The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride Becomes A Lady Read online

  The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride

  BECOMES A LADY

  Iris Kelly

  THE CHEYENNE MAIL ORDER BRIDE BECOMES A LADY

  Copyright © 2016 by Iris Kelly

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Rebecca Frank

  Editing by Valorie Clifton

  CHAPTER ONE

  Boston, 1884

  Beatrice is as fine a name as any. But it came to pass that Beatrice Kirby developed such an aversion to the sound of her own name that it often caused her to flinch.

  “Beatrice, clean out the fireplaces in the dining room and the guest room.”

  “Beatrice, help Cook clean the fish for tonight’s dinner.”

  “Beatrice, there’s mud on the stoop. Get out there and clear it off.”

  “Beatrice, every piece of silver needs to be polished today. Every single one.”

  Beatrice was a maid for the Bellamys, a well-to-do family living in Boston’s trendy Beacon Hill neighborhood. In the great scheme of working-class opportunities, it was a desirable job, with lovely, elegant surroundings, decent food—even occasional delicious leftovers from the family’s meals—and a safe, secure haven from the uncertainty of the streets outside. But the servitude and drudgery of it grated on Beatrice in an almost unbearable fashion.

  Her life struck her as a cruel twist of fate, and for many of her younger years, she had fantasized that it would be discovered that this lowly position in life had been the result of a tragic misunderstanding, and that she should be restored to her rightful position in society.

  Such dreams are for the very young. Beatrice was now twenty-eight years of age, and she knew that her path in life was fixed in stone. A year from now, she would still be a maid. And ten years from now. And thirty years from now.

  There was only one thing that helped push that dreary destiny away from her thoughts and made each humiliating day of her inferior existence bearable. It was the one day each week when she got the chance to be a lady.

  Beatrice had been gifted a small but flattering collection of fashionable day dresses by the first Mrs. Bellamy’s sister, Lydia Maxwell, who had lived with the Bellamys for twelve years after her husband died. She was now living in Cheyenne, in Wyoming Territory, and was remarried to a rancher, of all things. But before she left, she had given Beatrice a generous little bundle of cash, and of course, the dresses that were the cornerstone of her temporary escapes into a better life.

  On her days off, she would carefully roll one of her good dresses into a small bundle and steal away from the house for an entire day of freedom and glorious escape. She would head to the public library, where she could use the facilities to change outfits. When she stepped out of that little changing room, she was no longer Beatrice. She was Miss Kirby, a young lady of Boston’s high society who lived on Beacon Hill with relatives, and who enjoyed long walks around Boston, visiting shops and museums and tea rooms.

  “Good day, Miss Kirby. Is there anything special I can help you with today?” one shop owner after another would inquire.

  “I’m tempted, I must admit. But I am only taking the air right now, thank you. My, what a lovely selection you have. I shall have to keep it in mind for my holiday shopping,” she would say evasively.

  It was enough to content them. An attractive and stylish young woman lingering in their shop was an asset that often drew other customers in. And once in a blue moon, Beatrice would actually buy something, made possible by Lydia Maxwell’s generous gift. It helped to reinforce her public façade as a lady of means and bought quite a bit of goodwill in the bargain.

  It was that goodwill, and more specifically, the admiration and dignity she was afforded on that one day, that led Beatrice out on this mission of disguise week after week. It was such an exhilarating thing to be treated so respectfully. To have waitresses anxious to please her. To have other ladies solicit her opinion on their latest purchase and inquire whether she might be available to attend an upcoming tea party (regretfully, Beatrice was always committed elsewhere.) To have gentlemen remove their hats respectfully and look about in confusion for the chaperone they expected to be trailing her. It all added up to the most thrilling and maddening glimpse of what her life would have been had she been born under more fortunate circumstances.

  One of the critical elements aiding her in this weekly excursion was the way that she spoke, which was no lower class dialect, but the proper speech of a well-bred New England lady. This was owing to the very unusual circumstances of her upbringing. Her mother had been a wet nurse for the first Mrs. Bellamy, and afterward, she was the family housekeeper for eight years until her death. Beatrice Kirby and Virginia Bellamy had grown up together in the Bellamy household since infancy. While Beatrice’s mother was busy running the household, the Bellamys allowed her child to be raised in their nursery and educated alongside their own daughter. After all, they were not greatly inconvenienced by it, and it freed up their housekeeper’s time to concentrate on her work.

  But while the adults were very clear on the temporary nature of the arrangement, the girls naturally grew up regarding one another as sisters. And with a six-month advantage in age, Beatrice had long considered herself to be Virginia’s elder and superior. Then her mother died, and the Bellamys promised the dying woman that they would provide secure employment for her daughter. Thus, Beatrice was awkwardly transitioned from family member to servant, or so it felt to her at the time. In later years, she realized that she had never truly been family. Her relationship with her one-time sister was a particular source of pain. Virginia eventually had to be addressed as Miss Bellamy, and she had to be obeyed.

  But what remained with her was her education, which was continued clandestinely with the aid of the Bellamy family library, public libraries and museums, and the kind attention of Mrs. Lydia Maxwell, herself an unwelcome misfit in the house.

  Beatrice adopted the speech patterns of her governess, her tutors, and her young playmate. She thought nothing of it until around the age of twelve, when she noticed that both wealthy and lower class did not like the way that she spoke. No one appreciated a girl who didn’t know her place in life and was trying to get above herself. But Beatrice stubbornly resisted all pressure to please them; she knew how to speak properly and wasn’t going to feign ignorance for the comfort of others. It was yet another factor that aided her weekly excursions and brief acceptance into high brow Boston society.

  In the past year and a half, Mrs. Maxwell and Virginia Bellamy had both gone to Wyoming Territory to surprisingly happy destinies as mail order brides. The first Mrs. Bellamy had died over six years ago. Any kind of protective influence for Beatrice had disappeared from the house. She was now without allies and had to contend with the spiteful and demanding lady of the house, Florence Bellamy.

  It was Florence who made escape from the Bellamy household so essential. A large staff of fawning and deferential servants were vital to Florence’s sense of self importance. Beatrice, however, was only reluctantly obedient, was unimpressed with and unintimidated by her employer, and voiced her opinions in a blunt and self-confident fashion—in short, she aggravated Florence’s ego in every conceivable way.

  It was a glorious late summer day, and Beatrice tried to push away all thoughts of the strains of her job. She was having tea with a very talkative older lady she had encountered in the park the previous week. Mrs. Randolph was charmed by her lovely new acquaintance and had offered to treat Beatrice to a rather pricey afternoon t
eahouse. It was an invitation that Beatrice impulsively accepted. In her smart navy and cream seaside bustle dress, Beatrice blended in with the upscale setting very nicely.

  “My dear, the upcoming theatre season will be the best in some years. We are all in for a treat, I think,” Mrs. Randolph said.

  “My . . . family has never been fond of the theatre, I’m afraid,” Beatrice said, hoping to explain her lack of experience in this area. “But, I take a strong interest in it myself. Which plays do you look forward to the most?”

  “Oh, where to begin . . . the season opens with King Lear in October, followed by some Mark Twain adaptations . . . Are you familiar with his work?”

  “Yes, indeed. I’ve read everything by him. He’s one of my favorites.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it. I am always saying that all young ladies benefit from a full exposure to the arts. In fact, only last week . . .”

  Mrs. Randolph’s voice trailed off as her attention was drawn to someone coming up behind Beatrice. Beatrice turned, expecting to find the waitress. Instead, there stood an incredulous and furious Florence Bellamy. Beatrice flinched at the sight of her employer.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Florence demanded.

  Beatrice was momentarily frozen with shock, but she quickly forced herself to respond.

  “I am only having tea with Mrs. Randolph here. And she is sharing her opinion of the upcoming theatre season with me.”

  “Miss Kirby, be so good as to introduce me to your friend,” Mrs. Randolph requested.

  “Miss Kirby!” Florence hissed. “She is no Miss anything. Her name is Beatrice and she is my maid.”

  “No. You are joking, surely,” Mrs. Randolph said. “Miss Kirby. What is going on?’

  Beatrice took a deep breath. “It is my day off. My free time. My time to do as I please. And I was very pleased to accept your invitation to tea, Mrs. Randolph. Very pleased to enjoy your company.”

  “Get home this instant. And get out of that dress at once, do you hear me?” Florence ordered.

  Beatrice rose stiffly to her feet. The look of shock on Mrs. Randolph’s face was painful to see. But as she stepped away, she had to turn back for one last moment. “The dress belongs to me. It was a gift.” And with that, she scurried away. If nothing else, she refused to leave Mrs. Randolph with the impression that she had stolen anything.

  As she ran through the streets, her alarm and guilt quickly transformed into resentment and outrage. Clearly, she was in big trouble—but what was her crime? Of all life’s restrictions and unfairness, it seemed the height of injustice that she not be allowed to wear a dress that actually belonged to her. Or on a day for which she was receiving no wages, that she shouldn’t be free to enter a public establishment or converse with whomever she pleased. But she was equally aware that being in the right was absolutely no protection against getting sacked.

  Beatrice was in such a state of unease and distraction that she forgot to stop at the library on the way home to change dresses. She didn’t even notice her forgetfulness until just as she arrived at the back servant’s entrance. But what did it matter? Florence had seen her, and the damage was done.

  She tried to steal quietly to her room, but she couldn’t get past the kitchen entrance without notice.

  “Beatrice, get in here,” the housekeeper yelled out.

  She reluctantly complied. The full remaining staff of five was present, excluding the nanny: the housekeeper, the cook, one other maid, Nina, and two manservants.

  “What on earth are you wearing?”

  “It’s one of the dresses Mrs. Maxwell left me. It’s my day off, you know. I was just out on my own time, wearing something that belongs to me.”

  “Well la-di-da. You’d better get out of it before Mrs. Bellamy gets a look at you,” the Nina warned.

  “She already has. She saw me out there. Having tea. She saw me, and she—”

  “You were dismissed?”

  “No, of course not. Why should I be? It’s my own time. One day a week. It’s time that belongs to us. Aren’t we free to do as we please?”

  She was greeted with skepticism and amusement. As Beatrice turned on her heel to head up the stairs, she heard Steven, one of the young men, speaking to Nina.

  “After she’s let go, you should grab her bed. It’s closer to the fireplace.”

  Beatrice raced up to her tiny shared quarters and slammed the door behind her. Fine bunch of friends they turned out to be. But she couldn’t be surprised. She had never been accepted as one of them, and if she was honest with herself, she had never fully wanted to be. They mocked her speech, criticized her reading and studying, and had no higher dreams in life than to get drunk on their days off and jostle for favor with the lady of the house in order to get an extra five dollars come next Christmas bonus.

  She couldn’t really leave the house now. And she certainly didn’t want to go and spend time in the kitchen. Thankfully, she had a small collection of books she could turn to. Beatrice’s mind was more troubled and lonely than she wanted to admit to herself. A dark cloud was looming in the horizon and hard to ignore. Reading was the only possible avenue of escape, the only way to step out of her miserable existence—completely obliterate the world around her, and become filled with the goings on of irresistible characters and events far, far away.

  *****

  Beatrice found out later that night that she had been the heated topic of discussion at the Bellamy dinner table.

  “She wanted you out of here. Tomorrow. Tonight, even. But Mr. Bellamy wouldn’t let her,” Nina relayed excitedly.

  “What did he say?” Beatrice wondered.

  “He said that you hadn’t really done nothing wrong. And that it was fine to fire you if you really done something wrong. But that it would sound bad to the neighbors if she fired you for wearing a pretty dress on your day off, or having tea with a fancy lady and pretending to be fancy yourself. You sure didn’t mention that part! Did you really have her call you Miss Kirby?”

  “It’s my name, isn’t it?”

  Nina gasped in shock. Beatrice rolled her eyes.

  “You follow orders on the days you work here, yes?” Beatrice asked.

  “’Course.”

  “Do you have to follow orders on your day off?”

  “Even on your day off, you can’t forget who you are. No one else will. You’re always trying to get above yourself. No one’s going to stand for it.”

  She was right, of course. Beatrice knew that the reprieve that Mr. Bellamy had won for her could only be temporary. The slightest infraction now would have her sent packing. Her only course of action was to walk on eggshells, hold her tongue, go through the motions of a dutiful maid, and hope for the impossible—that Florence’s mind would latch onto other, more pressing matters.

  It was a futile hope. Her employer’s manner to her was by turns icy and then shrill. Beatrice never lost the impression that Florence was ever watchful, waiting to pounce at the first opportunity. Beatrice’s days were numbered, but even she could not have guessed how few.

  It was only a week later that she and Nina were dusting in the family sitting room. Steven, the youngest manservant was standing in the doorway, flirting with Nina, as Beatrice tried her best to block out their inane chatter. Then there was a thunderous crash behind her. Beatrice looked around to find Nina standing in horror over the remains of a large antique porcelain vase.

  “She’ll kill me. She’ll have me arrested. She’ll take out a whole year’s wages. No, no. She’ll dismiss me without references.”

  “Just calm down,” Steven warned her. “Don’t panic. And don’t say anything.” He glared at Beatrice. “I’ll figure out something. Beatrice, clean this up. And you come with me.”

  Normally, Beatrice would have revolted against being ordered around by another staff member with so little authority. But she had to sympathize with the girl. She was in a bad spot. Beatrice couldn’t imagine how they intended to ward off F
lorence’s wrath. It was a really valuable antique. For a brief and shameful moment, Beatrice realized that she was no longer the servant who was in the hottest water. Perhaps her reprieve would last longer than anticipated.

  “Oh my God. Look at what you’ve done!” shrieked Florence.

  Beatrice turned and scrambled to her feet.

  “No, I didn’t do this. I was just helping Nina to clean it up. It was an accident, of course. And she’s very sorry. I’m sure she can help pay for some of it slowly with her wages.”

  “You break this irreplaceable family heirloom and then try to lay the blame on someone else? I won’t stand for it. I want you to pack your bags this instant. I want you out of this house today. I can’t bear the sight of you.”

  “But I didn’t do it. Ask Steven. He was standing right there in the doorway. He saw everything.”

  “I have already spoken to him, Beatrice. And he told me exactly what he saw. Did you think that he would lie for you? Now get your things.”

  “I . . . I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Your problems don’t concern me in the least.”

  As Beatrice ran tearfully to her room, she saw Steven’s shadow hovering nearby and ran to confront him.

  “How could you lie like that? She just sacked me. Because of what you said. How could you do that?”

  “You weren’t long for this house. Everyone knew it. She was grousing about you all day long. That’s all we heard. You’d have been out the door by the end of the month. No reason for Nina to have to join you. Now, the Missus got to punish someone, have her little victory, and Nina still has her job. Why should anyone have to drown with you?”

  And he turned and left her in a speechless rage. Better rage than panic. She needed the fuel of it to get her through the rest of the day. She had one trunk of belongings. She wouldn’t even have that much if it hadn’t been for the dresses Mrs. Maxwell had left her. In their absence, she would only have had two lightweight bags of belongings.