Authors: Kate Whitsby
Christmas Mail Order Bride - A Historical Mail Order Bride Novel (Western Mail Order Brides: Book 1)
Christmas Mail Order Bride
Western
Mail Order Brides Series: Book 1
©
2013 by
Kate Whitsby
Kate
Whitsby
Dedication
To YOU, The reader.
Thank you for your support.
Thank you for your emails.
Thank you for your reviews.
Thank you for reading and joining me on this road.
The coach lurched through the ruts in the road, jostling the passengers inside and throwing them almost out of their seats. Penelope Mathers pressed her feet into the floor to brace herself from the incessant rattling and tossing but the bitter cold rendered her feet so numb, she retained no sense of how much pressure she put on them to keep herself balanced. She flexed her fingers inside her kid-skin gloves to try to warm them, but the freezing air left them as insensible as her feet. In a last vain attempt to stave off the cold, she shrugged her thin cape around her shoulders, but the flimsy garment barely covered her elbows and afforded no protection at all. She gasped in exasperation and caught a well-dressed man in the opposite seat twinkling at her predicament.
“Is it always this cold?” she complained.
The man grinned impishly. “It’s wintertime!” he chortled.
“I know,” she replied. “
but I just never felt such biting cold before.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Baltimore,” she answered.
He laughed gaily in her face. “Well, lady, you
ain’t in Baltimore anymore. This ain’t much of a hard cold around here, not for this time a’ year. You’ll just have to get used to it.”
“I don’t imagine I shall ever get used to this,” she whimpered, casting a baleful glance out of the window of the coach at the bleak countryside outside. Devoid of snow, the frosty landscape slept under the desolate dormancy winter. The trees raked the grey sky with their leafless limbs, and the hard bare ground gave no sign of acquiescence, not even to the wrenching impact of the coach wheels. “Are you from around here?”
The man nodded. “I’ve lived here all my life, so I guess I think of this as normal winter weather. Coming from Baltimore must be quite a shock for you.”
The man laughed at her again but before Penelope could fall any further into despair, she noticed that they had arrived at a clap-board town in which people, wagons, and horses intermingled in the streets, and smoke issued from the chimneys of the houses and buildings. Some of the buildings displayed the earliest Christmas decorations in their windows and around their roofs and the awnings of their porches. The man opposite collected his belongings from the floor around his feet and fixed his hat more firmly on his head as he prepared to disembark. “This is where we get out,” he indicated to her, stooping to look out the window. Penelope forgot her cold and gripped her handbag more resolutely.
The coach pulled up to a stop in front of a well-appointed hotel, and a bell boy in gold-trimmed livery bustled out to meet it. The coach driver and the armed guard jumped down from the seat, and the horses stamped impatiently until a stable boy emerged from behind the building and took their reins. The well-dressed man disembarked from the coach first and immediately began barking orders to the bell boy about his luggage. An older woman followed through the door onto the wooden porch at the front of the hotel and marched straight into the lobby. Penelope exited the coach last and scanned the area in front of the building for any sign of a person waiting to meet her. No one met that description, and she loitered on the porch, unsure whether to wait outside or go indoors, though the intense cold pierced her terribly. The well-dressed man finished attending to the dispensation of his luggage and the management of the bell boy as the driver and the guard repaired to the bar. Pulling on his gloves and straightening his coat sleeves, the man headed toward the lobby door just before he noticed Penelope fidgeting on the porch. He paused and strolled over to her.
“Is someone coming to collect you, Miss?” he touched the brim of his hat.
“I hope so!” she laughed nervously.
“Are you visiting someone here?” he pursued.
“I’m meeting my betrothed,” she explained. “I’m contracted to marry a man here, and his family is coming to pick me up and take me to my wedding.”
“Well, congratulations, then,” he tugged the visor of his hat again. “And who, may I ask, is the lucky gentleman?”
“His name is Anders West,” she told him.
“Anders West?!” he expostulated.
“The son of George and Matilda West?”
“That’s right,” she assented. “Do you know them?”
“Everybody knows
of
them,” the man responded. “I don’t know them personally, but everyone knows who they are. George worked his way up from being a penniless cattle puncher and now he runs one of the most prosperous cattle empires in the state. He’s a fixture in this county, and his wife, Matilda, is a real nice lady. She runs the charitable society. Their son, Anders, has quite a reputation around town, too.” Penelope noted that he refrained from elucidating what that reputation might be.
“Is he their only child?” she inquired tactfully.
“Yes, and he stands to inherit the whole shootin’ match, when old George dies,” the man confirmed. “You’re making a very favorable match, as they say in the vernacular.”
“Thank you very much,” Penelope bowed her head in appreciation.
“I hope it works out well for you,” he continued cryptically.
Penelope scrutinized him. “Is there something you’re not telling me?
Something about Anders? If there is something you know, I would appreciate you telling me.”
“I’m sure the West family told you everything you needed to know before you contracted to marry their son,” the man demurred.
“Maybe,” Penelope conceded. “But still, one can’t substitute that sort of thing for local information. You said Anders has a reputation. What is that reputation? I really would appreciate you telling me the truth.”
The man averted his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of speaking out of turn behind someone’s back. George West has a lot of influence in this town, and his son stands to succeed him in that as well as in his financial fortune. I can’t afford to make an enemy of either one.”
“That means there’s something objectionable about his reputation you aren’t willing to tell me,” Penelope observed.
“You may draw your own conclusions, Miss,” the man inclined his head once more. “I wish you all the best in your marriage.” He swept into the hotel, abandoning Penelope again.
Though the cold still tortured her hands, feet and face, she still didn’t know how much time still awaited her before meeting anyone, so Penelope decided to kill the time by window shopping around the town. Just as she made this decision and prepared to step off the porch into the street, a covered buggy with bells on its horse’s harness jingled to a halt in front of the hotel. An elderly man and lady occupied the seat, their legs covered with blankets and their bodies wrapped in heavy overcoats, scarves, and gloves. The lady obscured her face behind a thick knitted scarf wrapped around her head, with only her eyes peeping out. The man drove, and when he reined in the horse, he parked with himself closest to Penelope. Their breath puffed from their mouths in clouds of steam.
“Penelope
Mathers?” the man inquired.
“Yes?” she replied.
“I’m George West,” he introduced himself. “This is my wife, Matilda. My God, girl! You must be half frozen! How long have you been standing out here in the cold?”
“Only a few minutes,” she admitted.
“Where’s your luggage?” George demanded.
“They took it inside,” she waved her hand in the direction of the lobby.
“What did they do that for?” he scoffed.
“They didn’t ask me,” she admitted. “They took everyone’s luggage inside.”
“How much do you have?” he frowned toward the door.
“Only one trunk,” she answered, abashed.
“Oh, that’s good!” he pulled his head back into his scarf. “We’ll send someone down to pick it up later. Unless there’s something in there that you need today. Is there?”
“No,” she answered.
“Well, come on and get in here under the blankets.” He made a space for her in the buggy seat between himself and his wife.
They bundled her into the seat and wrapped her up in the blankets, but her body produced no heat from its frozen limbs to warm her. George wedged himself into the seat next to her and took the reins. He slapped them on the
horse’s back and with a jerk, the buggy shot forward into the street. They careened through the town, winding through the streets, and Penelope saw more people putting up strings of decorations on the buildings and tying boughs of evergreen to their windows and door frames. After turning several corners, the buggy trundled into a residential street of picket fences and trimmed hedges where, at the end of the lane, they stopped again at the entrance of a big wooden church with a grand spire jutting up into the clouds. An evergreen wreath intertwined with red ribbon hung on its front door, and two bells, carved out of wood and painted white, hung below it. Around the lintel of the door, red ribbon highlighted the entrance to the church.
“Get inside,” George ordered. “The
fire’s on in the stove, and you can get warm in there while I put the buggy away. Then I’ll join you. Matilda will help you get dressed.”
The two women tumbled out of the buggy, shedding wraps and blankets, and Penelope gripped her handbag for all she was worth so as not to lose it in the commotion. Then she and Matilda hurried up the flagstone path as George drove off in the opposite direction. Matilda heaved the oaken door of the church open and held it aside for Penelope. Once they entered the vestry, the older woman clanged the door shut behind them with an ominous boom. Instantly, the quiet atmosphere of the church enveloped and sedated both women so that neither spoke as Matilda unwound her scarf and loosened the buttons of her coat. The relative heat of the church, compared to the unrelenting cold outside, infused Penelope with enough warmth to start to thaw her feet and fingers, and they ached terribly as they regained their mobility. But she dared not complain about it. Matilda didn’t notice her discomfort, but ushered her into a side chamber off the vestry, where she finally addressed Penelope. “Well, here we are. We have only just enough time to get you ready before the priest arrives to perform the service. Do you have everything you need?” The older woman surveyed Penelope critically.
“Yes, I think I’m ready,” she confirmed.
The older woman inspected her traveling costume, her hat, and her gloved hands. “Is this all you have to wear?” she scowled. “Didn’t you bring your wedding dress in your luggage?”
Penelope flushed in embarrassment. “I don't have a wedding dress,” she confessed in an undertone.
Matilda made an effort not to gasp in shock. “What else do you have in your trousseau?”
“I don't have a trousseau?” Penelope whispered, almost in tears. “I’m an orphan. I told George all that in our correspondence. He didn’t seem to take any notice of it.”
Matilda suppressed an ejaculation of annoyance. “I should have known,” she muttered. “I should have corresponded with you myself about the preparations for the wedding. Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just have to make do with what we have. Come over here. I brought a few things, just in case, and you can wear them. They’re family heirlooms, so it won’t be completely out of place.” She led Penelope to a trunk of her own on a table at the side of the room and started unloading it onto the tabletop. She took out an old knitted lace veil and some other trinkets. Penelope gave herself up to the older woman’s ministrations as she removed her hat and cape and readjusted her wardrobe with her own belongings from the trunk. In the end, she festooned her with pieces of jewelry such as an antique broach, a necklace, and a bangle for her wrist, none of which Penelope would have been caught dead in outside that church. So acute was her chagrin at failing to meet the older woman’s expectations that she suffered her future mother-in-law to dress her up like a mannequin to match her own tastes. At last, Matilda draped the veil over her head and announced, “There. That will do.” The veil blocked Penelope’s vision almost entirely, and she hoped she wouldn’t collide with any of the furniture on her way to the altar. She couldn’t even sidle over to the mirror on the wall to look at her own appearance for fear of stumbling and damaging herself.
Matilda herself finally doffed her heavy coat and revealed her own wedding outfit, a neatly cut wool tweed suit with a tasteful broach pinned onto the lapel. She rubbed her hands together to warm them. Then she cupped them to her mouth and blew on them. Penelope sighed inwardly with relief that she wasn’t overreacting to the cold and that at least one other person suffered from it as she did.
George poked his head in at the door. “Are you ready?” he asked. “The priest is here.”
“Yes, she’s ready,” Matilda replied. “Is Anders here and ready, too?”
“Yes, he’s here,” George asserted.
“But is he ready?” Matilda insisted.
“He’s standing at the altar, waiting for us,” George related.
“How does he look?” the future mother-in-law pressed him.
“He looks fine,” George assured her. “He looks very handsome.” George smiled at Penelope to reassure her, too, but she didn’t see him under her veil.
The front door of the church boomed again, and George withdrew his head from the room. Matilda flew into a whirlwind of activity. “The priest is here!” she breathed. “Here. Take this bouquet, and I’ll pin on your corsage.” She shoved a bunch of flowers into Penelope’s hands and hastily pinned a floret of silk rose buds onto the outside of her traveling jacket. Then she pinned another similar floret onto herself. “Wait here. George will be back in a moment to walk you down the aisle.” Before Penelope could respond, Matilda faded into the murkiness beyond the veil.