Michelle: Bride of Mississippi (American Mail-Order Bride 20)

C
opyright
© 2015 by Cindy Caldwell

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M
ichelle peered
out the window and looked up at the drab, gray sky. She pressed her hand to the glass, shrinking away from the cold. Filling a pot with hot water, she peeked out once more, wondering when her cousin, Josephine, would be back from her meeting with Roberta, their former manager at the textile mill.

Since the fire burned down the factory she and her roommates worked in and it hadn’t re-opened, they’d all been unemployed. She set the potatoes and cabbage on the counter, thinking she’d be just fine if she never saw either again. She tried to concentrate on supper, going over the remaining savings she had in her head. It wouldn’t last long.

Chevonne and Dacey stood and looked at the door as Josephine entered. She’d been sent to the meeting with Roberta, and they’d all been waiting impatiently for her to return. Michelle turned from the pot on the stove and forced a smile.

“What is it, Josephine? What did Roberta say? Are they working on the factory already? When can we go back to work?” Michelle wiped her hands on her apron as she peppered Josephine with questions.

Josephine sat down at the small kitchen table and held something under the table for a moment. “I don’t know how to do this except to just tell you all what Roberta said.” She looked down at her hands. “The factory is finished. It won’t be rebuilt and we’ve all lost our jobs. Permanently.”

Michelle leaned on the back of a chair and Chevonne clutched her grandmother’s bag more tightly. Dacey folded her arms over her chest and Della paced.

“She did have a suggestion for us, though, and I brought home some advertisements.” Josephine spread what looked like a newspaper out on the table.

“What?” Michelle said as she picked up the newspaper and flipped through it. “She gave you this?”

“Yes. Her friend is a matchmaker and she’d like to help us. Roberta got the magazine hoping we all might find...um...positions.”

“Well, I’ll be. I’ve heard of this before but I’ve never seen an actual magazine for it, with advertisements.” Michelle scanned the page, smiling several times. “Look at this one.
45-year-old man, not completely bald and with money, seeks a friendly, happy woman over age 30 to raise my 12 children.”

Chevonne burst out laughing, her hand over her mouth.
“
What? Twelve children? I can’t even imagine bearing that many children, let alone raising them. I have more important things to do.”

Michelle ran her finger down the ads. “I don’t think I would mind raising children. But sometimes the rest of the offer isn’t that great.”

Josephine tapped her finger to her lips. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “We don’t truly have many choices, do we?” She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “But, if we have to start over, why don’t we make it the best situation we can? Everybody’s going to be applying to these advertisements, I bet, and we should decide quickly and get our letters off.”

She scanned the listings and smiled--they were from all over the country. Michelle had loved being a seamstress and was very good at it, but since the factory had burned she’d been entertaining thoughts about other options. Out of the city and away from the cold.

“Michelle, maybe you all could find some possibilities,” Josephine said, pushing herself back from the table.

“We can cross off some of the obviously horrid advertisements and maybe sit down after supper and decide? I’d hate to see us all respond to the same ones.” Michelle set the newspaper back down on the table and sat down, hunching over it with a pencil in her hand. “I’ve always wanted to visit some different places.”

Her brow furrowed as she went over the many pages of ads. Possible options for all of her roommates crossed her mind and she circled them as fast as she could.

“Josephine, I think you may want to take a look at this. It just might be great for you.”

Josephine laughed as she scraped a knife over the potato. “Great for me? Can’t imagine that.”

“Don’t be like that. Do you know where Louisiana is?” Michelle stood and crossed over to her cousin.

“I don’t think so. Isn’t it somewhere south? Far away? By the ocean?”

“I’m not sure. Something like that. But listen to this.
Seeking cultured, sophisticated, lovely young lady to wed owner of plantation in Louisiana.

Josephine laughed and shook her head. “Michelle, that hardly describes me,” she said as she held up her rough, red hands. “What makes you think I should answer that one?”

Michelle’s grin spread and her eyes sparkled. “Let me read the rest.
Must speak French.
”

Josephine set the knife down, walked to the table and scanned the advertisement. Her eyes lit up and she looked up at Michelle.

“I think maybe this might be a good one.”

Chevonne sat down with her bag on her lap. Michelle thought back, trying to remember if she’d ever seen her without it and couldn’t think of a time.

“Good. We’ll write a letter after dinner,” Michelle said as she continued to scan the pages.

Still circling, she stopped for a moment, tapping the pencil on her chin.

“What is it?” Della said, her eyes wide. “Did you find something?”

Michelle twirled one of her red curls as she thought. Mississippi. Where was that? She’d need to get a map and see, but she knew it wasn’t in the frosty northeast.

“I’m not sure. There are lots of opportunities, but you don’t really know until you write and maybe get a little bit more information? Some of them are very vague.”

Della sat down beside her. “I’ve always wanted to go back out west,” she said softly. “I’ve often thought that a ranch is where I might belong.”

Michelle rested her hand on Della’s arm and sighed. “None of this had ever occurred to me as a possibility, but looks like it might give us some good options.”

Out of so many choices in the
Grooms’ Gazette
, she was sure that everyone would find a good fit. She bent back over the newspaper, looking for just the right one for her.

A
nthony Chandler locked
the door to his shop and rubbed the back of his neck. It was well past regular closing time, but he wasn’t entirely anxious to get back to the grand, stately home he’d inherited from his parents when they’d passed away.

He’d loved it once, and smiled as he remembered the tree-lined driveway that he and his sister had run up and down for hours as the carriages passed. They’d even been known to throw rocks once or twice and duck behind the azaleas lining the side of the house.

He looked up at the sign above the door--Chandler Finery--as he held his hat on his head. Chandler Finery-- the business his father had started and done so well at. Well enough to build the house, the grand, brick home with two-story white columns that had even been occupied by both Confederate and Federal soldiers at various times during the Civil War. Well enough to afford the luxuries that came in on the train, and well enough to allow them a position in the community.

His father had even served as mayor before he died, his mother instrumental in starting the “Ladies’ Club,” a charitable group in town.

The mournful whistle of the last train of the day sounded a few miles off and Anthony started his walk toward home. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat against the chilly, fall air and walked as briskly as he could, buggies passing him. He’d be in his own buggy today--the only one left, and a small one at that--but his housekeeper, Mable, had asked to use it for the day to take the children out as it was expected to storm.

The children. Adelaide’s children.

He shivered as he remembered the telegram and, after reading it, sliding into a chair as it fell to the ground. His twin sister Adelaide had been constantly on his mind of late--she’d always been the dramatic one, full of fire and excitement--always getting him into trouble but always wanting to help. As he thought of her dark curls flying behind her as they raced down the drive, his heart thudded.

Her death so soon on the heels of his parents’ had been almost more than he could bear. As he hurried along the streets of Corinth toward their home, he looked up at the wide porches of the houses he passed, envious of the families who were still able to be together and sit on them of a summer night, enjoying lemonade or sweet tea as the sun set and the lightning bugs came out.

He’d never have that again. Never have that sense of family and his heart tugged at the thought. He stopped as he reached his home--his family’s home--and stood for a moment, gazing up at the light streaming from the upstairs bedrooms. He never would have thought that those lights, coming from the childhood rooms of him and his sister, would now be housing her children, and that she would be dead.

As he trudged up the long driveway, hoping that no one could see him arrive on foot, he walked up the tall, brick stairs and stepped onto the wide porch. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the tall white column--one of four--to the sides and peeked through the tall glass on each side of the door.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw no movement. The children must be upstairs with their nanny, or the housekeeper. He removed his hat and ran his hand through is hair, the dark waves dropping almost to his collar. He’d promised the nanny that he’d be able to pay her this evening, and his stomach flipped at the thought of telling her once again that he couldn’t.

The door squeaked as he opened it slowly and shrugged off his coat. Hanging it on the coat rack by the door, he passed the dining room, glancing at the empty silver case. His heart tugged as he could almost see his mother reaching for her prized silver and china at each holiday--sometimes, even on a regular day when her lady friends came to visit--and set it on the table, her smile infectious and her eyes bright.

“It’s important that guests feel welcome and honored, Anthony,” she’d say every time he was asked to help polish the silver, a skill she insisted everyone should have regardless of kitchen help to do it.

“I don’t think it matters, Mama,” Adelaide had said one time as their mother handed them an intricate silver teapot that he knew would be very difficult to polish. “Real people don’t care whether they drink tea out of a silver pot and china. Lemonade out of a tin mug is just as fun.”

Adelaide had winked at him, he remembered, as their mother sputtered, “Young lady, you know that’s not true. True friends deserve the absolute best you have to offer.”

Anthony remembered kicking his sister under the table and the laugh she’d let out, smiling at him as she jumped from the table and ran from the room, their mother shouting for her to come back.

“I won’t,” Adelaide had replied over her shoulder, her dark hair streaming over her shoulder as she slammed the front door behind her.

He sighed as he sat in the wing-backed chair by the fire, silently thanking Mable for lighting it as he leaned forward, warming his hands by the flame. He glanced up at the portrait of the two of them in the parlor--they must have been around ten years old--and smiled at how happy they looked.

“I’m trying, Adelaide. I really am.”

He hung his head in his hand, but sat up and smiled as Mattie and Missy crashed down the stairs in their nightshirts, their blonde pigtails flying behind them. He never could see them without thinking of Adelaide, and the six months they’d been with him had been some of the most wonderful and terrifying months of his life.

Missy jumped on his lap, snuggling her head in the crook of his neck as Matilda joined her, climbing up on his other leg and dropping her head on his shoulder as well. “We’re glad you’re home, Uncle Anthony,” Missy said as she shoved her thumb in her mouth.

Matilda reached out and pulled her sister’s thumb out of her mouth. “Mama said that was for babies,” she scolded. “You’re a big girl now and you shouldn’t do that.

“If Mattie wants to do it, Missy, I think it’s all right,” Anthony said, wrapping his arm around the twins and rubbing his cheek in Missy’s hair. It couldn’t be easy to lose their parents at such a young age and travel miles and miles to live with someone they hardly knew.

Missy sat up straight, her eyes wide as Mrs. Robertson came down the stairs. Anthony was glad it was time for her to read them a book as he’d missed supper and his stomach growled, thoughts of leftovers in his head. He smiled and patted the girls on the head as he stood and turned to their nanny.

His eyes grew wide as she reached the bottom of the stairs, setting her suitcase down as she pinned on her hat and tugged on her gloves.

“Mrs. Robertson, are you going out this evening?”

“Girls, why don’t you run into the kitchen and see what Mable has for your uncle for supper,” she said, smiling at Mattie and Missy, waiting as they left the room. She turned to Anthony, her eyes soft.

“Mr. Chandler, do you have my wages for the last two weeks, and the two weeks before that?”

Anthony sighed and hung his head, his stomach tightening. He’d done everything he could to get her wages--the store had been so far in arrears when his parents died and everything he’d done so far had only helped it stay afloat, not get ahead. He’d sold his mother’s silver to even be able to pay Mrs. Robertson for the time she’d been with them the past six months, and there wasn’t much left to sell.

“I’m so sorry. I’m hoping to have it for you by next week.”

With a sigh, Mrs. Robertson rested her hand on Anthony’s arm. “You’re a good man, Mr. Chandler, and I wish you the best of luck, but I’ve about exhausted my savings. If I don’t find another position, I--”

Heat crept into Anthony’s cheeks as he held up his hands. “I understand, Mrs. Robertson, and thank you for your service. Can you leave an address for me to send your final wages when I get them? I am very grateful for your help.”

Her eyes soft and kind, she nodded. “You have your hands full here, Mr. Chandler, and I do wish you the best.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a paper. “I’ve written my sister’s address on this newspaper if you find yourself in the position to send something, but I don’t expect it. Working with the twins has been a true pleasure, and I would stay if I could afford to. I’ve said goodbye to the girls and am expecting a carriage, so I’ll be off.”

Anthony numbly took the newspaper and carried Mrs. Robertson’s bag to the door, opening it for her and escorting her down the front steps. He handed the bag to the carriage driver and nodded to Mrs. Robertson as they drove off.

Slowly, he walked back into the house and closed the door behind him. These unexpected events had turned his world upside down and he couldn’t imagine how he could continue.

He sighed and looked down at the paper Mrs. Robertson had handed him. As he read the title, he felt a little bit hopeful for the first time in months. He took a deep breath and set the
Grooms’ Gazette
down on the table in the foyer, vowing to write an advertisement as soon as he’d read the twins a book and tucked them in bed.