Marriage by Mail (Grace Church Book 1) (6 page)

If she were a bolder sort of a woman, Rose thought, she would slide a little closer at that moment. Perhaps Charles would allow his arm to stretch alongside the back of the bench. Perhaps he’d let his arm drape a bit lower, so that it would encounter her shoulders. She twisted her apron. She just couldn’t.

“Getting cooler already. Let’s get back inside.” Charles stood, holding out his hand. Without thinking, she put her hand into his, linking their fingers, rather than resting her hand on his forearm. Charles’ warm hand enfolded hers so gently. They stood for a moment, not meeting each other’s eyes, their hands connected. Without a word, they walked back inside together.

“Let me clean up, and I’ll join you. Won’t take me but a minute,” he said, his voice sounding rough.

Rose sat down on the high backed, embroidered chair, then stood up quickly. She sat on the settee, where there was room for two. Perhaps she was becoming just a little bit bolder, she thought. She rested her head, closing her eyes for a moment. It had been her busiest day since her day of travel. She didn’t feel that she had over-done it, but she felt tired, now that she sat down. It was a good kind of tired, she thought, sleepily. She’d just rest her eyes while Charles tidied the kitchen.

†

Charles rushed through washing the crockery. He hung the towel lopsided and hastily put away the bread. As soon as he got to the parlor, he stopped. There was Rose, her hand tucked under her cheek, sleeping. Carefully, he sat down on the floor by her side. He indulged his wish to gaze upon her, easing his back against the arm of the settee. The remaining sunlight lingered, shining a thin ray of gold into the room. All was quiet. He could see, very faintly, a pulse beating in Rose’s throat.
Lord
, he prayed silently,
her beating heart
. He didn’t know what to say.
If she could take my strength
. He put his hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
If she could have some of my heart’s strength. I’d give years of my life, Lord, if she could use them
. He looked at her peaceful face, again looking at her beating pulse. Life seemed so fragile to him. She had become, in such a short time, infinitely precious to him.
A daughter of God. Your daughter, Lord. My wife.

†

Rose woke up, confusedly wondering where she was. She peered into the darkness, feeling the settee beneath her. She realized Charles was sitting on the floor by her side. She could barely see him, but felt his warmth and heard his steady breathing as he slept. His head was so close, the dark hair catching the faint bit of light from the moonlight through the window. She knew she should get up, wash, and retire properly. She knew Charles could have a sore neck from sleeping on the floor, against the settee. But she could not bear to stir. Instead, she closed her eyes, allowing her hand to move just a bit closer to his head. She could almost feel his hair against the back of her hand.

Chapter Nine

They woke at the same moment. Rose hid her face in the cushion, feeling bashful, as Charles sat up. She opened her eyes, and she saw that he was looking at her.

“Morning,” he said, softly, a smile starting in his eyes.

She thought she should sit up, too, but feared her hair would be sticking straight up. “Good morning,” she said in reply.

He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but stayed silent, smiling a little. She sat up.

“Is my hair sticking up like a hedgehog’s?” she asked.

He grinned. “Little bit.”

She patted it uselessly.

“Don’t,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Looks good on you.”

She laughed out loud at that, darting a look at him as he stretched in the morning sunlight.

“I’ll start the coffee,” he said, heading for the kitchen.

Rose ducked outside to use the privy, then washed in her room with the water she had put in her washstand the previous afternoon. Although her sleep had not been perfectly restorative, she found that she felt no traces of fatigue. She looked into the mirror and paused. Her face looked more filled out, and although shadows remained beneath her eyes, there was no mistaking the sparkle within their hazel depths. Running damp hands through her hair, pushing it back off her face, she abandoned any attempts to entirely subdue it.

“Please excuse my wayward appearance, Mr. Smith,” she said, entering the kitchen. “It would seem that I would need to wear a hat to control my hair which is attempting to defy the laws of gravity. I believe it needs to grow upwards until any length is established.”

Charles laughed, handing her a thick mug full of coffee. “I like the way you phrase things, Rose. And I like your new fangled hair style.”

“Ah, yes. We call this
the
fever
in Boston,” she said. “It’s quite
à la mode
.” Then her expression fell. “I shouldn’t make light of that. I’m sorry.”

“No, you meant no harm. It’s all right,” he said, easily. “How about some toast with the bread from last night? We’ve got butter and honey. Or, I have a little strawberry preserves left.”

She was silent, looking down at the table, her coffee untouched.

“Or both,” he said. “Honey and strawberries. And butter.”

She nodded, not looking up.

He went to crouch at her side. “Rose?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly wiping her hands beneath her eyes. “I shouldn’t have referred to that terrible illness in jest.”

“You meant nothing unkind,” he said sincerely. “You were just trying to find a little something to smile about, is all. That’s a good thing to do, Rose.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m fine.”

He went back to the stove and sliced the rest of the loaf of bread. She watched him make a batter of cream and eggs and dip the slices of bread into it. Then, he placed each slice onto the buttered grill. He glanced at her several times, looking as though he wanted to say something. She couldn’t speak past the swelling in her throat. With that one comment, the entirety of her loss made itself known, and she felt that she could barely breathe. She felt crushed with sorrow, and a kind of terror. Gone. Her beloved family: gone. Charles topped each slice of bread with butter, honey, and preserved strawberries and set a plate stacked full onto the table. He put two plates and two forks down onto the table, then grabbed his chair, sliding it close to Rose.

“Drink a little coffee, before it gets cold,” he said softly, trying to see her expression while she looked down at the napkin on her lap.

With those words, so tender in tone, the floodgates burst. Rose wept into her napkin, her shoulders heaving.

†

Charles didn’t know what to do. Helplessly, he sat close by her side. Tentatively, he reached so that his arm was around her shoulders. She turned her head and wept against his chest. He froze, then wrapped his other arm around her, so that he was embracing her.

“Rose,” he whispered. “Tell me what to do. How can I help you?”

She pressed her face, still buried in her napkin, harder into him, and he held her more tightly.

“Lord,” he prayed softly. “My poor wife, crying like her heart’s broken. And me not knowing what to do, what to say. Please help. I’d do anything to take away her heartache. Thank you, Jesus. Amen.”

Finally, her sobs began to ease, and then subsided. She pulled out of his arms and went to her room. He waited a moment, then began to stand. He wasn’t sure if he should follow her, or if she needed time alone. At that moment, she returned, her face showing signs of having been washed. She sat down again, and reached for her coffee. Her hand trembled so violently, though, that she put it back in her lap. Charles put his arm around her again, and lifted her cup to her lips.

“Careful, just in case it’s still hot, all right?”

At that, Rose gasped with a sob and she cried again. This time, it was less stormy, and she caught her breath within a moment.

“I can never tell them about living in California. They’ll never know you. They’ll never meet Rascal.” She took a shaking breath.

He held her more closely.

“It’s just hard,” she whispered.

He held the cup to her lips again. “I can heat it up if it’s all cold.”

“It’s good cold,” she said after taking a sip. Her voice was a mere whisper.

He pushed the plate closer to her and handed her a fork, looking worriedly at her. “Tell me if this is good cold, too.”

She shook her head, then took the fork and ate a small bite. Then she ate another. “Very good.”

“It is?” Charles ate a big bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad, I guess.”

She ate quietly and quickly, but declined another serving.

He ate a few more pieces and put the rest in the larder on a covered plate. “Rose? This here is for you, all right?”

“Thank you,” she said, standing and rolling up her sleeves. “I know you’ve got Rascal to tend to and work to do.”

He caught her hands and stood silently. “What can I bring you from town today? What do you need?”

“Nothing, Charles, truly.”

“Are you sure?”

“I need nothing, I promise. I do have a few things I’m looking forward to getting from my trunk once it arrives, hopefully with the next train. Sister John planned to fetch it from a former neighbor of mine. My Bible, books, a photograph, just some treasured possessions as well as some useful items. I have stationery which I fear may not have been packed, though. Do you have any writing paper? I would like to write thank you notes to express my gratitude for all the kindness which I’ve received.”

“Right here, under this saddle I intend to repair,” said Charles, striding into the parlor. He lifted a saddle that was on a chair by the window. “The paper is a little folded. There’s a whole stack though. Just plain, no fancy colors.”

“I prefer plain paper, thank you, Charles, that’s perfect.”

She stood in the center of the room, her face still pale from her recent tears. He walked to her slowly and took both of her hands once again. Then, he brought them to his lips and kissed each one, without looking at her. Then he quickly went outside to the barn.

†

Rose stood completely still, her hands still suspended in front of her. Slowly, she brought them close to her chest, and took a breath.
My first kiss
, she thought in wonder.
My first kiss
.

Chapter Ten

Rose sat in the morning sunshine, her heart very heavy. She wrote each note, expressing her gratitude. After she had finished, she looked out the window. Charles had been so kind to her. Despite the agony of loss that she felt, she kept remembering the image of him kissing her hands, holding the cup to her lips, and the tender regard she saw in his expression. How could she feel happiness and grief simultaneously? She took another sheet of paper and lifted the fountain pen.

Dear Charles
, she wrote.

After writing to express my appreciation for all the generosity of our friends, I would be remiss indeed if I did not include a missive to you. Out of all the blessings in my new life, the one I thank God for the most is you. I thank you for writing to me through Genteel Correspondence, and for choosing me out of all the other women eager for adventure in the wild west.

I thank you for your kindness, and your gentleness toward me. Only very strong men can be gentle. I thank you for sharing your home and your life with me. I thank you for inventing delicious breakfasts. And chicory flavored coffee. And prayers that ease my mind and inspire my spirit and lift my heart. For your smile and how you hold your hat in your hands. For the things you say and how you say them.

Did you know that I pray for you each day? I do. I pray for your safety and happiness.

Yours in Christ,

Rose

As soon as she had stacked her pile of letters and secured them with a piece of string that she found in the kitchen, she heard a wagon approach. The Robles family arrived to visit her and bring her and Charles a meal. Mr. and Mrs. Robles and their four children were joined by Mrs. Robles’ mother. Their visit could not have come at a better time. The playful antics of the children were a perfect distraction for her, and she enjoyed getting to know every member of the family.

By that evening, however, her head pounded from a headache that worsened with each moment. When Charles arrived, she tried to endure the pain, but finally, after he questioned her, admitted that she needed to take to her bed for the night.

†

In the morning, Charles worried when Rose did not come into the kitchen. He opened her door as quietly as he could and saw that she was still sleeping. He had wanted to thank her for cleaning his room. He hadn’t noticed when she first did so, as he had spent the night on the parlor floor by her side. The thought of her straightening his quilt and hanging his dressing gown made him feel embarrassed and pleased. As he got ready to leave for work, he saw the stack of letters on the desk and put them in his saddlebag, intending to deliver them.

At his blacksmith shop, he remembered the letters and took them out, untying the string. He looked at the direction of each one, and then stopped when he saw:

Mr. Charles Smith

Blacksmith Shop

Cutler’s Pass, California
.

Curious and confused, he opened that letter and quickly read Rose’s words. He sat down. He read the letter again. He sat, staring into space, the letter held loosely in his hand. Finally, he shook his head.

“Sylvester,” he called to his assistant. “Head on over to Barney’s, all right? Get some letter writing paper, put it on my account. Thanks. Oh, and Sylvester? Make sure the paper is plain. No fancy colors.”

That afternoon, he closed his shop early and headed home. When he arrived, he saw Rose sitting in the rocking chair on the front porch, wrapped in her shawl and wearing her dark spectacles.

“How are you, Rose?” Charles asked, walking up the steps.

“Better, thank you,” she said, smiling a little. “I didn’t get a thing done today. Just slept, mostly. But my head feels well again. Are you all right? You’re home early.”

“I wanted to a make sure you were okay,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his forehead with his sleeve. He couldn’t shake his worry. She had been getting better, and then she got sicker. What if her health was beginning to decline?

“Although I have many plans to court you, I think you’d best retire early again tonight. Seems like that headache was a powerful one. I’ll fix us up something to eat and bring it out here.” Charles waited until she nodded, then went into the kitchen.

They ate in a companionable silence. Charles sat on the top stair and Rose sat in the rocker.

“I guess I should make another chair,” he said.

“Yes, do,” she said.

He had a horrible moment of worry, imagining that there’d be two chairs and one empty. He tried to lift his fears up to God. He tried to accept that everything was in God’s hands. It was hard.

†

The next morning, Rose slept late again. When she awoke, she felt stronger. After the episode at breakfast when she had felt shaken by the extent of her loss, she finally felt more serene once again. Tears were always just a thought or a memory away, and she knew she’d never stop missing her family, but she had so many blessings.

Under her plate, there was a piece of paper visible. She sat down and lifted her plate and saw an envelope directed to her. She wondered at its lack of postage and thought the handwriting looked slightly familiar. Opening it, she read:

My dear wife, Rose,

I told you that I do not have a way with words. They seem a poor vessel in which to hold all my thoughts and feelings.

If I could, I would move a mountain to see you smile. I would do anything to ease your sorrow.

There is a place of great beauty that I am in a mind to bring you if you are willing. Mr. Chadding will lend me his buggy. The seats have new springs and I think you would find it a pleasant journey.

Well, as you can plainly see I have no talent at writing letters. Thank God Pastor James wrote what I said and helped me make a lick of sense when we were corresponding. That way I got my bride.

Your everloving husband,

Charles Smith

Rose sat back in her chair. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t blink. Until finally, she took in a great gulp of air and read the letter again. And again. And then again.

†

Charles Smith
, he read, after finding a letter under his pillow. It was bedtime and Rose was presumably asleep in her room. The envelope read:

Charles Smith

Under his pillow

In his bed

At home.

He pulled back the covers and settled against the headboard, reading the outside of the envelope again. Then, unable to wait a moment more, he tore open the letter.

Dear Charles,

While I am sure one would hope that a wife and a husband would always agree, I cannot believe that is always the case. In truth, I am finding myself in disagreement with you already, after such a very short time of being married, and after such a brief courtship which was notable for its spanning such a vast distance.

You wrote, sir, that you do not have a way with words. You disparaged your ability to express yourself. This is a claim with which I cannot agree.

Your letter left me starry-eyed and breathless with wonder and joy. Your letter filled my heart with excitement and hope.

Yes, please, I would like very much to accompany you on this journey of which you speak. I would imagine it is plain to see that I would go whither thou goest very happily indeed.

I have already traveled to the ends of the earth to be with you, a decision I grow to appreciate and reflect upon with gratitude more each day.

Love,

Rose

Charles sank down into the covers and stared up at the ceiling. He read it again, and again and again, finally falling asleep with it in his hands.