The Cheyenne Mail Order Bride Becomes A Lady Read online

  She had to run out of the house, securing the housekeeper’s promise that her things would still be waiting for her in two hours’ time. She then located a horse and cart for hire to get her things. There was a large boarding house that she had taken indifferent notice of several years back. She certainly never thought that she would have need of it. And if Virginia Bellamy and Lydia Maxwell were still in the house, she never would have. They would have shielded her against Florence’s vindictive nature. But Virginia was now Mrs. Carlyle, and Lydia was now Mrs. Cooper, happy brides halfway across the continent, and she would surely never lay eyes on either of them ever again.

  She would be eternally grateful to Lydia, who, in addition to the dresses, had given her a sizable cash gift to be used in case of emergencies. Beatrice still had over eighty dollars of that money left. It would tide her over while she looked for work. But it wouldn’t last forever.

  By nightfall, Beatrice’s life had completed its abrupt transition. She was installed on the women’s floor of a bustling twenty-room house, with a large dining room and the widest assortment of residents that she could have imagined—shop girls, teachers, doormen, drivers, a few married couples, factory workers, food vendors, milliners, bakers, and most exotic of all, a divorcee, a pariah that the ladies in the Bellamys’ social circles had spoken of with the greatest disdain.

  It was a fairly clean place, energetic and noisy. Beatrice was still reeling from being exiled from her lifetime home. She was uncharacteristically silent as she was flooded with the regrets and possibilities of her new situation. She watched the other boarders from a distance, like actors in a play, exchanging minimal civilities with them while struggling for her new reality to cease feeling like such a dream.

  The house emptied during the daytime, for the most part, as everyone headed out to their job. Beatrice spent those days roaming around the streets of Boston, ostensibly to keep her eye out for help wanted signs, but more to clear her head and try to figure out why the freedom she had longed for her entire adult life was so unsettling and unsatisfying. When she did go out, it was in the plainest of her modest dresses. With all the free time in the world, going out fancy had lost its charm in the midst of so much uncertainty.

  It was several days before she had a real conversation with anyone at the house. She soon realized that all of the gainfully employed people around her were a resource that couldn’t be ignored. She talked to the milliner’s assistant, whose employer might be hiring in a few months, but it would be a long and demanding apprenticeship. The doorman said that he could introduce her to the manager at his hotel. There were new openings there every week.

  “Not many last longer than six months. Most of the maids get accused of stealing something, whether they did or not. That’s why there’s always a spot available. Shall I put in a word for you?”

  Beatrice thanked him but declined. It sounded too reminiscent of her own recent unjust dismissal. She needed a place that promised some long-term security, with fair and respectful treatment. One by one, she interrogated the other boarders regarding their places of employment.

  In two weeks’ time, she had followed up on almost a dozen of their leads with no success. Her lack of references turned out to be an even larger stumbling block than anticipated. With each refusal, it began to dawn on Beatrice that the future could be bleaker than she had ever envisioned. What happened to young women who weren’t able to find gainful employment?

  As it so happened, it was the divorcee who took notice of Beatrice’s frustrating search and offered up a solution.

  “Have you ever made a dress for yourself?” the divorcee asked. Her name was Abigail Norris.

  “I have. Just simple ones, you know. One rather nice dress for church, many years ago. I still have it. Would you like to see?”

  Abigail nodded, and Beatrice took her back to her room. The dress in question met with Abigail’s approval.

  “I’m not going to embellish the situation. I work in a dress factory, and there is little glamour or comfort in such a position. There are a hundred rules that have to be followed to the letter, and the management is unpleasant. But they were one of the few places where I could find work with no references. I can’t sugarcoat it though. No one would be there if they could find anything better. If you have other options, I advise you to pursue them.”

  Beatrice did have strong reservations about factory work. But if Abigail had survived it, then so could she.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Norris. I think I’d like to give it a try.”

  “Call me Abigail. Be ready to leave at six thirty tomorrow morning. And ask Mrs. Sweeney to fix a box lunch for you. You will probably be hired on the spot.”

  And with that, Beatrice could breathe a small sigh of relief. At least she would be able to keep a roof over her head. And there would be at least one friendly face at work. Abigail Norris was hardly the wanton, amoral creature that reputation had painted her.

  *****

  The factory was like a long, narrow church. There must have been three hundred women in the workroom—five to a table, with six tables lined end to end across the narrow width of the warehouse. The tight aisles permitted the passage of only one person at a time.

  For such a large room, crowded with so many people, it was eerily quiet. Heads were bent down closely over their work, with none of the companionable chatter one would expect from such a gathering.

  Beatrice was shown to her station by the shift manager, who seemed only too pleased to have yet another underling under his control. She thought she caught a few side glances of pity from a few of the other workers.

  “Raise your hand as soon as you’re done with this first hem so I can have a look at it,” the manager barked. “And it’ll be done in half an hour if you know what’s good for you. You’ll have eight of them done, and done well, before you have any lunch. Well? Get started!”

  Beatrice had thought that her life with the Bellamys was the depth of humiliation and drudgery. How wrong she had been. And how horrid the remainder of her days promised to be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, 1884

  Lawyer Avery Martin had a shrewd appreciation for the after dinner assemblies at the Cheyenne Club. Cocktails. Cigars. And the aroma of wealth. There was no better place to gather allies for his political career.

  Wyoming would achieve statehood in the next five to seven years—ten at the most—and when that happened, Avery wanted to be first in line to take advantage of the impending explosion of opportunity. Every city would need a mayor. The state would need senators, congressmen, and a governor. High judicial offices. Avery had been a lawyer for almost a third of his thirty-six years. His experience in this arena was a strong selling point for becoming one of Wyoming’s influential lawmakers.

  It was time to move on from his law practice. Avery was very good at it and took a great deal of pride in his work, but it was becoming routine: disputes, taxes, thefts, lawsuits. He had provided legal assistance to a significant portion of the Cheyenne Club membership. Hopefully, he would be rewarded by their support when it mattered most. And though that moment might not arrive for another five years, now was the time to secure their loyalty.

  The Cheyenne Club was an elite group of two hundred members. And it would never be more than two hundred members—all the better to assure exclusivity. The existence of the Club was due to the extraordinary expansion of wealth in Cheyenne’s fifteen-year history, most of it due to cattle and gold. There were dozens of newly minted millionaires, as well as a large representation of old money from back East and from Britain.

  Avery was not a member, of course. His finances and status had never been at that level. But he was ever a welcome guest, for Cheyenne’s wealthy were always trying to understand and maneuver territorial laws to their best interests. They considered Avery an indispensible asset in that regard. But he had other plans for himself. In time, he hoped to be invited to the Cheyenne Club as a true peer. As Judge
Martin. Mayor Martin. Senator Martin. Governor Martin. He had to stifle a smile at his own grandiose projections. All in due time. For the moment, his job was to ingratiate himself.

  “Avery, have you met Lyle Sexton?” Avery’s crony, Christopher Hudson, inquired.

  “No, but I’m most impressed by what I’ve heard of his business ventures. Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Sexton,” Avery said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Martin. Mr. Hudson here assures me that you’re one of the keenest legal minds in the territory. And we can’t have too much of that kind of savvy, especially with statehood approaching,” Mr. Sexton said.

  “There are big challenges ahead. I have a great vision for Wyoming’s future. With our resources, we could truly be one of the most prosperous and influential of the western states.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. How long have you and your family been in the area?”

  Avery hesitated, and Christopher stepped in.

  “Mr. Martin has not yet embraced the blessings of family, being so dedicated as he is to building his law practice. But he was just saying to me the other day that he is ready for marriage and family and will be eternally grateful to whoever can introduce him to a suitable bride.”

  “Well, I wish you haste and satisfaction in your search, Mr. Martin. A man cannot be a true pillar of society without a family to steady him and inspire his best intentions,” Mr. Sexton said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sexton. I couldn’t agree with you more. The best of community leaders will always be strengthened by the warm haven of family, and I am sure I will be no exception,” Avery said convincingly, already the politician.

  Mr. Sexton bid the other two gentlemen a good evening, and Avery waited until he was out of earshot to reproach his friend.

  “A bit premature, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not at all,” Christopher argued. “Did you think that you were going to wait until the moment you were running for office before you seek out the stability and wholesome influence of family that all voters and supporters are going to want to see? By the time that moment arrives, you should not only have a wife, but a minimum of two children. That is a plan that you have to start working on right now. Not a moment to waste. And it can’t be just anyone. It has to be a wife who’s going to be a real asset to your career.”

  Avery shook his head at Christopher. His friend’s motives were far from selfless. As soon as Avery had voiced the slightest inkling of his political aspirations, Christopher had become a self-appointed campaign advisor of sorts. Even though there wasn’t an impending campaign to wage, Christopher wanted to make sure that Avery was well positioned to step into a highly ranked seat of power.

  While Christopher did not have the drive to pursue such a position for himself, he knew there could be great benefit in the close association and gratitude he would earn from assisting Avery toward his goal. He therefore took it upon himself to suggest the social gatherings, the introductions, and other matters of strategy that would all but assure Avery of the political support he would need when the time arrived. He was a useful collaborator—that, Avery couldn’t deny. And for better or worse, he now had to measure all of his activities and associations precisely on how useful they would be to him.

  *****

  Avery’s office was close to the center of Main Street. The location plus word of mouth had allowed him to build up a large clientele. He could afford to be selective about taking on new cases, previously because of time commitments, and more recently, because of the aforementioned political calculations.

  Today, he was being solicited by Sebastian Knight, the editor of Cheyenne’s largest newspaper. Sebastian was being sued for slander by a wealthy mine owner, Raymond Winters. Mr. Winters did not appreciate Sebastian’s damning editorials on the shamefully inadequate measures that mine owners took to protect the safety of their employees. More specifically, the editor was taking Mr. Winters to task for the recent deaths of four men due to a mine collapse. And Mr. Winters was suing for enough money to put Sebastian’s paper in jeopardy.

  “Will you take my case?” Sebastian asked.

  “Mining is a high risk industry, Mr. Knight. I predict that Mr. Winters will insist that he followed industry standards and that he cannot be held accountable for the wrath of nature. It will be a very difficult case to defend.”

  “But . . . will you?”

  There were compelling arguments for either decision. He wanted to forge as many connections with the business class as he could. And that would lean him toward passing on the case and not angering the powerful mine owner. On the other hand, making a friend who controlled the area’s largest newspaper might be an avenue toward building good public opinion in his favor, which would be a formidable advantage over future competitors.

  “Yes, I’ll take your case.”

  After the relieved Sebastian left to finish up his work day, Avery was free to ponder the political alliance that Christopher Hudson had so forcefully suggested. Was it time to get married? He had to confess, the prospect of a lifetime of bachelorhood had never alarmed him. He didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, and he loathed the idea of having to feign enthusiasm for all the rote and obligatory expressions of courtship.

  Of course, he had to admit that not all marital unions were so false or labored. His good friend, Lewis Carlyle, and his wife, Virginia, were an implausibly happy couple, and Avery had to admit that the sociable hours spent in their company were the most pleasant part of his week. Even the times that he stopped by and Lewis wasn’t available, Avery had spent a number of enjoyable and stimulating hours having tea with Virginia. She was a well-bred young lady from Boston who had grown up in wealthy surroundings, and she had now found happiness and mutual devotion with a man who was anything but wealthy.

  But not for a moment did Avery envision such conjugal bliss for himself. The Carlyles were exceptionally lucky—a freak of human nature, really. Avery could scarcely think of a single other couple so happily situated, except for perhaps Giles and Lydia Cooper. Mrs. Cooper was Mrs. Carlyle’s aunt, also a cultured lady from Boston.

  The Coopers used Avery’s legal services on a number of matters related to their ranching properties—mostly tax questions. Sometimes, he was quite happy to dispense a bit of free legal advice for a free dinner and an evening of warm company. Mrs. Cooper played the piano wonderfully, and as a bachelor, the domestic environment was a welcome change of pace from his comfortable but solitary home. Of course, there were the frequent occasions when he had to pretend not to take notice of the frequent heated looks between them. They were still a honeymoon couple, after all. Still, it was a rather unexpected display of passion for two people past the age of forty!

  But the material commonality between these two desirable ladies and two blissful marriages was the fact that both women had been mail order brides. Avery had formerly scoffed at such a coldly rational approach to matrimony, but he couldn’t argue with these results. And increasingly, it began to look like his most promising avenue.

  As Mr. Sexton and Christopher had made abundantly clear, a wife and family were an imperative prerequisite for the right political image. A wife could prove her weight in gold, even prior to elected office, by way of friendships with the wives of influential men and receiving the larger share of important invitations extended to married couples over his share as a bachelor. Seen in that light, there was little choice in the matter and no time to delay.

  Wyoming fast approaches statehood and I intend to play a prominent role. Ambitious lawyer, aged 36, aiming for a career in political office and seeking a worthy First Lady, well educated, cultured, fashionable, comfortable in the highest circles, someone who can organize an impressive dinner party and enthusiastically support my public agendas—whatever they may be—and to be a pillar of the community.

  After a moment’s thought, Avery added, “Children welcome.” Why not? A widow with children would provide an instant family and he would be that much further al
ong in establishing a stable reputation. Of course, it would mean an end to his cozy bachelor haven, but that was already a given. A politician of high stature would have to live in a much more impressive home, which would not be a problem. His income was high, and his savings and investments had been shrewdly handled. But first things first.

  Avery waited an anxious month for replies to his advertisement. At the end of a second month with no replies, he had to concede defeat. He was going to need advice and assistance.

  *****

  In the coziness of her elegant apartment, Virginia Carlyle prepared to pour a cup of tea for her aunt, Lydia Cooper, but Lydia brushed her away.

  “Let me get things ready while you read the letter,” Lydia said.

  Virginia frowned. It all sounded a bit ominous. She leaned back and read the letter that their former maid, Beatrice, had just sent to Lydia.

  “Fired!”

  “Yes, fired. I think we both knew how likely that was,” Lydia said.

  “But they promised. My parents promised Beatrice’s mother that they would give her employment and security.”

  “Your father’s second wife made no such promise. And as we both know, Beatrice was never willing to grovel to please anyone. Florence Bellamy loved to be treated like a queen, and Beatrice never mastered the art of subservience. I’m afraid this was inevitable.”

  Virginia continued reading, getting more and more agitated.

  “A factory. A dirty, grimy factory where workers are chained to their tables and aren’t even allowed to use the facilities without permission.”

  “I doubt chains are involved, but the conditions are never pleasant.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do? I know she didn’t love being in service, but surely it was preferable to this drudgery. What about out here? There are hotels and restaurants, and surely, she could find more desirable employment,” Virginia wondered.

  “Possibly. It would be a better life. But I have always thought that she deserved . . . a much better life. For now, we must tell her to not lose heart. And we must keep our ears open. There has to be a place for her in this world—a good place.”