In Need of a Good Wife (20 page)

“I can offer these men about a quarter of what they paid, for it’s all I have left. I couldn’t recoup the cost of the train and ferry tickets, and there were other … complications.” Clara thought of Molly’s poor father, on his grim errand to meet her train in Chicago today. Molly’s intended, Mr. LeBlanc, had gone pale when Clara told him about her passing. He said nothing about the money and Clara felt strange about bringing it up just then, but after expressing her deep condolences, she vowed to call on him soon to discuss what they could do about his situation.

“Why should we accept that mere sum?” Drake said. “She should return every penny.”

Cartwright stepped out from behind his desk. “I’d like to speak to Miss Bixby and get this straightened out. Why don’t you all go on home and I’ll send word about what we’re going to do.”

“My brewery built this town, and this is how I am repaid?” Drake nearly shouted. He pointed at the mayor. “If you don’t do something about it, I will.”

“Mr. Drake,” Bill said, feigning a realization as they left the office. “Wouldn’t you consider this
fraud
, sir? We put men in jail for that, don’t we? Why not her?”

“That’s a very good point, Albright,” Drake said loudly, over his shoulder stepped through the door. “A very good point.”

The mayor cleared his throat. The angrier he seemed, the softer his voice became in the small room. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said as he closed the door behind the departing men.

Clara knew the thwarted grooms were angry, but the way they were acting made it seem to her that it was all a little like a game to them too, something that was between Drake and the mayor that didn’t have much to do with her. She stared at a bit of mud on the floor, shaken by their accusations.

Mayor Cartwright gestured to a chair opposite his desk. “Miss Bixby, please have a seat.” Once she sat down, he did too. The state of being indoors seemed to make him uncomfortable, as did the tight-fitting jacket that pulled across his wide shoulders. The dog stood up and hobbled over to her, one of its legs not quite falling into line with the others. It sat down in front of her knees. She saw that in addition to its limp, the poor dog was missing an eye and an ear.

“Who’s this?” Clara asked, stalling for time.

“That’s Sergeant.”

Clara smiled at him and patted his head. “A military man!”

This made the mayor chuckle, then sigh. He folded his hands on his desk. “You can imagine that I am in a bit of a difficult spot here.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I understand why these men are angry.”

“I should say so. You accepted payment for a service you did not provide.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the case, Mayor Cartwright. Much of the work required to match these men was completed back in New York, where I had to find suitable brides for them and facilitate their correspondence over the winter. I had to procure travel arrangements in advance, which will not be refunded, even though they’ve decided not to make the journey. We encountered costly delays. And one of our girls fell ill and died en route.”

The mayor’s eyebrows shot up. “My God. I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“So, you see,” Clara said. “It’s not as if I have the money sitting in a purse somewhere.” Sergeant pressed his cold nose against the back of her hand, and she rubbed his head. He lay down on top of her boots.

“Businesses take a loss sometimes, but they don’t expect their customers to cover it. You take it out of your profits. Out of your capital reserves.”

“My reserves,” Clara said sheepishly, “were not deep enough, it seems. I imagined that some of the brides might change their minds, and I did plan for that eventuality. But I never could have imagined losing Molly the way we did. Believe me when I say that I am writing to the families of the three who live and breathe to demand repayment. But it is a difficult task. It seems they pledged to go with me against their parents’ wishes.”

Cartwright’s mouth was stern but his eyes couldn’t hide his amusement with the whole debacle. “Didn’t you ask them to sign any kind of agreement with you, binding their promise?”

“No, sir. I didn’t think of it. And I had no one to advise me to do so.”

“That you would ever think such a mercurial thing as marriage could be a matter of business!”

“I know,” Clara said. “I shouldn’t have trusted that they would follow through. But can you help me, sir, at least, to convince those men that I haven’t broken any laws? My intentions were honest—you must know that.”

“I do,” Cartwright said. “But you may have noticed that my position doesn’t mean a whole lot to folks around here. Jeremiah Drake runs this town and he does as he pleases. It’s unfortunate that he happens to fall into the group of men who have been disappointed.”

Clara twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “What am I going to do?”

“Do you have accommodations for yourself, at least?”

“I made a temporary arrangement with someone named Mrs. Healy. She said she rents out rooms. I had planned to stay until the new couples were settled and then I had hoped to have enough profits saved to move on,” Clara said, thinking of the little white cottage. “I had a plan for my future, but I see now that I won’t be able to achieve it any time soon.”

“Mrs. Healy is the only woman remaining in this town, and only because her husband was killed in a train robbery when they were traveling from Detroit to California. She couldn’t afford to go any farther west. I think you had better plan on staying in town until we get this sorted out. Those rooms are above Mrs. Healy’s tavern.”

A hard laugh escaped from Clara’s lungs and she sat for a moment with her mouth open, gaping at Mayor Cartwright. “Above a
tavern
?” she said.

He nodded.

“Above a tavern.” Clara repeated the phrase once more, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks and her head begin to throb. She had traveled across five states, through a nightmare and a hailstorm, across a dusty prairie, losing these men’s money, as well as the life of one young woman, not to mention thwarting George Bixby, all to find herself living penniless above a
tavern
, just as she had in Manhattan City.

“Are you all right, Miss Bixby?”

Another moment passed before Clara nodded and pulled herself together. “May I ask you, sir—Why
aren’t
there more women in this town?”

Cartwright grimaced. “Homesteaders, including my Uncle Kellinger, founded this town starting ten years ago, and Jeremiah Drake sank his inheritance into that idiotic brewery. For a while everyone was getting by all right. Making a life out here is no easy thing, you understand, and that was before the railroad. One shouldn’t expect comforts or leisure. And the few women who were here surely didn’t. But they
did
expect a little Christian civility. Unfortunately for them, when Durant and his ilk decided to run the railroad through Destination, we lost what little bit of civility we had. The workers were rough. They lived a kind of life that the farmers’ wives found objectionable. And who could blame them? Drinking, fighting, gambling—the unholy trinity. But, you see, it wasn’t the people of Destination who were causing a problem. It was the railroad men passing through. They had a corrupting influence on this town, and they left it forever changed, even though the railroad has brought us some revenue. It certainly fattened Drake’s pockets. But the few women who were here and hadn’t yet died of fever or childbirth eventually threw up their hands and went back east, or persuaded their husbands to move farther out away from town. I do think most of our men regret letting that happen. Of course, now all those rail jobs have moved west. And here we sit.”

Clara nodded. “I really meant to help to change that. I hope you believe me. I promise you, you have my word that I will pay these gentlemen back, sir. I just need a little time.”

“I’ll try to hold them off ,” he said, “But Bill is right—should they organize themselves, which, fortunately for you, is doubtful, the law
is
on their side.”

The new Mrs. Gibson rode beside her husband as they bumped and shimmied down the dusty main road, then turned north on a narrow lane. It was a clear, gusty day. A small dog with a mangled ear came out from behind a tree and trotted happily alongside the wagon. Rowena glanced nervously at Daniel, feeling her confidence suddenly desert her. What was she doing here? Her gaze skimmed the collar of his jacket, then down his arms to his meaty hands, clutching the reins. His fingertips were caked with dirt. She shuddered to think that in a few short hours she might have to see this stranger without any clothes on, might have to feel those grimy hands grope her flesh.

He looked over at her with a shy smile. “I meant to inquire when you first arrived about your father’s health.”

“Oh, thank you,” Rowena said. And right on time, here was a reminder of why she had agreed to this arrangement. “He is doing as well as can be expected. I owe you a great debt for your willingness to see after his care.”

“It is the very least I can do, Mrs. Gibson,” he said, trying the name out. “I am only honored that
you
would consider
me
.”

Rowena felt her dread ease just a bit. Maybe he wouldn’t insist that they rush into the nighttime visits. He seemed gentle enough, easily persuaded. She might have the upper hand, and if that was the case, she could bear it all just fine. Perhaps she would find herself even liking him a bit.

The lane wound through a handful of small sod houses near town. Farms spread across the land in the distance. Each house was low to the ground, curved on top like the back of a sleeping dog, and most had a clothesline stretched between the exterior wall and a post driven into the ground two dozen feet away. One had a well with a red-painted bucket on a pulley, which stood out against the palette of gray and brown and the pale green-yellow of the grass. Because the land was so flat, Rowena understood that she wouldn’t crest a hill and have something unexpected revealed to her. Yet even as Daniel slowed the wagon in front of one of the soddies, no larger or more distinguished than the others, Rowena expected that the Gibson house was hiding somehow, behind a tree that wasn’t there, off much farther in the distance where the view lost its crisp edges in the wavering heat.

“Are we stopping off here first?” she asked.

Daniel stared at her a moment, then broke into a smile. “What a delight you are, my girl. Always full of humor.”

“What do you mean?” Rowena glanced at the narrow footpath cutting through the scrub to the low door of the house. On the line hung four sets of men’s underwear, each one smaller than the next. A pair of antlers had been tacked over the door. Two of the points on the left one were broken off.

A young man of fifteen years or so came around the side of the house. “
This
is her?” he said.

One by one, three more boys appeared. Each one was six inches shorter than the one who came before, but that was the only variation in their appearance: fair, nearly transparent skin, icy blue eyes, spindly legs and arms that moved with the jerky motion of a jointed wooden puppet.

Daniel nodded, stepping down from the wagon. He crossed in front of the horses and offered his hand to help his new wife down. “Rowena, this is Sigrid. And Gustav, and Odin, and Dag,” he said, nodding his head at each one down the line.

Rowena stared blankly at him, refusing to allow the truth to penetrate her mind.

“My sons.” He waved his hand at the boys. “Well, come on.”

“Wel-come, Moth-er!” the boys shouted in unison, their grins wide and bright. Their lips were a preternatural shade of red too intense for their complexions.

“We practiced that all morning,” Daniel said triumphantly. He swept his hand across the general scene, like a magician on stage revealing the prestige of a trick. He was
proud
of all of it, Rowena realized with a growing horror—proud of the bare, scrubby land, the crude house, the ragged children. How was it possible that they could even fit inside the one-room house? Where did they sleep? Eat? Wash? It was a ghastly scene.

The hinge on Rowena’s jaw had lapsed and her chin hung down. She stood, frozen, until a gust culled a cloud of dust from the ground and shot it up into her face. Rowena closed her mouth, waved it away.

“What’s wrong, my dear?”

“Perhaps,” Dag began in a tinny voice as he stepped forward. “Perhaps she is wondering about Ully.”

“Of
course
,” Daniel cried, jovial. “Sigrid, where’s Ully?”

“Inside, Father. Too afraid to come out.”

Rowena found her voice. “There’s
another one
?”

“Ulrika Eleonora, my only daughter. She’s just a tiny thing. Nine years old but kindly stopped growing around age seven.” Daniel winked at Rowena as if this were funny. One horror after another seemed to come out of the soddy, out of his mouth, out of the mouths of his …
spawn
.

“Ully!”
Sigrid shouted. “Present yourself at once!”

“Siggy, there’s no need to be rude,” one of the middle ones said, Odin or Gustav—Rowena couldn’t remember which was which. The front door creaked open a few inches and a pale face peeked out.

“Come along, Ully. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Daniel’s reassurance coaxed her into the light, and Rowena reeled back once again. Oh, she was ugly. She wore a man’s shirt belted at the waist with a piece of rope. The shirttails hung to the ground, skimming the top of a pair of enormous boots that must have been stuffed with cotton in the toes to keep them on her tiny feet. Her greasy hair was cropped unevenly at her jaw and parted down the middle, and she had a vulgar, pointed chin, the underbite of a terrier.

“This child is a girl?” Rowena whispered.

Ully clomped slowly, unsmiling, toward Rowena with her hands on her hips, then tipped her head back and looked up at her. “I am Swedish royalty,” she said, her voice a squeak.

Rowena looked at Daniel. He shrugged. “She is—well,
named
for royalty, that is. My late wife was very proud of her heritage.”