Plum Pudding Bride
Plum Pudding Bride
Anne Garboczi Evans
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Plum Pudding Bride
COPYRIGHT 2015 by Anne Garboczi Evans
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from the King James translation, public domain.
Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez
White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com
PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410
White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First White Rose Edition, 2015
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-546-3
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my mother who taught me how to read, and my father who taught me how to write.
1
There she was, the girl he'd loved for seven years. And she was sorting preserve cases at
his
store, as she'd done for the last four years. She stood not six paces from him, and yet so far away.
Peter's fingers squeezed the ring box in his jacket. This time, he was going to go through with it, no matter if she pointedly changed the subject, or hastily found excuses to be elsewhere, or pushed other eligible young women at him. Dadburn it, today he'd have his answer, a “yay” or a “nay” instead of living in this wretched bog of uncertainty.
The store had already closed. He just needed to grate the key in the locks while Patience tidied the shelves. The falling winter sun made long shadows on the floor between them. Now she had put down the strawberry preserves and taken an inventory list. She moved towards the mercantile section.
His heavy boots clomped on the hardwood floor, but his heart clomped louder. His fingers tightened around the red velvet box. It was a white-gold ring and a miner's cut diamond. Size six, as he'd discovered four years ago when he'd stolen her glove.
Patience's brown hair twisted back around her ears. She always complained it lay too flat and said her younger sister teased her about having a mottled complexion. But he'd never seen hair shine like hers, and her soft skin set off brown eyes that possessed a luster no girl in Gilman could match. And her smile. Oh, her smile. She could turn Antarctica into the tropics by just curving her lips.
A head-high shelf of baking perishables hemmed them in on one side while bolts of fabric made up the other side of the narrow aisle.
“Patience Callahan, will youâ” Peter slid the box out of his pocket and started to lower one knee to the ground.
Her gaze flicked to the ring box. “Why, Peter”âshe stepped into him, blocking all attempts at kneelingâ“I've been meaning to tell you my news.”
Her long fingers were slender. Yet they could move lickety-split when sorting spools or organizing canned goods.
“I just received this.” Patience tugged a newspaper clipping out of her pocket along with a small daguerreotype. “This is Arnie Dehaven. He's a Montana rancher. I've answered his mail-order-bride advertisement and I'm marrying him.”
“What?” Peter's jaw gapped open as he stared at the black-and-white photo. It showed a hulk of a man who looked as if he hadn't shaved in a week. The man's brow sloped beneath a shabby coat.
“I'm marrying him.” She smiled sweetly and from her other pocket produced a train ticket and a letter.
The opening line of the letter read:
To my loveliest Paytience.
Peter scowled. “He misspelled your name.”
“Because he was in such a hurry to write back. Only ten days after I sent my letter, I got his answer. I'm traveling out by train in two weeks. Arnie's twenty-five miles from town, so he'll drive in to get me. It takes a strong man to weather the Montana wilderness.”
“Or a stupid one,” Peter muttered under his breath. Yes, he'd never ranched or braved sub-zero temperatures with only a steed and a wool blanket. But he'd worked hard with his pa at the railroad throughout his youth and then been smart enough to start up a successful store that had flourished in the last six years. What was so wrong with that?
She stuffed the picture and letter into her apron pocket. Only Patience Callahan could make the thick duck cloth of the store's work aprons look dainty and overwhelmingly desirable.
“Why marry a stranger? There's plenty of men here in Gilman.” Not that he'd want her marrying any of them. But with her wit and face she could capture any heart. “You wouldn't see your family for years at a time.” Surely her pa hadn't agreed to this?
“That is where we are different.” She said it as if she'd already made up her mind.
Who was he fooling? Of course, she'd made up her mind against him. Ever since her twenty-first birthday when she'd turned him down for the Fourth of July picnic for the third year running, he'd known it was a one-sided love. But women could change, right? He'd become more successful every year; all of the townsfolk respected him. He'd even ridden in the sheriff's posse a few times and was now a fair shot with a pistol after some lessons.
“I don't desire safety. I want adventures. Marrying a stranger, moving to a far-off land, well, stateâit's the stuff of my dreams. I'd suffocate living in the same town I grew up in, going to my mother's monthly tea, sitting in the same church pew⦔
Suffocate marrying him, more like. But he was interesting, he really was. He read Shakespeare at night sometimes, between cataloguing the store receipts and drawing up order summaries, and he rode up to the mountain lakes at least once a season to see the sunrise. He could switch church pews too, even though he had sat on the exact same knothole since he was seventeen, if it would make her happy. If only she'd give him a chance.
“â¦have Mrs. Clinton needlepoint the exact same gown she makes for all the babies of Gilman,” Patience finished with disdain.
Babies, what inspired that thought? Surely she wasn't planning on having babies with the unshaven lummox in the picture? Wait, she was. His legs went heavy, and for the briefest of seconds he lost the ability to move. He couldn't let this happen. He couldn't.
What did she know about this Arnie? He was probably an ignorant clod who'd failed in civilized parts, so built some soddy in the wilderness where he chewed tobacco and beat wives to death. Did he read? Did he write? Obviously not. He couldn't even spell his future bride's name.
“Don't look so downcast, Peter.” Patience smiled at him, that lovely smile that made his world spin. “I found the perfect girl for you.”
“What?” Peter frowned.
She acted as if she knew he'd meant to propose.
“My little sister, Kitty, has taken a bit of a fancy to you. She's a lovely girl. Young, beautiful, maybe not highly intelligent, but she's got common sense and would make you a stunning bride.”
Young? Yes, seventeen, a mere child. And he didn't care for the rosy-cheeked, blonde-haired, milk-colored-skin look. Kitty'd laugh at anything.
Anything
, even Reverend Gray's puns.
“I've another two weeks before I leave, and I'd be delighted to chaperone if you court Kitty.”
Court Kitty! As if he'd even consider the idea when Patience was in his world. Beautiful, knowledgeable, wonderful Patience.
“What do you say?” She'd taken out the daguerreotype of Arnie again and pressed it to her heart.
He wanted to be sick right there on his thrice-scrubbed general-store hardwood.
As she tilted the picture to look at it, she smiled prettily, lending color to her perfectly molded cheeks. Even the curve of her elbow, just visible through brown calico, could melt his heart into a puddle. And he wasn't letting any Arnie Dehaven press his hand to that perfectly molded elbow.
“All right, I'll ask Kitty out.” He had a plan, and he'd court Kitty Callahan or worse, if that's what it took, before he'd see the sweetest, most intelligent, loveliest woman in the world married to some Montana swindler. And he'd known Kitty since she was in short skirts. Foolish fancying or no, he'd wager he could talk her into helping him.
~*~
After waving a greeting in the yard to Pa Callahan and being offered buckwheat pancakes by Ma Callahan, Peter found his way back to the sitting room. Patience was working at his store. He knew that because he'd scheduled her to work.
With a rustle of starched skirts, Kitty entered the room. She looked a little older and her gold hair was caught up in a bun rather than pigtails. But courting her was still a ridiculous prospect.
“Mr. Foote, please tell me you aren't here because of my sister's meddling. The idea that I could ever suit a man like youâ”
“Please take a seat.” Peter gestured to the settee and sat on a wood chest. “I am here because of your sister's meddling. But I'm here to meddle in your sister's meddling.”
“Oh?” Kitty bounced onto the settee's arm.
“As you know, Patience is the sweetest, loveliest, kindest, most astuteâ”
Kitty coughed.
Perhaps he was laying on the adjectives a bit strong. Peter shifted back to lean on the peach wallpaper. “Anyway, I've loved her since I was ten, so I can't just let her marry this Montana stranger. I thought maybe if we agreed to this silly courtship and had Patience chaperoneâI don't know. Maybe she'll see something in me she hasn't before?” As he laid out the plan, it sounded too good to be true.
Patience had known him for half a decade or more. Why would a few weeks make a difference?
Kitty crossed her ankles. “You know my sister isn't perfect, Mr. Foote?”
“What?” Peter blinked.
“You've got some dream in your head as if she's an angel and you're presumptuous to even think she'd look on a mere mortal. To be honest, I think she's laboring under the same delusion.”
“What are you saying?”
“She's twenty-five, which is practically a spinster. I know you are entranced by the mere lock of her hair blowing in the wind, but objectively speaking, she's not incredibly pretty. She's real book smart, but she swears she'll never teach school because all those teeming young'uns drive her loony. Don't know how that bodes for childrearing. She took care of a kitten once, loved the wrinkled little thing. Until it died because she'd just got her hands on a copy of some ennui-inspiring French novel, Victor Hugo somebody, and she forgot to feed it. Oh, and she's a terrible cook. Can barely make edible gruel.”
“I ate her apple pie. It was tasty.” He didn't know how to coherently defend the starved kitten or the spinster part. Though he still thought even if she lived to be eighty, she'd have dozens of suitors vying for her hand. Her mere presence filled a room with warmth like the sparks of an oak fire.
“If you like the soggy, half-baked taste. She actually can cook decent if she puts her mind to it, but she's always got her nose in
The Three Musketeers
or some other unendingly long work of literature. Which is where she gets these impossible notions about husbands. If you want her, you'll have to become more Spanish buccaneer-like.”
Peter crossed his arms. They were strong from years of moving crates and loading merchandise. “What do you want me to do?” He swept out his shop every day and wore a work apron when he cleaned up iced-cream spills. Scarcely Spanish-buccaneer material.
“Be confident. That's what she likes about this impossible Arnie Dimwit and her unpronounceable French heroes. Arnie bought her a train ticket before they'd even exchanged a second letter.”
“I'm not confident.” Not particularly, or he would have gotten his proposal out six years ago. As things stood, he still hadn't properly proposed, even though he was fairly certain Patience knew what he'd intended. “Wait, you think he's impossible too?”