ROMANCE: Mail Order Bride: A Sheriff's Bride (A Clean Christian Inspirational Historical Western Romance) (New Adult Short Stories) (7 page)

Chapter Two

A few days later, on the other side of the county, a young woman was sitting at her breakfast table with nothing but a cup of coffee. She knew she had to have something for breakfast, but her current state of mind refused any thoughts or desires of food. In an effort to forget about her troubles, she was leafing through the morning papers, mostly trying to find people in worse situations that she.

Namely, Christina Rose Hubbard was all alone in the world. Even this house she was residing in would be hers for only a while longer, and then, seeing that she had no means to pay for the loan that was taken while her father—God rest his soul—was still alive, the bank would take it.

She and her father were left to their own devices from an early age. Christina never remembered her mother, who died while Christina was still an infant and barely able to stand on her own two feet, let alone be cognizant of any memories that could prove to be of much emotional value later on. The only item she had that reminded her of her mother was a tattered old black-and-white photograph showing a lovely young woman, who, despite not smiling, appeared warm and affectionate.

“She was the sweetest person you could ever meet,” her father always said. “Always helped others before helping herself. I guess the good Lord decided to call her upon himself sooner than we’d like him to, but his will must not be questioned,” he’d add sorrowfully. “Now she is waiting for us up there,” he said, pointing up at the skies, “and looking upon us and keeping us safe.” There was always a tinge of melancholy in her father’s voice every time he spoke of her mother.

Later on, she wondered why he never remarried, but she dared not ask him. She always found it too personal, as if such a question might hurt him, and that was the last thing she’d ever want to do, especially after he had gotten ill. It all started mildly enough, just a simple loss of appetite, fever and chills, and they had all thought that his condition would improve in a few days.

Unfortunately, although the symptoms did improve, they eventually returned with a vengeance, increasing the existing symptoms in intensity and even adding some new ones, such as nausea, muscle pains and, the most revealing symptom of all, yellow skin.

“I’m sorry to say, sweet child, that it’s yellow jack.” Christina remembered the words of their doctor upon his second visit. He recommended quarantine, or boarding up the house and putting up a sign on the front door, where she would stay with him. Because it was possibly that she too had contracted the disease, the doctor added that it would be best. Other than that, there was little that could be done to prevent the inevitable.

What they knew of yellow jack was that once the skin turned yellow, it was just a matter of time. Naturally, there were people who claimed to have survived the dreaded illness and sold what they referred to as miracle cures.

Christina was desperate. She couldn’t bear losing her father, yet she had no money to pay for those cures that might help her father get better. Going against her own moral standards, she did what she thought was unspeakable and obtained the money necessary for the medications.

She quarantined herself and cared for her father until his very last dying breath. The cures did not help, but the shame at what she had done had remained. After some time, when her father was given a burial and once she was given a clean bill of health, she was able to go on with her life, though not as before. She was all alone in the world now, with no one to love or anyone to love her back, and with a smirched consciousness that wouldn’t let go of her, even in her dreams. She caught herself subconsciously shying away from the authorities, as if they’d immediately know what she had done because, to them, it was as if it were written on her forehead.

That morning, like any other, she was trying to forget all her sorrow, at least for a precious few minutes, after which the cold hand of reality would be upon her shoulder once again.

Then she saw it: the personal advertisement in a section of the newspapers that she would not normally dare look into, but now, there was no shame, nothing left to grasp desperately for, for it was all gone. There was a certain gentleman by the name of Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick, who was in search of a wife and a mother to his two children. The “mail-order bride section,” they called it. He was obviously well-established and well-educated. She could deduce that much from his writing and his eloquence.

His open letter felt warm, inviting and perhaps a little embarrassed of what he was searching for. Perhaps both of them were embarrassed in their own way: he by advertising something so shocking and she by reading—contemplating—answering him.

“What do I have to lose?” she spoke aloud, her voice echoing through the empty room. I have to leave this house soon, in either case, she thought. Perhaps it is time to look for comfort and safety elsewhere. Maybe this Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick could be someone I can rely on, count on and even love?

Reassured by her own thoughts, she set out to write a reply. Without trying to make it too elaborate—that ought best to be left for any possible subsequent responses that might ensue—her first letter was simple and succinct, introducing herself modestly but not before she excused her boldness in replying. She went on to describe her own circumstances without embellishing anything too much but rather revealing just enough.

Once she was satisfied with the outcome of her writing endeavor, she thought about adding a dash of perfume to the paper but then opted against it for it might send a wrong message.

Too bold, she thought to herself critically.

Folding the paper carefully with her slender fingers, she addressed it and went into town to mail it. Thoughts of changing her mind and simply returning home without revealing her morning activities to anyone plagued her all the way there, but something urged her to continue on her journey. As if an invisible hand was guiding her way right up to the post office where, finally, she dropped off the letter and exhaled heavily.

Well, the deed is done, she thought, a little satisfied, a little scared.

Due to numerous estate-related obligations she needed to attend to, she almost forgot about the whole affair. But one morning she saw a letter in her mailbox. The envelope and the letter were of heavy cream paper, with the letter itself bearing a monogrammed letterhead, sealed with red-colored wax. There was no outward ornamentation, nothing that would suggest any character contradictory to what letter-writing guides of the time suggested.

She sat herself on a sofa, placed some biscuits and a warm cup of coffee on a little stand next to her, and carefully grasped the letter. It felt soft to the touch, and she almost felt sorry she had to read it immediately, as she was eager to preserve this feeling of anticipation for as long as possible. Ever since the dark cloud of her beloved father’s death had enshrouded her life, there was finally a glimpse of hope, and she welcomed the sun gratefully.

Miss Christina,

It has been long since I had the opportunity to express such personal preferences and desires in a form so impersonal as a letter, but necessity has forced me onto this path of requesting what they so crudely refer to as a mail-order bride. For this I wish to excuse myself, but as I have mentioned just now, it is a course I was forced to pursue as of late but not before having paced the floor of my room numerous times trying to decide the path to my duty.

Among the replies I have received, of which there were none too many, your frankness and your kindness left me in a pleasurable state of honor for having received a response from someone as charming and open-minded as yourself.

Of myself, I have little to say at this moment, apart from the notion that I am rarely deceived in my own feelings and decisions, my latest one being that I desire a closer intimacy with someone, which would grant me the privilege, if not the satisfaction, if you would allow me to be so bold, of identifying your happiness with mine.

Ever since I read your letter, your image has been indelibly impressed upon my memory, and I do hope that my letter will be welcomed by encouragement. My destiny has not been a favorable one, but one does best with what one has, and I bear no objections to my life situation, as it has left me both beloved and bereaved. Now, I feel as if it is my duty to provide happiness, not only to my two young children but also to another, who will agree to give her life and accept mine.

Whatever your reply might be, honor binds me to you, and therefore, I shall not pursue this matter any longer if you yourself do not desire it. All I ask is that you continue to show the kindness embodied in your previous letter and inform me of your decision.

Leaving our possible future prospects entirely in your hands, I remain

Ever your friend,

Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick

Christina had to admit that the letter impressed her greatly. The man in question was obviously educated, intelligent, well to do and most charming for all she could see. And he also seemed to have been impressed himself with her response.

Could this bring me any good, or will I crash like Icarus with my wings broken, Christina wondered. In the end, she had nothing to lose. Whatever was worth something in her life had already been taken from her, and now, she was left to take care of herself. A woman left without means in a world of men, where her only chance was to become an indispensable part of someone’s life. Could this someone be Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick?

She wasn’t really certain herself. What she was certain of though, was that she would not be allowed to remain here for much longer, so whatever she had to do, she needed to do it as soon as possible because later might be too late.

Without any desire to prolong her pained situation, she decided that further correspondence with Frederick could prove to be extremely beneficial for her and could help her escape both her past and her present.

The only thing about one’s past though was that it could track you down very easily, like a huntsman hunting down prey: slowly, meticulously, biding its time.

Chapter Three

Sometime later, as Frederick was supervising the reconstructions done on the west side of his mansion, he was informed of having a visitor. Leaving the construction workers to do their job, he retired to the front part of the house where he was greeted by an old friend.

“Father Donovan!” Frederick smiled sincerely upon seeing the local priest on his door step. “Your presence always brings peace to our house.” He placed a loving hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Frederick, my boy.” He looked at the house and the reconstruction that was being done in the distance. “Your father would be so proud to see what great care you’re taking of his business and his property.”

Father Donovan had been a family friend for ages. He and Frederick’s father had been school friends, and as such, Father Donovan had always been a welcome guest in the Fitzgerald household.

“I see that your home isn’t in too great a need of a woman’s touch,” he started, but then regretted his comment, knowing that talking about possible marriage prospects so early might still be too inappropriate for Frederick.

“We get by.” Frederick smiled without taking any offense. He knew what Father Donovan meant. “Mrs. Smith takes good care of us, especially of the children, and asking for anything more of her would be asking too much. The good woman has little ones of her own, so it’s only natural that we have to let her go to her own family every once in a while,” Frederick said.

“And what about your own family, Frederick?” Father Donovan inquired, without any hidden agenda or desire to meddle into affairs that weren’t his business. However, as a spiritual leader of his flock, helping his parishioners in dire times was his business. Not only that, it was his pleasure, his life calling.

“I have thought of that, Father Donovan. And I believe I might have found a solution to what ails us,” Frederick added confidently.

“Have you, my son?” He smiled in anticipation.

“I have been corresponding with a woman. A very fine woman who might be what we need.”

“And have you conversed with this woman face to face, or have you only exchanged correspondences so far?”

“We have only written to each other, and I have a feeling, deep within my soul, that she is a good woman, exactly the kind of woman who would be a suitable mother figure for my little ones. They have been so lonely these past few months, with me busy supervising the reconstructions, the business. It’s all too much, Father, and they do need a loving mother figure.”

“I fully agree, Frederick. But what made you look so far away when there are plenty of fine women in our parochial gatherings right here? Miss Emily Townsend is a marvelous young lady, for instance. Or even Miss Eudora Williamson. All fine women, worthy of bearing your name,” Father Donovan preached.

“I am fully aware of their existence, Father. But something urged me to look far and wide, out of Texas, for someone new, someone fresh, who would not try to make me forget about Elizabeth and who would not try to replace her, or worse yet, be afraid of perpetually living in her shadow. I need—we need—someone different, someone who would bring sunlight back into our lives. She needs her own gleam, her own light, that resembles no other,” Frederick spoke pensively.

Father Donovan nodded. He realized there was no point in convincing Frederick of anything. Frederick knew exactly what he wanted, and this priest was good at what he did exactly because he supported his parishioners in everything they wanted to do.

“Mistakes are there to teach us,” he would say during his Sunday sermons. “And even though I am a man of God, I cannot tell you if what you are doing is a mistake or not. This feeling should come from within you, from where God’s own light shines bright only for you. But what I can offer is my unconditional support in both good times and bad. We are here for one another, and this is what makes us a good community. So leave the house of Lord with these words in mind, and remember to notice even the smallest miracles he sends us. He loves us, and he makes sure we know it every single minute of our lives.”

It was one of Frederick’s favorite sermons, and many times, in his direst hours, he would remember that no matter what there were still people he could rely on, people he could trust and count on.

“And besides, the children said a humorous thing the other day,” Frederick added.

“Oh, those little rascals. What was it this time?” Father Donovan loved children, despite the fact that he had none of his own. In reality, he considered his entire flock his children and treated them as a loving father should.

“Upon being asked what presents they would like for Christmas this year, their reply was a mother.” Frederick was partly amused and partly saddened by their reply. 

“Well, it is only natural, Frederick. You know that children find it easier to express what we adults keep so well hidden. Perhaps,” he leaned toward him as he spoke, “you should pay heed to what they are saying.”

After one more hour of pleasantries, Father Donovan left Frederick’s house, leaving him to what he was interested in doing since the moment he saw the postman: read Christina’s response.

Sir,

I hereby acknowledge the receipt of your last letter, to which I am replying. It is not with reluctance that I take up my pen but rather with a gentle effort to reveal to you my hopes. I do hope that I have not offended you in intruding myself upon you with my first reply. A young lady of my circumstances can never be too careful, as she might be deemed devoid of proper pride when she shows such fierce determination in making a man’s acquaintance. Your reply took me by surprise, as I bore no hopes of hearing from you. But then you have decided to take me into your confidence and intimations, and ever since, I have felt the holiest feeling of the human heart.

Until the receipt of your last letter, which I still have before me, all my hopes were abandoned, and the sweet, almost foolish confidence I had in life and in myself had been dashed. However, witnessing your candor and kind confidence, I feel allowed the privilege to intrude myself even more in your interests. Again, I do hope I may not offend you in so doing.

I have scarcely the courage to express my desires in words, and if I did so, I should be overcome with embarrassment. But let us not speak of my desires for closer ties—at least not for the time being.

Until I hear from you again, I remain

Yours as may be,

Christina Rose Hubbard

He liked her. That much he could tell just by reading her words and imagining them being pronounced in a sweet, melodic voice that might one day be ringing throughout this house. He set out to reply to her immediately. Knowing her current situation, he wanted to find out as much as he could about her as quickly as propriety allowed so that he could ask her the question that was on his mind.

But he could not have done so after only several letters. What would Father Donovan say? No. He needed to get to know Christina more, to hear more information about who she was, what she desired in life, what her aspirations were and, most importantly, if she could love his children as if they were her own.