Mail-Order Bride Ink: Dear Mr. Turner (2 page)

Speaking of matter … “Auntie, what about Comfort Fields?”

“What about it? Your father has nothing left to keep it going. From the sounds of it, the banks are going to take it if he doesn’t pay his debts. And they will, mark my words. But your brothers are all talented enough. They’ll get along.”

“And Papa?”

Phidelia sighed wearily. “I suspect he’ll come here to live with me.”

Pleasant stood. “I can’t ask you to do –”

“It’s no trouble, child. I’ve always enjoyed his company – when he wasn’t being an unreasonable goat, that is. Right now he’s beyond reason.”

“But my brothers’ inheritance …”

“… was lost by your father a long time ago. The war more than anything took it from them. All your father has done these last few years is forestall the inevitable.”

“But what will they do? Where will they go?”

“They’re a resourceful bunch, my dear – they won’t be completely penniless. You’re the one that will be in the long run. You’ve got to marry!”

Her aunt was right, of course. There was no help for it. If she didn’t marry and fast, she’d be forced by Father to wed Rupert. Pleasant massaged her temples a moment, eyes closed. When she opened them, she said, “Very well, Mrs. Pettigrew it is.”

* * *

M
rs. Pettigrew tapped
her fingers on her desk as she looked Pleasant up and down. Aunt Phidelia sat nervously in a chair off to one side, as if expecting the finely carved piece of furniture to explode at any moment.

Pleasant stood before the desk, still as a statue. “Well?”

Mrs. Pettigrew met her gaze. “Well what,
ma cherie
?” She had been throwing around French phrases all morning. Pleasant had initially thought she might be from Louisiana, but no, the accent wasn’t right …

“Are you going to sit there and stare at me all day, or are we to get down to business?”

Mrs. Pettigrew arched an eyebrow. “What a lovely accent you have,
ma belle
.” She looked at her aunt. “Speaks her mind, doesn’t she?”

“She always has,” Aunt Phidelia agreed.

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Pettigrew mused as she went back to studying the prospective bride.

Pleasant fought the urge to roll her eyes in impatience. It wouldn’t do to upset the woman. Her reputation for perfect matches surprised even Pleasant. In the year Mrs. Pettigrew had been in business, she’d sent out dozens of brides, all of which, according to Mrs. Pettigrew herself, were now happily married.

If that weren’t enough, the writing to prove it was on the wall. Literally – Mrs. Pettigrew had taken to displaying the letters she’d received from her happy customers on the wall behind her desk. A perusal of them had convinced Pleasant and her aunt they’d made the right choice in coming. But was Mrs. Pettigrew as impressed with them as they were with her? The way she was looking at Pleasant made her feel as though she was about to be dismissed without a second thought.

“Well,” Mrs. Pettigrew finally said. “I believe I have a gentleman that will be able to handle you.”

Pleasant’s eyes bulged. “What?
Handle
me?!”

Mrs. Pettigrew didn’t bat an eye. Instead she pulled out a drawer of her desk and extracted a few sheets of paper. “You’ll want to write him while you’re here and let him know you’ve accepted his proposal.”

“Proposal? You haven’t so much as shown me a letter!”

“Oh,
ça va
.” Mrs. Pettigrew smiled, removed one sheet and shoved it across the desk. “Here is
Monsieur
Turner’s proposal.”

Aunt Phidelia cleared her throat. “Er, isn’t it customary they write to one another first, to see if they suit?”

“Considering your situation, I wouldn’t think there was time. This particular gentleman seeks a wife now. He isn’t looking for lengthy letter-writing.”

Aunt Phidelia gasped. “We’ve not said a word about our situation. How would you know …?”

“By the way you’re fidgeting about in your chair,
Madame
.” She looked at Pleasant. “And this one – she stands rigid, with no hope of love in her eyes.”

Pleasant exchanged a quick glance with her aunt. Good grief, did they really look that desperate?

“I suggest that if you’re in a hurry, you read
Monsieur
Turner’s proposal,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, drawing her attention.

Pleasant’s mouth dropped open. “How did you … I mean …” She straightened. “How dare you insinuate that I may be guilty of …”

“I insinuate nothing. I know only that you are acting in haste, and therefore must have reason. I am not worried about why – that is entirely your affair.
My
affair is to help speed you on your way.” She gave the letter another shove. “Read,
s’il vous plaît
.”

Pleasant looked at Aunt Phidelia, who shrugged. If Mrs. Pettigrew wasn’t concerned with the whys and wherefores, so much the better. She swallowed hard, steeled her nerves and picked up the letter.

T
o my future bride
:

M
y name is Eli Turner
. I am writing to tell you how much I look forward to meeting you. I am a stable man with a stable job. I have a small cabin outside of town that I am sure you will find most comfortable. Clear Creek is a wonderful place with plenty of fresh air and perpetual beauty. I do not know you yet, but I will. On the recommendation of one of my closest friends, Sheriff Harlan Hughes, not to mention one of my relations, I am putting my full trust in Mrs. Pettigrew to find you for me.

I am tall with brown hair and hazel eyes. You will find me an amiable man capable of decent conversation. I require a wife who can cook, clean and sew, but that goes without saying.

In closing, will you be my bride? If so, I have enclosed train and stage fare and look forward to meeting you in person when you arrive.

S
incerely yours
,

Eli Turner

P
leasant looked
up from the letter nervously. “What does
decent conversation
mean, exactly?”

“What do you mean? What did he say?” Aunt Phidelia asked as she stood. She went to her, peered over her shoulder at the letter and quickly read it. “That is a rather odd phrase. What sort of man is this?”

“One that can deal with
Mademoiselle
Comfort here,” Mrs. Pettigrew said dryly. “You can either accept or reject his proposal.”

Pleasant’s face twisted with indecision as she stared at Mrs. Pettigrew. “And this man trusts you to choose a bride for him? Does not the bride choose the husband?”

“You’ll find me quite adept at what I do,
Mademoiselle
Comfort.”

“I … I … oh, what if he’s a gentleman of four outs?” Pleasant had heard some of her friends in Savannah describe undesirable men that way – being without money, without wit, without credit and without manners.

Mrs. Pettigrew smiled. “Does his letter not state that he has a steady job? Therefore he must have money. And look at what he writes! He has a mind, this one, and manners. He is not some witless stump. As to his credit, I cannot say. Clear Creek is a small town, as I understand it – who knows if the mercantile there gives credit or not? So.” The woman tapped her nails against the desk. “Are you interested in this man or not?”

“Is he the only applicant you have?” asked Aunt Phidelia.

“He is the only applicant I have for
Mademoiselle
Comfort. The others will not do.”

“And may I ask why not?” Pleasant inquired, her tone bordering on haughtiness.

Mrs. Pettigrew placed a silver monocle over one eye and studied her a moment. “Because you are not suited to them.”

Now she did get haughty. “Who are you to tell me if they will suit or not?”

“Pleasant, dear,” Aunt Phidelia said in warning. “If Mrs. Pettigrew says this Mr. Turner is the best choice, then I don’t think we should argue.”

Mrs. Pettigrew let the monocle fall from her eye. It was attached to her dress by a silver chain. Pleasant noticed a tiny pocket had been sewn into the woman’s dress for it – she noticed when Mrs. Pettigrew made use of it and placed the monocle inside. “Mr. Turner is your best chance of escaping … whatever it is you need to escape from.”

Pleasant sighed. “Very well. My brothers aren’t likely to follow me across the country.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “How many brothers?”

“Six,” she said flatly.

“
Sacre bleu!
” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “Let us hope you are right, for it would not bode well for your brothers should they follow you as far as Clear Creek.”

“Why is that?” Aunt Phidelia asked.

“I have heard that the residents there are very … close-knit. In other words, your brothers wouldn’t be taking on just one man, but the entire town. And the man I’m sending you to is the brother of the local sheriff, a man of some renown. At least in the Far West.”

“Does
he
need a wife?” Aunt Phidelia asked.

“No, he already has one. One of the brides I sent out last year wrote to tell me she had the pleasure of meeting the couple. She has since come to know them quite well. I trust
Mademoiselle
Comfort will too.”

Pleasant spied a nearby chair and sat in resignation. “Very well. Where do I sign?”

“Not sign,
ma cherie
. Write. Tell him you are coming. A few words about yourself would be advisable.”

Pleasant couldn’t believe it. She felt her jaw shake in her effort to hold back tears. This was it. She’d be leaving her beloved Georgia forever to marry some stranger out West! And all because her father got some notion in his head that Rupert would bail him out of his debt if he married her. Ha! She knew Rupert – he’d never do it. Once he had her he’d probably sit back and
enjoy
watching the last of her father’s legacy crumble into ruin. If only Father would listen to reason. But a desperate man rarely listened to anyone once his eyes were set on what he thought was a solution.

“Fine,” she said at last. “I’ll write him a note. When should I say I’m leaving?”

Mrs. Pettigrew thought a moment. “Considering your current circumstances, is tomorrow too soon?”

* * *

C
lear Creek
, Oregon, three weeks later

D
ear Mr. Turner
,

I
have read
your letter and accept your proposal of marriage. By the time you read this I will be well on my way to Clear Creek. I should arrive on the stage Friday, April 13 at noon. I will endeavor to make you a good wife. I trust you will do the same as a husband.

S
incerely
,

Miss P.A. Comfort

“
T
hat’s it
?” Sheriff Tom Turner asked, scratching his head. “She didn’t say nothin’ else?”

“Nope.” Eli turned the letter over to check if anything was written on the back. “That was it.”

“Strange, don’t ya think? She didn’t even describe herself.”

Eli blanched. “Tarnation, yer right! Ya think that’s a bad sign?”

Tom stared at the letter a moment. “Ya described
yer
looks … well, Colin Cooke did, anyways.”

“Maybe I shoulda wrote that letter myself. But ya know how bad I spell and all.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, I know. She might not be too happy to find out yer not as, whatcha say …
eloquent
in person.”

Eli took off his hat and ran a hand through his brown hair. “What am I gonna do, Tom? Maybe she read Colin’s fancy talk in that letter and jumped at the chance to be with a real country-gentleman-type fella.”

“But ya are a country-gentleman type.”

Eli held his hands out from his sides. “No, I ain’t – look at me! Country, sure, but Colin and Harrison done explained to me what it means to be a gentleman in England and I ain’t
that
!”

“Of course not. We’re not in England.”

“Oh, ya know what I mean. I ain’t nothin’ but a lowly deputy workin’ for my older brother.”

Tom sighed and put an arm around him. “Yer a fine deputy, workin’ for a sheriff that sorely needs yer help.”

“Ya already had Bran O’Hare and Henry Fig helpin’ ya. I dunno why ya hired me on too – unless ya felt sorry for me.”

“I hired ya on ‘cause Henry’s gettin’ ready to retire. He’ll be gone soon, ya know that – and he don’t get around so fast even when he’s here, what with his lumbago.”

Eli rolled his eyes and smacked his forehead. “Doggone it! This whole mail-order bride business has me more addled than I thought – I plumb forgot about Henry retirin’! Maybe sendin’ away for one wasn’t such a good idea.”

Tom chuckled. “Eli, yer twenty-six years old. It’s high time ya got married. You’d already be hitched if’n ya took my advice and gone for Honoria Cooke.”

“Honoria? No way – she scares me!”

Tom placed his hands on his hips. “Scares ya? What for?”

“She’s … well she’s … opinionated. And once she gets started on a subject and thinks she’s right, she goes until she proves it! Besides, I don’t think I could handle havin’ Harrison as a father-in-law. I feel sorry for the poor fella ends up with her.”

“Well, no chance of that happenin’ anytime soon. Ain’t no one else ‘round here for her to court.”

Eli shrugged. “She just ain’t the right girl for me, that’s all. You of all people should know ‘bout that.”

Tom’s mouth formed into a firm line as he nodded. He’d gotten as far as the altar with the wrong bride – only by his own fortitude, and that of Matty Quinn, did he end up with the right one. “How I ended up married to Rose took some guts. Like not givin’ in to what everyone in town says about ya marryin’ Honoria – that took guts too. Ya did the right thing sendin’ away for a bride, brother.”

“Maybe so, but my bride not puttin’ no description of herself in that letter still makes me nervous. What if she’s hard on the eyes?”

Tom blew out a breath. “Then I guess ya take the time to see if’n ya like the rest of her better.”

“But the way Colin wrote that letter, I proposed right away. She’s comin’ here ‘spectin’ to marry me right off, not court first.”

“Who says ya gotta?”

Eli opened his mouth to speak then shut it. His brother was right – he didn’t
have
to marry the girl right away. He ought to court her a little, just to make sure. But then what if he decided he didn’t like her, hard on the eyes or not? Worse, what if she wasn’t bad on the eyes, but was on the temperament? If she was beyond beautiful, he might die trying to get past a bad temper, like beating his head against the woodpile over and over and …

“You okay?” Tom asked.

Eli nodded. “Yeah, just thinkin’.”

“Well, best not think too long,” Tom said. “Friday’s just a few days off.”

“What?” Eli said in shock. He looked at the calendar on the wall, then rolled his eyes and looked at his brother. “Friday the 13th. Figgers. I’m telling ya, this was a bad idea.”

“And I’m tellin’ ya I think it was a great one. Now stop fussin’ and make yerself a list of things ya need to get done. Yer Sunday best need ironin’?”

“No, I got em’ hangin’ up at home.”

“Good, that’s one less thing ya have to do. Is the house clean?”

“Well, it could do with a good dustin’.”

“Eli, why ain’t ya takin’ care of this?”

He shrugged. “Just didn’t think of it, I guess. I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Like what?”

Eli’s mouth twisted up into a lopsided smile. “Like if’n I’m really the marryin’ kind.”

“‘Course ya are – what man ain’t?”

“Look at Sheriff Hughes – he was a bachelor for years. Decades.”

“Was,” Tom pointed out. He put his hands on his hips again. “Ya ain’t scared, are ya?”

“Me, scared? I ain’t afraid of no woman!” He looked away and mumbled, “Except maybe Honoria.”

“Good – then ask our sister Emeline to help ya clean up that sorry excuse of a cabin of yers. Heck, I bet Lena Adams might help – she ain’t far from yer place. She could bring her sister Fina.”

Eli nodded. Even though his cabin was built only a couple of years ago, it wasn’t the most organized. He didn’t concern himself with housecleaning – he was the only one living there, and he didn’t care how it looked. “Fine, I’ll ask Emeline and Mrs. Adams if they’ll help.”

“I’ll tell Rose – she can pitch in too,” Tom said. “Between the three of ‘em, yer place ought to be shipshape by the time yer bride arrives.”

Eli glanced at the calendar again. It was Tuesday the 10th. If the women started tomorrow that would give them two days. Land sakes, would they really need that much time? He wasn’t that messy, was he?

* * *

“
E
li Turner
, this house is a pigsty!” his older sister Emeline said in disgust. “Ya’d think Ma never taught ya to pick up after yerself!”

It was early Wednesday morning and Eli didn’t have time for this – he needed to get to work. “I sleep and eat here, Emeline. I don’t pay much attention to what happens in between with the place.”