Romance: Western Mail Order Bride "Bethany's Love"-Clean Christian Historical Romance (Western Mail Order Bride Short Shorties Series) (158 page)

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Chapter 1

“What do you think it would be like, Polly?  If it were to really happen to us one day? Who could really say when that day might be, what do you suppose it might be like?”

“Oh Meg, who's to say?  Is this really the kind of game you want to play?  Don’t you find it a little bit, I don’t know-”

“Come on, I don’t believe that for one second.  I’ve known you for practically my entire life, and I’ve never known you
not
to know yourself well enough to speak what you mean.  Go on, you can say it.  Whatever ‘it’ may be.”

“It’s just that it seems like a depressing kind of game to play.  That’s all.  I guess I just don’t see where the enjoyment comes in.”

Meg rolled over onto her bed, looking up at the ceiling of her small bedroom but seeing something else instead.  How many times had the two of them sat on this bed and had this same conversation?  A hundred times?  A thousand?  They had been having this same conversation since they were small and, for Meg, it hadn’t become any less enthralling.  She loved this game, the one where they planned out what their lives might look like in the future.  Because it could be anything, couldn’t it?  It could be anything at all.  That was the thing about the future: it hadn’t happened yet and so it was full of possibilities that the present kept hidden.  She could find a rich stranger, or a prince masquerading as a pauper like in the fairytales.  Or maybe she would make some great discovery, scientific or otherwise, something that could change the world.  Why not?  She was every bit as capable of changing the world as anyone else, and why did her thoughts on the matter need to be practical?  Being practical was all well and good, but dreaming big was how one propelled herself forward, and she was a girl who intended to move forward.

“Is everything alright, Meg?  I feel like you’ve gone off somewhere far away.”

“Yes, I’m here.  I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“About what you said.  Why is it that you think it’s depressing?  I guess I don’t see that.”

“Well, look at us.  We aren’t overrun with possibilities, now are we?  Playing make believe is nice and all, but when you look at reality you and me are just poor girls with poor families. We work hard and, chances are, we’ll be working hard for a long, long time.  Men don’t marry women like us, not if they can help it. They marry girls with wealthy families, girls who can bring something to the table.”

“Is that really what you believe?  That we bring nothing to the table?”

Polly leapt up off of Meg’s creaky bed and began pacing around her tiny, musty room with her frustration written all over her face.  She was a relatively plain looking girl but sweet, with a big heart and an astounding capacity for empathy. These were qualities that Meg believed to be essential if you were going to build a life-long relationship, but Polly’s father had told her many times how little she had to offer that a man would want and, heartbreakingly, she seemed to have believed him. Just thinking that a parent could do that to his own daughter made Meg fuming mad, and she sat up like a shot, wanting her friend to realize how special she was, wanting to hear her say that she knew she was better than the rude comments her father had made.

“Well, I don’t know, Meg.  I’m honestly just trying to be realistic here.  Maybe things are different for you.”

“Different?  Why would they be different?”

“Because,” Polly said with a pained, soft voice that made Meg’s heart hurt, “things are different for beautiful girls. Being beautiful, well, that’s almost like its own form of currency. It gets you things that nothing else can get you.  You have that, which means you have something I don’t have.”

Meg’s stomach clenched and she looked down at the old wooden floor.  What was one supposed to say to something like that? Could she disagree, tell Polly how wrong she was even though what she was saying was true? Whether it was fair or not, the way a girl looked made a difference with how she got by in the world, and beauty was always something Meg Dylan had had in spades.  She was naturally athletic, her body moving with a confidence that very few people came by naturally. She had thick black curls that hung in ringlets down her back and creamy white skin that always seemed to be ever so slightly flushed, which left her with a pretty pink glow. Her big blue eyes were perpetually shining with curiosity and yes, perhaps a little bit of mischief, and all in all she was striking to behold. True, she was already twenty one, which was almost a little old for a girl to be unmarried, but she still got looks of admiration just while walking down the street for her to believe that finding a good match would be possible for her. 

Polly wasn’t quite so fortunate.  She didn’t have terribly good looks, which meant that being almost twenty-two and unmarried was a frightening thing for her. What she was saying was true. They were all living in the same world but in a myriad of different circumstances and it was those circumstances that so often dictated the shape a life would take. It wasn’t fair, there was nothing
just
about it, but knowing that didn’t change anything. Meg didn’t know what to say that would be truthful and would also make her friend feel better and, seeing as she didn’t want to outright lie, she decided that her best course of action would be to change the subject. She was just about to do it, too, when a harsh voice ringing out from below made her stop in her tracks. 

“Meg!  Megan!  What in god’s name are you doing up there?”

It was her mother, which for most girls would probably be a welcome sound, but Meg was not most girls. This was true in many respects, but sadly it was especially true when it came to her relationship with her mother. Although she longed for the sort of mother-daughter relationship she had read about, the kind in which the daughter would want nothing more than to run home and confide in her mother when the smallest thing happened just to receive reassurance and love, that was far from the relationship she actually had. Her mother was, it pained her to admit, even to herself, a hard and angry woman. There was nothing comforting about her and she would have cast Meg aside in disgust had she ever made the mistake of coming to her to share either joy or sorrow. Although she was ashamed of the fact that her mother was so harsh and her relationship with her so broken, it was something she had spoken to Polly about at great length. Polly knew very well how cruel Mrs. Whitley could be and she looked at Meg now with a mixture of sympathy and fear.

“Has she been angry lately?  Or perhaps I should say more angry than usual?”

“I don’t know,” Meg said glumly. “I suppose so. I’m not sure why. I wish I could ask her about it but it seems like everything I do just makes things worse. I try to just stay out of the way but that’s hard to do when there’s so little space for the two of us to live in. Believe me, if there’s anyone who would like me to get married, it’s my mother. I imagine she would be over the moon about it, just to have me out of her hair.”

“It’ll happen,” Polly whispered in a voice she must have hoped was reassuring but in reality only made Meg feel more forlorn. “It’ll happen just the way you’re hoping for. I was wrong before. If anyone deserves to find a prince charming, it’s you.”

Meg opened her mouth, unsure of whether or not she was going to agree, disagree, or break into tears, but the sound of her mother’s footsteps on the stairway stopped her short. If she was coming up the stairs, she must be in a very bad mood indeed. Usually she contented herself with just the yelling. If she was making her way up the stairs it meant that she was unhappy enough to make a scene in front of Polly, which was exactly the sort of thing Meg wanted desperately to avoid.    

Meg had often wondered what had happened in her mother’s life to turn her into the kind of woman she had become. What she did know she had learned from her grandmother before she passed, and that was very little information. She knew that her mother had gotten married very young to a man who was said to have a promising future in the military. Unfortunately, he had died in the service when Meg was so young that she’d retained no memory of him. She had seen a picture of him once, only once, and had burned the image into her mind. She could see it still, whenever she wanted to. All she had to do was shut her eyes and he was there. How would life have been different if he had lived? Would her mother be a kinder, softer version of who she had actually become? Would they have enough money to live comfortably instead of living hand to mouth, the stress of losing their meager little home or simply going hungry hanging over their heads at all times?  No
wonder
Meg so often chose to escape her life and retreat into her daydreams. In those daydreams there was the constant promise of someone riding into her life and rescuing her, taking her away from her dreary life and replacing it with one that had at least a little hope. Because the life she had with her mother left so much to be desired. Even looking at Polly’s sad face, the face of a girl who could not fathom having a mother who behaved the way that Meg’s did, made Meg want to pack a suitcase and just make a run for it.

“Megan Whitley!  What exactly do you think you’re doing?  Did you not hear me calling you?  Have you gone deaf?  What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s my fault, ma’am.  I’ve been talking her ear off.  You know how I can get going sometimes.”

Mrs. Whitley looked at Polly with stony eyes and Meg was sure even without asking that Polly was already regretting speaking up on Meg’s behalf. Not that it mattered. In no time at all Polly would be leaving this place, off to her rather poor but still incredibly loving family, and Meg would be left with her mother, the lot she had been left in life.

“Mm. Yes, you are a talker, aren’t you? You’re not staying for dinner, are you?”

“No ma’am!” Polly squeaked quickly, a little bit too quickly to be able to pretend that she wasn’t counting down the seconds until she could get out of Meg’s room. “No, I’m not staying.  My mum’s making something special, although I’ve no idea what that might be. If I may be so bold, she’s never been the most amazing cook. She does try though, I must say that. She puts her whole heart into it.”

“Right. Well good, it’s best that you go then. Supper’s almost ready to be put on the table and we don’t have enough food for you. Not tonight. We’ve already got a guest tonight.”

“We do?”

Now her mother’s cold eyes turned on her and Meg felt her heart sink. Some people loved having guests over to dinner, but that wouldn’t be true if they lived in a house like hers. A guest in the Whitley household almost always meant bad news.

“Yes, little miss, we do. Now run along home, Polly. Meg needs to get herself cleaned up. Her uncle has come to call.”

Chapter 2

Desperate. That was what Polly’s departure and her mother’s news had left Meg feeling.  Utterly desperate and in need of divine intervention. The absolute
last
thing she wanted to do was sit down and have a meal with her uncle. She was sure that there were many people who had uncles who were completely loving, who made their lives better and not worse, but that just wasn’t the case for Meg. If her mother was formidable (and, if Meg was being completely honest with herself, entirely selfish), her uncle was downright cruel. He was a hard, angry man, one whose reputation preceded him wherever he went. She had heard whispers in the town from various servant girls who had been bestowed with the great misfortune of working in her uncle’s large estate. From what she had gathered, being employed in that particular residence as a young, attractive female made life very difficult. Her uncle, a man called Jack Whitley (a name that was more often than not whispered in hushed and slightly disturbed tones) placed a high premium on being surrounded by beautiful women.  He seemed to believe that it was their greatest asset, the most significant thing they had to offer. If you asked Meg, it was the
only
thing he thought they had to offer. He did not pay attention to a woman’s other, less obvious merits and was not interested in getting to know them in any way. If a woman was sent to work for him by the agency (an agency Meg
knew
must dread the sight of him coming in to request new help) whose appearance was not up to his exacting standards, well then Jack Whitley just sent them packing, sent them right back out the front door, provided that he even let them step foot inside, which was highly unlikely.

This wasn’t the only trait responsible for Meg’s strong dislike of her uncle.  There were other things, things that were at least as unsavory as his treatment of the help that worked inside of his massive home.  There was the way he and her mother behaved when they got together, especially if the get together involved any amount of drink. It seemed that their cruel qualities were magnified when the brother and sister were together. Her mother became even colder and more self-involved than she was without her brother there, something Meg wouldn’t have thought possible if she hadn’t seen it with her own unfortunate eyes. And the
worst
part of it, the part that made it completely awful, was that she and her mother were both at uncle Jack’s mercy. 

His financial situation was the complete opposite of the destitute condition the Whitley women found themselves in. He was obscenely wealthy and not at all inclined to be charitable.  It was something he wielded like a weapon and his own family was not exempt from the brutal use of his iron fist. She knew why he was coming for supper, and it could only mean disaster for her. If only she could keep herself locked away in the small, stuffy attic that acted as her room, steal herself away from what felt like impending doom. She would be like one of the poor unfortunate girls from the fairy tales, the ones stuck in towers and guarded by imposing beasts so that only the most valiant prince or knight would be able to free her. What sort of a predicament must a girl be in to wish to be locked away in a tower? The sort of predicament that made her feel unsafe. The sort of predicament that made her want only to be left alone. 

The problem that Meg Whitley was facing, the reason she was so unhappy to hear of her uncle’s impending visit, was that she herself was, objectively speaking, a very beautiful girl.  One might have supposed that because she was Jack Whitley’s niece instead of another poor serving girl she would have been spared from his ghastly attention, but that was not the case. It seemed to be quite the opposite, actually. Although he was almost three times her age (he was considerably older than her mother), he was infatuated with her, completely obsessed.  He had been after her since she was the appallingly young age of sixteen, and he had not let up as she had grown. He had only become increasingly insistent until it got to the point where she couldn’t stand the thought of being in the same
building
as him, let alone the same room. Things would have been different if she had been free to tell him off, to inform him in no uncertain terms that she would
never
become his bride, but she was not afforded that freedom. Her mother must have known what a terrible husband he would have made, but it didn’t matter to her one bit. What mattered to them was that they were poor and she didn’t want to be. What mattered was that the decrepit little house they called home and the small amount of money they lived on from month to month were all due to Jack Whitley. Without him, they would have no income at all. Without him, they would be homeless, out on the streets and forced to scrounge up a living by whatever means necessary. Meg liked to think that her mother loved her enough for that not to matter, but that was not the case. Her mother craved money and comfort and seemed willing to do almost anything to get them both. It didn’t matter to her that the thing her brother wanted was her daughter. She wasn’t concerned with her daughter’s happiness, only her own. She was selfish and with a woman like her there was no amount of pleading or argument that would make a difference. Even now, Meg could hear her mother bustling around downstairs, pots and pans clanging while she prepared for her brother’s arrival. She would put out the good china, break out the only good alcohol she had in the house (kept under lock and key unless Jack Whitley had come to visit). She would treat him like he was royalty because, to her, he might as well be. That was the kind of power he held over her. Any hope Meg might have had of appealing to her mother’s (sorely lacking) maternal leanings would be lost in the promise of the finer things in life. In all matters of preserving her own happiness, Meg was utterly on her own.

              “Meg!  What do you think you’re
doing
up here? What is this? You’re just lying around like a lazy old cow ready to be put down! Did you not hear me? Your uncle is coming! You need to get yourself ready. There is absolutely no way you are coming to the supper table looking like you do right now.”

“Well then perhaps I could stay up here in my room? I’m not feeling particularly well. I don’t believe I have much of an appetite.”

Her mother walked across the creaky bedroom floor (not like there was very far to walk) and slapped her right across her alabaster cheek. It made a dull, sick sound and her head rocked back with both the force of the contact and surprise. Not that she
should
have been surprised.  She should have been used to this kind of thing by now. Meg’s mother hadn’t actually hit her when she was younger, especially not when she was a child, but as she had grown older her stance on discipline seemed to have changed, and now she had no problem punishing with her open palm. That was as much of an answer as Meg needed. She would be joining her mother and uncle at the supper table, end of discussion.

              “You look lovely, Meg. Did you wear that dress just for me? You know how much I like the color pink on you. Makes you look just like a juicy piece of fruit. I’ve got half a mind to just take a big ol’ bite.”

“Thank you, uncle,” she said in a thin voice that earned her a sharp look from her mother. “That’s kind of you to say.”

She had in fact
not
worn the dress for Jack-- no surprise there. She was forever trying to find something to put on that would not attract the man’s unwanted attention, but it seemed that he could find something lecherous to say about every article of clothing she owned. There was nothing she could do but accept the loathsome compliments and wait for this interminable supper to conclude so that she could go back up to her room, the only place that was even marginally safe. But when her uncle opened his mouth again to speak, what he said made her stomach sink.

“Now, it should come as no surprise, but this is not a purely social call. I’ve come on business.”

“And what business is that, brother?” her mother cooed, fawning over him in a way that made Meg angry and sad at the same time.

“The business of Meg. I’ve made no secret of my thoughts about the girl. At this point it’s high time she settled down, marry a man and be done with it. I intend to be that man. If she marries me, Eleanor, you can be sure that your financial worries will be a thing of the past. I could even see you moving into a house much finer than this heap.”

“Of course! She’s yours!”

“I’m sorry, but never. I can’t. I won’t.”

Meg and her mother spoke at the same time, yet expressing very different sentiments. The room went dead silent, not a single noise aside from the mindless tick, tock, tick, tock of the beat up old grandfather clock shoved haphazardly into the corner of the fading room. Both her mother and her uncle turned to look at her, but, despite the feeling of her cheeks burning and her eyes prickling with hot tears, Meg would not look away. She was not a piece of furniture to be bought and sold. She was not a commodity. She was a
person
, and her wants and desires mattered. They mattered to her, anyway, even if they didn’t seem to matter to anyone else. Her uncle’s face had turned so red it was almost purple now and he was spluttering indignations as he stood from the table. Her mother was wringing her hands and begging, pleading with him not to leave. She would take care of it, she would fix
everything
. It was done.

Neither of the wretched siblings was paying her a bit of attention at this point and so Meg rose quietly from the table, backed out of the room, and fled up the stairs. Once in her room she flung herself across the bed, her heart beating furiously in her chest and her mind spinning with all that had just happened. It was done. Those were the words her mother had spoken. Her time was up. She would be handed off to her uncle to be his pet or his slave or whatever it was he was looking for. If she was going to act, she would have to do it now. She sat up, trying very hard to keep her breathing steady in the hopes that she might be able to calm herself and pulled a stack of envelopes from beneath her mattress. This was Meg’s great secret. This was the ace up her sleeve, the reason that she still had some say in her own fate. Her mother didn’t know it, her uncle
certainly
didn’t know it, not even Polly knew about the man Meg had been corresponding with for these past few months. They couldn’t know that her last letter had contained only one sentence: “Please come. Love, Charles,” and a train ticket that would take her into uncharted territory. When Meg had received that last letter, she hadn’t been sure of what she would do.  She hadn’t been sure whether or not she was brave enough to make such a drastic move. But now? Now the matter had been decided for her. She would go west, into the great unknown. It would be an adventure, she told herself, and at any rate, it had to have better things in store for her than the life she would have if she decided to stay put.