people who live there. The fact she finds Mr. Taylor a man of character is a relief.” Daisy returned her gaze to the letter and continued.
One part of his personality I thought you might enjoy: he seems analytical, neat and tidy like you. Although I haven’t been inside his house
, I rode with Mike to the sawmill and could see his home from a distance. Given your propensity toward geometry, I couldn’t help but smile. It is a two-story structure built in an octagon style.
“Octagon?” Magnolia pulled on her lip.
Daisy picked up a scrap piece of paper and drew the shape while she explained. “An octagon is a shape within a circle. It contains eight sides, eight angles and has straight sides that connect. Thomas Jefferson built his home in the shape. I checked the library and found a book written mid-century when the design became popular before the war.”
“Thank goodness. For a minute, I was afraid Mr. Taylor lives in a soddy.” Magnolia shook her head. “That wouldn’t make a dab of sense since he owns the sawmill.”
“A soddy? I’m confused.” Daisy’s eyebrows narrowed.
“I’ve read how some settlers out west dig a hole in a bank and build their house in front.” Magnolia made a motion with her hands. “They cut sod into bricks and stack them to build the walls. The entire structure is constructed of dirt and grass. Even the roof.”
“I had no idea.” Daisy stared at the massive logs of their attic dormitory, then shuddered. “Can you imagine trying to keep a dwelling made of grass clean?”
“Leave it to you to think about dirt. I thought it was rather inventive.” Magnolia nodded toward the letter. “What else does she say?”
He is handsome, wears his hair in a stylish manner, and has a handlebar mustache. Daisy pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I don’t know which is worse, chickens or facial hair covered in wax.”
“The only person I’ve ever seen with what you might call a stylish mustache is the sheriff. Does he use wax?” Magnolia waved her hand and laughed. “I’ll pay closer attention to him at church on Sunday to see what has you worked up.”
“I have a vague memory of my mother covering the arms and backs of her parlor furniture to protect the fabric from my uncle’s hair tonic.” Daisy offered a half-smile. “He was an architect and worked in New York. We saw him once or twice a year. I can picture him and my father playing their violins together.”
A Bride for David Page 1
