Mail Order Josephine - A Historical Mail Order Bride Novel (Western Mail Order Brides) (10 page)

Andrew observed her as she tossed the bundle down into the dirt at the foot of the tree and stalked over to take up Billy’s reins again, but he didn’t speak to her. He only had to see the tears streaking her face to understand her thoughts, and he left her to walk the rest of the way back to his parents’ house in silence. She took no notice whatsoever of the beauty of the countryside on the way down the hill or to appreciate the freshness of the breeze cooling her moist face and soothing her burning eyes. These attractions only served to further resent her experience. She wanted nothing more to do with the frontier West or with anything else she so strenuously sought just a few hours before. In light of the dangers and harshness of the place and her own unsuitability to it, Aunt Agatha’s intention to remain sequestered in the hotel room until the train departed for New York seemed the most intelligent, most prudent course available. She resolved to drop Andrew off at the house, return to town, and then do exactly that.

Mr. and Mrs. Stockton must have spotted them coming a long way off, because they both waited on the front veranda when Josephine led Billy up to the house. An ashen pallor covered Mrs. Stockton’s countenance when she saw Andrew’s blood-stained shirt.

Mr. Stockton wrung his hands in despair at the sight of his son, stricken and deflated in the saddle and unable to steer his own horse. “What happened?” he cried.

“He got into a fire fight with cattle rustlers,” Josephine informed him flatly. “Help me get him inside. He’ll need to see the doctor as soon as possible.”

The elder Stockton’s required no further explanation. They brought Andrew down from his saddle. Between Mr. Stockton on one side of him and Josephine on the other, they helped him into the house and laid him out on a couch in the parlor while Mrs. Stockton went to find Ben Hancock. When she returned, the three of them stood over Andrew’s couch, staring down at his pale visage and listening to his breath rattling ominously in and out of his chest. He lay deathly still, the spreading blood stain on the front of his shirt contradicting the rich upholstery of the couch and the faultless appointments of the room. Mrs. Stockton blew her nose and sobbed.

“Thank you for bringing him back to the house, Miss Parker,” she sniffed. “Ben will drive the gig into town to fetch the doctor. He can drop you off at the hotel at the same time.”

“I appreciate that,” Josephine replied. “And please don’t thank me. I only hope he will recover from this.”

“The wound seems to be in his shoulder,” Mr. Stockton pointed out. “Hopefully it isn’t too serious. I thank God you were with him to help him. I don’t think either of us could stand to lose him so soon after losing Paul.”

“I’m glad I could help him,” Josephine answered. “I only ask you not to mention to anyone that I was out with him when it happened. My Aunt Agatha would never let me out of doors again if she thought I was in any danger.”

“You may rely on our discretion,” Mrs. Stockton reassured her. “It’s the least we can do to repay your kindness towards him. Certainly we never knew he invited you out to the ranch. I only regret we couldn’t offer you better hospitality while you were here.”

“Think nothing further about it,” Josephine responded. “Andrew simply wished to show me a little more of the area before I leave for New York on Monday. If you give me a ride back to town, we can forget all about this. That is all I want.”

“Very well,” Mr. Stockton agreed. “Here comes Ben. If you’re sure there’s nothing more we can do for you, he’ll take you back to the hotel.”

“No, thank you,” Josephine took her leave. “I’ll go now. Please accept my best wishes for Andrew’s recovery.” She hurried out of the house, jumped into the gig next to Ben Hancock, and the little vehicle raced away.

Aunt Agatha didn’t seem to notice when Josephine returned to the room and fell into the chair by the bed. She picked up their conversation as if Josephine had never left the room.

“Do you have your sewing kit with you, dear?” she asked.

“Of course, I do,” Josephine replied.

“May I borrow it for a moment?” she continued. “A button has come off my dress and I must sew it back on.”

“Certainly,” Josephine affirmed. She retrieved a small tin from her valise. “Here it is.”

“I want to go back to that haberdasher’s shop we saw and buy some trim for my hat,” Aunt Agatha announced. “I want to alter it before we travel back to New York, although I don’t know how good their selection will be. I might do better to wait until we get to Chicago, where I know I’ll find what I’m looking for. One never knows what may be available in a provincial town like this.”

Josephine stared into space, hearing Aunt Agatha’s comments only distantly. Her refusal to be drawn into defending the town roused Aunt Agatha’s suspicions, and the elderly woman cocked her head and scrutinized her. Josephine didn’t notice. She simply sat in her chair, gazing vacantly at nothing.

Not only her body, but her heart and soul, too, felt bruised almost beyond repair by her experiences of the day. The image of Andrew crouched behind his injured horse, aiming his pistol at unseen assailants, replayed over and over in her mind, along with the view of the cattle rustlers peeking at her through the grass as she pointed her rifle at them. Her brain simply refused to accept or reconstitute the vision of the horse she put to death. But the icy steel of the trigger left burns on her hands. She wondered if the palms lying limp and inert in her lamp would ever function normally again. Would these hands, the same hands that brought death to the horse, and that she tried to use to bring death to men, ever bring good into the world? Would she sew and knit and cook with them? Would she ever comfort anyone again with her touch, or would they only continue to wreak destruction and mayhem wherever she went? Maybe her father and Aunt Agatha were right about her all along, that she was wild and willful and would come to no good as long as she persisted in her headstrong ways. Perhaps she could thank merciful Heaven that she was going home to old maidenhood in New York, where she could get into no further trouble. Far away from the influence of Andrew Stockton and the Wild West, she would swaddle herself in cobwebs and be thankful if she finished out the rest of her life without harming anyone or anything again. And she would never entertain any insane notions about wearing men’s clothing again!

She emerged from the reverie to hear Aunt Agatha speaking to her again. “I’m sorry, Aunt Agatha,” she sighed. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“What has gotten into you, child?” Aunt Agatha cried.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Agatha,” she apologized again. “I’m not feeling very much like myself right now. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Has something happened to you?” Aunt Agatha studied her closely. “Where did you go this morning?”

“I just went out for a turn around the town, that’s all,” she lied.

“I saw you pull up in front of the hotel,” Aunt Agatha pounced. “I didn’t recognize the man who drove you, but I recognized that gig. I would know it among a million others of its kind. The decoration on the side of it is unmistakable. You’ve been out to the Stockton’s, haven’t you? Admit it.”

“Yes, I have,” Josephine admitted, seeing no way out of the matter. “But there really is nothing to tell. I don’t wish to discuss it anymore.”

“Well,” Aunt Agatha asserted, “all I can say is that something must have happened out there, because you’re as quiet as a mouse, and you look like you’ve seen a ghost. It isn’t like you at all.”

“I just need to sit quietly for a while,” Josephine declared. “I’ll be alright.”

“You’re beginning to frighten me, Josephine,” Aunt Agatha mourned.

“Please, Aunt Agatha,” Josephine pleaded, clenching her eyes tightly and covering them with her hand for good measure. “Please, just stop talking about it. I’ll be alright. After I’ve had a chance to just sit quietly for a little while and then eat some dinner later, I’ll be fine. We’ll go to town tomorrow and get the things we need for our trip home. I suppose we should find out how much the return train fare will cost us, plus the additional expense of stopping over in Chicago. We may have to wire Papa to send us some more money.”

“ Nonsense
, my dear!” Aunt Agatha puffed. “I never told you before, but I have enough of my own money to pay for anything I choose. Besides, I have my own ticket back to New York already. True, we should go over to the station tomorrow to purchase a ticket for you, but the side trip to Chicago won’t cost much. Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I intend to enjoy myself on this trip! You should think about doing the same thing yourself. You should celebrate your near-miss with marriage by taking in as much of the night life and culture between here and New York as possible.” At this, Aunt Agatha melted into peals of laughter, the sound of which struck Josephine so strangely that she surfaced partially from her melancholy. She grinned back at her aunt.

“Why, Aunt Agatha,” she maintained, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you make a joke before!”

Aunt Agatha laughed again, but settled into her typical serious demeanor again. “I know, dear. I know I don’t usually joke about such things, but the fact remains that you aren’t married and aren’t going to be married, at least not on this trip. You should celebrate by enjoying yourself. You should go shopping and go to the cabaret and to the theatre in Chicago. You should revel in your life of freedom as much as you can, because I can assure you—as I’m sure you know—that your father will begin looking for another match for you as soon as we get back.”

“I know it, Aunt Agatha,” Josephine confirmed. “But to tell you the truth, the life of freedom doesn’t look so good to me right now. I almost wish I was getting married.”

“Don’t say that!” Aunt Agatha commanded. “Look at me. I’ve never married, and I have complete control over my whole life. Marriage isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

“I’ve never heard you speak about it before,” Josephine marveled.

“No, I’ve kept it to myself all these years,” Aunt Agatha revealed, “mainly because your father wouldn’t let me stay with you children if I told you the truth. The truth is that I had a near-miss of my own when I was young. My parents, your grandparents, arranged a very advantageous marriage for me, in much the same way your father arranged your match with Paul Stockton. My betrothed lived in another town Back East, unlike this business about traveling out West. But when I travelled to the town where my intended lived, he wasn’t there. All the addresses we had for finding him and his family proved ineffective. We tried for two weeks to contact him and his family, but we failed in every attempt. I came home utterly humiliated, and my family made no further efforts to find me a husband. I grew older, and before I knew what was happening, I was considered too old to marry any of the eligible bachelors available in New York or any other town. I moved in with my brother, your father, under the condition that I would help him raise you children the way he wanted you raised, and that I would never reveal my disgrace to you under any circumstances. But as the years passed, I saw how married women fared in the world, and I began to thank my good fortune that I still retained my freedom. I inherited my share of my parents’ money and, although I stayed on with the family, I always knew I could come and go as I pleased. I gave my consent to your father’s methods of raising you, but that consent was always mine to give. The life of an old maid is not so terrible after all.”

“Aunt Agatha!” Josephine gasped. “Are you trying to encourage me to eschew marriage?”

“Not at all, my dear!” Aunt Agatha stated. “I think I know you well enough to know that women like you always marry, but they marry for love. They do not settle down so well in arranged marriages. Your father wanted what was best for you, and so he arranged this match, but I think perhaps you have escaped a less-than-ideal fate by avoiding this marriage. I think a much more agreeable match awaits you, a match of your own choosing. I don’t know how you will affect that match, but I feel certain you will achieve it. Until you find it, you should enjoy all the benefits of freedom and refrain from saddling yourself with undue obligations and regrets.”

Josephine almost burst into tears at this lecture, but instead, she threw her arms around her aunt and kissed her with more genuine affection than she ever felt for that lady before. “Thank you, Aunt Agatha. Your confidence means the world to me. I only hope you are right, and I will strive for the rest of my life to live up to your good opinion of me.”

“Pooh, my dear!” Aunt Agatha exclaimed, her gelatinous jowls jiggling for added emphasis. “You have quite enough on your plate just living up to your own opinion of yourself. The young should take no notice of the old. They should strive to fulfill their destiny without the encumbrances of anyone else’s opinion, especially their elders.”

Josephine dissolved into peals of laughter in her hysterical relief at discovering herself unburdened by her aunt’s disapproval. “Oh, if only Papa could hear you speak such sacrilege! Whatever would he think?”

“I have kept my silence long enough!” Aunt Agatha declared. “I have supported all the social conventions of our times in order to take part in your young lives, but I think you are old enough now, my dear, to hear the truth and to judge it for yourself. You, more than any of your siblings, possess a keen mind and a strong heart. You, more than any other member of your family, have struggled against incredible forces within yourself in order to reach your maturity with a modicum of good grace and to be the young woman that society and your parents wanted you to be, and you have succeeded admirably. You deserve congratulations for that. But now, you are a grown woman with your own mind and your own ideas about how to pursue your destiny and to continue to live the life you want to live. You should look beyond the pressures of family and society and decide for yourself what you really want to do with your life. What will make you the happiest? I don’t think that growing old alone, as I have done, will make you happy. I think that you will be happiest if you marry and have children. But surely there is a way you can do that without enslaving yourself to a man you do not love and a social position that entraps you in an endless round of tea parties and gossip and concerts. When I think about it, I fear for you.”

“Fear for me?” Josephine repeated. “But why would you fear for me? At least I would be safe in that sort of life. I wouldn’t be in any danger, at least.”

“I mean that I fear for your heart and soul,” Aunt Agatha clarified. “I fear for the great energy and will that make you such a unique and loveable person. Without those things, you wouldn’t be the wonderful niece I love so well. If your will and your heart are crushed by hopelessness and dreariness, you would cease to be truly alive, and you would probably go to an early grave. There are worse things in life than ruining your reputation or failing to conclude an advantageous marriage, you know.”

Josephine fell back into her chair, stunned by her aunt’s disclosures and overwhelmed by the magnitude of her reflections. She stared into space again, attempting to formulate all her aunt’s comments into a coherent conclusion about her own future, but the sudden and volatile nature of Aunt Agatha’s remarks left her head buzzing and her own thoughts obscured. Aunt Agatha studied her momentarily, but did not speak further on the subject. She moved around the room, repairing her clothing and arranging her luggage for her return trip to New York, taking special care to keep her movements quiet and understated, and leaving Josephine to her thoughts. Josephine noted her aunt’s attentions, but did not leave the insulated cocoon of her inner isolation.

Aunt Agatha’s picture of her future, in which she married a man of her own choosing but pursued a path divergent from the customary standards of her family’s social position, so diametrically contradicted everything Josephine ever contemplated about her life that to consider it amounted to nothing less than a revolution in her view of herself and the possibilities open to her. Even the idea of choosing her own husband, based on mutual love rather than mutual material advantage, overthrew everything Josephine had ever been taught about the purpose of marriage. She always assumed, from her earliest girlhood, that her father would at least negotiate and approve of any marriage of hers, if not arrange it outright from start to finish, as he did with her betrothal to Paul Stockton. So complete was her mental dependence upon her father, her aunt, and everyone else older than herself, on the subject of whom she would marry, that she didn’t even think of anyone outside their sphere of influence a viable prospect for her consideration. If, as Aunt Agatha suggested, she chose her own husband, then the field of potential candidates widened significantly. She could consider all kinds of people she formerly dismissed as either belonging to the wrong social set or else as too distant from her in lifestyle to make a good match.

The same logic applied to the other element of Aunt Agatha’s depiction of her future life. If she chose not to enslave herself to an endless round of tea parties and gossip and concerts, what else remained? She could hardly imagine. Every woman she knew lived in an endless round of those things, without ever exposing herself to the tempting warmth of the sun or sullying themselves with anything growing freely from the earth. The women she knew barely mothered their own children. After giving birth, they consigned their children to the care of hired nurses and never soiled their hands with clothing, feeding, cleaning, tending, or educating them. Though she knew she didn’t want that for herself, Josephine could envision no alternative simply because she never saw any alternative enacted.