Emma reached across the table and wiggled her fingers at the newspaper until Clara returned it. She carefully straightened out the wrinkled pages, shuffling through them until she found the one with the title “Matrimonial News.” Her eyebrows rose as she noted Clara’s careful selections marked on the newsprint. “I see you’ve found some creditable entries.”
Clara’s cheeks burned. She used her napkin to fan herself. “There are a few that seemed…appropriate.” Her discomposure wilted under a stronger sense of exhilaration, and she scooted her chair closer to Emma’s. They both perused the advertisements, and Clara pointed at a circled entry as she spoke. “This gentleman seems nice enough. Landowner, successful farmer and relatively young.” Another. “And this one is a widower with a pub here in Boston.”
Emma scowled at the adverts. “Yes, but the landowner is in Georgia. His property is no doubt still war-torn even after all these years. Do you want to marry a man whose family may have been slave owners? He’ll probably have you singing the ‘Bonnie Blue Flag’ at your wedding.” Before Clara could respond, Emma skipped to the second example. “And a pub owner? Really?” She glared with stern intent at her best friend. “You don’t know the first thing about running a tavern. What he needs is a workmate as well as a wife. Do you believe you’re capable of pouring busthead and ale for hundreds of drunken men?”
“I’m not certain,” Clara said, more unsettled by Emma’s use of the slang for whiskey than by her argument.
“I am certain. Neither of these men is suitable.” Emma returned her brisk attention to the paper, rapidly scanning the pencil marks her friend had used to accentuate possibilities. “And this one? Alaska? There’s nothing there except smelly old miners and snow!”
Clara eyed the advertisement as she groped for the proper words. “To be honest, that one is my favorite.”
Emma gaped at her. “Your favorite?” She read the advert aloud, ducking her head closer to the newsprint and lowering her voice when Clara hissed. “Matrimonial - A worthy man, age 34, seeking a well-educated younger woman for marriage in the Alaskan District. A trapper by trade, I am industrious, clean and even-tempered with thirteen hundred acres of homestead and need a help-mate and loving wife.” She let the paper fall to the table and rounded on Clara. “A trapper? In the mountains of the Alaskan territory? Are you moonstruck? When was the last time you spent a night out-of-doors?”
A little riled, Clara returned Emma’s unrelenting gaze. “He has a homestead.”
“A hovel, perhaps.” Emma sniffed disdain as she retrieved the advertisements once more. “It would be easier to learn how to sling drinks in a pub.” She peered at the trapper’s advert. With an air of disgruntled reluctance, she pursed her lips. “Thirteen hundred acres isn’t something to sneeze at, I suppose. It’s a wonder he claims to be a trapper rather than a gold miner. And thirty-four seems a bit old.” She turned the paper, as if looking for more information on the backside. “It doesn’t say he’s a widower. Why hasn’t he been married before now?”
“He’s no older than some of the layabouts rooting around for companionship here,” Clara argued. She and Emma had both had their fill of the local men who had taken it upon themselves to woo them. The majority of those allegedly eligible bachelors were too old, too young or had neither the stability nor financial fortitude to begin families. Those men that would have been acceptable already had wives or had located connubial prospects far away. The last thing Clara wanted was to succumb to the sublimely wearisome businessmen who’d come knocking at her father’s door. She craved something different, something provocative. She tapped the Alaskan’s advert. “And he’s already an accomplished tradesman and landowner.”
“Both excellent points.”
Emboldened, Clara continued. “I’ve also heard that the countryside there is absolutely stunning. Crisp freshwater springs, Olympian mountains and deep forests.” She stared into the distance, inadvertently falling into a daydream. “Fish fairly jumping out of the rivers and lakes, elk and moose wandering right up to your home. Pristine air…”
Emma cocked her head at Clara. “But…Alaska. We’d never see one another.”
Clara’s fantasy popped. Aghast, she snatched Emma’s hand, holding tight. “Yes we will! I’ll come visit and bring my family. My children must meet their godmother, of course. And my best friend.” She smiled. “And you must come visit me as well. Perhaps I can convince you and your future husband to join us there.”
“Perhaps.” It was Emma’s turn to blush, her dimples turning a delightful shade of red. The man she’d always wanted for her future husband was no secret to either of them. Clara’s brother, Bradford Stapleton, currently attended Harvard University as a student of law. Emma had become enamored of his gallant good looks and bright blue eyes when they were children.
The vision expanded in Clara’s mind. She and her jaunty husband stood on their porch, overlooking the majestic scenery of Alaska while their children played in the yard. Emma and Bradford, arm in arm, coming abreast of a slight rise, waved greeting as they led Clara’s many nieces and nephews to their new home.
“Will there be anything else, young ladies?”
Flustered by the interruption, Clara blinked up at the new arrival at their table.
The proprietor of Huckleberry Above Persimmon, Mr. Tally, hovered at her elbow. His pronounced girth was swathed in a pristine apron, and he grinned at the two young women as he wiped his hands on a towel.
Emma was quicker to her senses, folding the newspaper with alacrity in order to block the nosy restaurant owner from discerning the topic of their interest. “I believe not, sir. Thank you.”
Faint disappointment brushed across Mr. Tally’s face. Clara didn’t know if it was due to his inability to learn what they’d discussed or the realization that they were finished with their meal. Gossip about town suggested that he had wandering hands.
Taking Emma’s cue,
