Not wanting to draw attention to myself by running down the street, I slowed to a walk.
My only hope was in Mrs. Whittaker, who ran the mail-order bride business. I had often looked at her sign with curiosity when I was out shopping, but I had never been inside. There had never been a need; I had no shortage of suitors. Unfortunately John had chased all of them, except for Mr. Yates, off.
There was an abundance of lonely men out West looking for a wife, and Mrs. Whittaker’s trade was brisk. In the last month, she had found husbands for three of my friends. Perhaps she would be able to help me, too. With a bit of luck, I could be on a train out of Philadelphia this afternoon.
The front door of Mrs. Whittaker’s creaked as I opened it, and I winced at the sound. My arrival announced, Mrs. Whittaker came through another door from somewhere beyond and beckoned to me to follow her into a small parlour. She indicated a chair against the wall, inviting me to sit.
As I sat, Mrs. Whittaker looked me up and down doubtfully. I couldn’t say I blamed her – she knew my family. I was sure she knew I was sorely lacking in everything required of a wife out on the Frontier. I was pretty. But a man out West probably needed more than just pretty.
“Can you cook?”
My smile faltered. I could not cook. I had spent three years in Lady Margaret’s School for Girls, learning to host dinner parties and such things. I could smile and laugh graciously, dance, and manage household staff. I could do needlepoint. I was well versed in skills befitting a lady. Cooking was not among them.
But I refused to let my hopes be dashed so soon and I nodded, avoiding Mrs. Whittaker’s knowing gaze.
There was a long pause. She didn’t believe me. So I looked up at her. “Please, I’m desperate. I have to get away.” I didn’t want to beg, but anything was better than becoming Mrs. Roger Yates. “I have money. Not much, but some.” For reassurance, I silently traced the outline of the hard discs with my fingers. I would part with them all, if I had to. I would pay her whatever she asked, if only she would help me escape.
Mrs. Whittaker did not smile. But she did nod and stand up. I couldn’t imagine I was the first woman to come to her desperate. She rifled through a table in the corner for a moment and came back, thrusting a tatty photograph at me. “Coleton Mallone,” she told me. “From the Montana Territory. He wants a wife who can cook for a team, keep house, and is pleasant to look at.”
I watched her eyes scan down the piece of paper she was holding, perhaps a letter that accompanied the photograph. “He says he is kind, and will treat a wife well.”
I ran my finger over the rough edge of the likeness and breathed a sigh of relief. The Montana Territory was far away. I would be safe there.
In the small, grainy image, my soon-to-be husband wasn’t smiling. In fact, his unkempt eyebrows and carefully waxed mustache gave him a rather stern expression, but his eyes were kind. Just as he’d said in his letter. Momentarily, guilt washed over me. I was not what Mr. Mallone was looking for. But I swallowed, steeling myself. I could learn, and I would learn, to do everything Coleton required of me, if only he would provide me with a safe home. Although the likeness showed a stern man, he was handsome too, and butterflies danced inside me. His shoulders were broad and he looked strong – attributes I found very attractive. Lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes and mouth showed that he liked to laugh. My stomach flipped in excitement.
“That settles it then.” Mrs .Whittaker stood up. “I will wire Mr. Mallone and tell him you’re coming. You go home and pack what you need. Just what you need, mind. Life is very different in the Montana Territory. You will have no need of a dozen different gowns. But you will need a workaday dress.”
I felt my face pale as the older lady’s gaze scrutinized me.
“There is a train in the morning,” she said. “Make sure you’re on it.”
“In the morning?” I whispered, almost numb with fear. I couldn’t let John find me! Where could I hide? Where could I go until then? “I… I can’t…” my voice trailed off. “My brother… I can’t go home.” How would I wait until the morning?
Mrs. Whittaker frowned, walked to the window, and peered out around the curtain. “Did anyone see you come here?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“You can stay here,” Mrs. Whittaker told me. “But you must be careful. I don’t want trouble brought here.”
Relief washed over me and I felt much of the tension leave my body. Mrs. Whittaker had obviously done this before. In her home I would be safe, as long as I could get my things without John seeing me. My fear and uncertainty must have been visible on my face because, again, Mrs. Whittaker took control.
“Wait until that worthless brother of yours goes to the saloon this evening,” she suggested. “Pack your suitcase, put it out the back, and return here. I will have a boy collect it.”
I must have looked doubtful, for she stepped closer to me, reached out and touched my hand. “Don’t worry,” she reassured me. “I
