Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) (2 page)

Frey’s interest perked up.

“You’ll need to write a letter that I can include with mine, mentioning your qualifications.” Mrs. Flanigan’s mouth turned up in a teasing smile. “I can vouch for the fact that you are a hard worker and a big eater.”

Now that the notion of a wife had taken hold in his mind, Frey rather liked the idea.
But the gamble.
He shook his head.

“Gettin’ cold feet already?” Seth drawled. He slipped an arm around Trudy’s waist. “I know what that’s like. Mine were like ice. ’Fact, my whole darn body was. Glad it didn’t stop me, though.”

Mrs. Flanigan gave her husband a challenging grin. “That’s because of that ridiculous bet you made with Slim. Your need to win was greater than your fear of turning into an icicle.”

“Good thing I didn’t bet that my wife was a brunette,” Seth jested.

The quip earned him another elbow in the ribs.

“Hey!” Seth pretended to cringe. “Get those pointy things away from me.” He grabbed her in a bear hug.

“Seth Flanigan!” Trudy’s voice was muffled against his chest. “We have company!”

“Na. Just ole Viking, here. He’s been around us so much he’s family by now. He must be used to us sparkin’.”

Trudy pushed away from Seth, emerging from his hug with her hair mussed, cheeks red, and blue eyes shining. “Gentlemen, the food is getting cold,” she said, drawing dignity around her. “The children will wake up any time now. If you want a hot,
peaceful
meal, you need to get moving.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the men chorused and started toward the kitchen, where the everyday dishes were placed on an oilcloth-covered table. He knew of a fancier set because those dishes came out on Sundays when they ate in the dining room, sometimes with other visitors. That got him to wondering if a new wife might object to his mismatched tableware.

The new kitchen was redolent with the smell of yeasty bread and stew. Butter and jam, pickles—both sweet and sour—and applesauce were set out in small glass dishes. Frey knew Mrs. Flanigan cooked with the hearty appetites of the two men in mind, and she always seemed pleased with the amount of food they stowed away; Frey more than Seth, of course, for his was the bigger frame to fill.

Mrs. Flanigan had finished the curtains she had been making yesterday—a cheerful yellow and white check—and had hung them at the side and back windows. The cabinets were painted white and topped with butcher-block counters. White mosaic tile covered the floors. Frey had never laid tile before, and the process had been a learning experience, employing more finesse than bricklaying skills.

Last month, the Flanigans had moved from their crowded cabin to the “big house.” Seth was overjoyed to finally have a place for the furniture and crates of household goods his bride had brought from St. Louis. Ever since their marriage, most of her possessions had cluttered up the barn. Early on, they’d added a back room and porch to the cabin, but baby Anna had arrived, and they’d postponed further building to focus on their child.

Frey had stayed with the Flanigans plenty of times, sleeping on a pallet in the main room, not wanting to make the long drive to town and back. His men had bunked with the family’s hired man in the barn. He’d continued using the cabin when the family moved, enjoying the peace and quiet after a long day, but also missing the family’s warmth and camaraderie.

Frey compared the Flanigans’ kitchen to the one in his half-finished house. While the place was far enough along for a bachelor camping out, his home definitely wasn’t fit for a wife, and the lack wouldn’t make for a good start to a marriage, especially one with a stranger.

Nothing like the possibility of a bride to spur a man on to finish building his house.

* * *

After a fine meal where the discussion of Frey’s marriage continued, Mrs. Flanigan shooed him into the corner of the parlor that she’d determined was the place for a study, with a desk and several bookcases—one on each wall. She provided him with paper, pen, and ink, and left him alone to struggle with the most important correspondence of his life.

Frey sat at the desk, which faced into the room. Although tempted to drag his heels on composing the letter and instead spend more time admiring the house, he resolutely picked up the pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write.

Dear Mrs. Seymour,

My name is Frey Foster, and I’m friends with Trudy and Seth Flanigan. Even though you no longer have the matchmaking business, I am writing to you in hopes that you will be able to aid in my search for a wife.

Frey paused, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He took a breath and plowed on.

I am 29 years of age and grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I attended school. I am a bricklayer by trade and currently reside in Sweetwater Springs, having first come to this town as part of a construction crew building the mansion of the local banker, which is the finest home in the whole area. From there I have branched out with my own home-building business, starting with the brick foursquare house I have recently completed for the Flanigans.

Frey wished he had a photograph of the house to send and made a mental note to commission several the next time a traveling photographer came through town.

My own home is only three-quarters of the way finished due to my focus on building the Flanigans’ house. But I will put my efforts to the task so the house is livable by the time my intended bride arrives. Thus she will be the one to choose the final touches (such as wallpaper) and select most of the furnishings (as our budget allows).

Frey wondered if he should admit that there wasn’t much of a budget.

I am a large man, dubbed “Viking” by Seth Flanigan and, indeed, my Norwegian ancestors are said to have pillaged over much of the old world.

He thought for a moment, wondering if the Viking reference sounded too violent, and hastily added,
I, myself, am of a peaceable disposition and get along well with my fellow men.

Tapping the end of the pen against his chin, Frey tried to put into words the type of wife he wanted. He figured he’d start with the easy part.

I would prefer a pleasant-looking woman of medium to tall height. I have a big appetite and need a wife who is a good cook. Due to my type of work, I am hard on my clothing, so she would have to be able to mend and darn, and, if possible, make my clothes so I wouldn’t have to spend so much on ready-made garments, which don’t usually fit me well anyway.

Frey thought of a discussion he’d had with the Flanigans and figured he’d take the couple’s advice concerning the start of his relationship with an unknown woman.

I understand a woman is taking a risk to travel to a town, where all are strangers, including her groom. Such a life will be an adjustment for her. Therefore, she can stay as a guest at the Flanigan farm (their new home has plenty of room) for several days or weeks while she and I become acquainted and wait to marry. Or we can marry right away, or at any point, and live together at my house. I will purchase a second bed, so she can sleep in her own room until she feels comfortable about intimacy.

Now for the hard part….

I want to firmly state that I am a man of my word, and, if I give my pledge to my wife, I will honor my vows to the end of my days. I absolutely require a woman who will do the same. As much as possible, make sure she has a true and steady (not flighty) character.

Sincerely,

Frey Foster

CHAPTER TWO

September 1890

Lawrence, Massachusetts

The night after a fire destroyed the Brown Textile Mill, where she’d worked for three years, Grace Dickinson sat on her bed in the darkness, her wet hair in a towel, her arms wrapped around her knees. Across the single room of the tiny row house, elderly Shirley Rigal slept, her breathing the only sound except for the occasional crackle of the dying fire in the small stove and a steady drip-drip-drip. Earlier Grace had scrubbed her clothing free of soot and smoke and hung everything to dry near the stove.

Faint moonlight gleamed through the two small windows in the front of the house. She couldn’t bear to draw the curtains and plunge the space into blackness or crawl under the covers and try to sleep.

Although Grace had bathed and washed her hair in Shirley’s small barrel tub, using the rose-scented soap she hoarded for special occasions, the stink of smoke still lingered in her nose, and she wondered if she’d ever be free of the smell. As much as she tried not to think of what had happened today, she couldn’t stop the images leaping into her mind, bringing back the terror.

Grace shivered, unable to forget the overwhelming sensations—how flames had appeared as if conjured from nowhere, the screams of the workers, the thumping of her heart, how their manager Roberta McDaniel had herded them through the factory, all of the workers choking on the thick smoke that obscured the rooms and made winding their way around the rows of machinery difficult.

Think of Victor. Imagine him here, and I’m safe in his arms.

She focused with all her might on her betrothed—his warm brown eyes, thick dark hair, short and neatly slicked back; his even features, compact body, and elegant hands; the dapper suits he wore. Victor stood just two inches taller than Grace, so he could easily lean in and kiss her and did so during the rare times they could be alone, usually-when they met secretly in the park and exchanged kisses that lately had grown passionate….

How Grace wished he were here to hold her close and listen as she poured out today’s horrendous experience.
Surely, if I put every terrifying minute into words, the nightmares in my mind will leave me in peace.
But Victor was a traveling button salesman, making the rounds of factories in Lawrence, as well as cities all over Massachusetts. He wasn’t due back for three endless days.

As if her longing had conjured him, a quiet knock sounded at the door, and she heard Victor hiss her name.

Grace gasped. Unwrapping her arms, she stood, yanking off the towel and running her fingers through the damp strands of her hair.

The knock sounded again.

She tiptoed to the door and cracked it open. Her neighbors in the row house across the narrow street were still up and dim lamplight gleamed from their window, enough for her to see her betrothed.

I can’t let him stand outside and risk being discovered.
Without a word, Grace pulled Victor inside and quietly shut the door before throwing herself at him in uncharacteristic abandon.

Just as in her imagination, his arms tightened around her. Tears came to her eyes.

“I heard about the fire,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I could have lost you.” Keeping one arm around her, Victor brought his other hand up to cup her face, covering her mouth, cheeks, and forehead with kisses.

The euphoria of his embrace made her almost dizzy.
This is what I need to feel better. Victor will banish the nightmare.

Forgetting she wore nothing but a nightgown, Grace burrowed against him. Feverishly, she returned his kisses.

“My darling, darling Grace.” Victor’s whisper came out hoarse. He released her face and ran his hand down her side and over her hip, free from the confines of clothing and a corset. With his hands at her waist, he backed her toward the bed.

A snore and a rustle from the other bed brought Grace to an awareness of their surroundings, and she put her hands on Victor’s chest and pushed him. “No, stop,” she said in a sharp whisper.

He lifted up her hair and bent to kiss the side of her throat.

She shivered, this time from the ticklish sensation of his lips instead of from fear. “We can’t. Shirley might hear us.”

“Darling, you cannot refuse to let me love and comfort you,” he murmured in her ear. “After everything that happened today—almost being parted forever—please…you wouldn’t deny us the closeness of intimacy?”

I haven’t had a chance to tell him everything that happened. I need to talk as much as I need his embrace.

Grace desperately wanted to fall onto her bed with him, spill out the whole story, and allow his caresses to take her away from today’s shock. But she didn’t dare.

If Shirley awoke and saw them together, the woman would turn Grace out into the street. Without a job, paying for food and lodging would use up her savings—the money she’d worked so hard to earn and save in order to contribute to the house they planned to buy once they were wed.

“You must go.” She tried to wiggle out of his arms.

“Please, Grace.”

A sound from the other bed made her shove against his chest.

He stepped back, eyebrows raised in displeasure.

She stabbed a finger toward the door.

Victor pulled her with him. At the door, he bent to whisper in her ear. “I cut out the appointments I scheduled for today in order to get here as soon as I could. I won’t be back for ten days.”

“Ten days?” Grace didn’t dare let her voice rise in disappointment, but oh, how she wanted to.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He kissed her forehead. “But when I return, I’ll rent a hotel room for us so we can be together. Can you make an excuse to Shirley and be gone for the night?”

For two years, Grace had insisted on marriage before intimacy, while Victor required them to have saved sufficient funds to establish themselves before they wed. The impasse had proved difficult for them both. But today, she almost
died
, and that changed everything.