Mail-Order Marriage Promise

Across the table from her, Beth’s round face was puckering. “This is not how I imagined your meeting to go.”

Very likely not. Though she seemed about the same age as Dottie, Beth Wallin had clearly known little of the world. She still believed in love at first sight and happily-ever-after endings. Dottie had believed in all that, too, had dreamed of marrying the perfect man. She’d been a fool to accept Frank Reynolds’s promises. Now she’d been lied to yet again.

“I could have told you a lady wouldn’t fall in love with me after one meeting,” John said to his sister, his voice kind. “Women don’t react to me that way.”

Well, at least he wasn’t vain. Still, she could imagine another woman setting her cap at him. Forest green eyes and mahogany hair were a potent combination, especially with that warm voice and smile. It certainly seemed as if those broad shoulders could help carry a woman’s burdens.

“And think of Mrs. Tyrrell,” he continued as his sister sank in her chair, cookie falling to the plate. “You raised her hopes and put her in a difficult position.”

Beth straightened with a show of defiance. “Not so difficult. Seattle is a much better place for her than where she was. I knew even if you could not be brought up to scratch, she could have her pick of husbands.”

There was that. Ever since she’d arrived two days ago, she’d seen a predominance of gentlemen on the streets of the burgeoning town. But which of the miners, loggers, farmers and businessmen strolling past with approving looks were honest and hardworking? Which had left a wife behind when they’d journeyed west? She shuddered just remembering the day she’d discovered the truth about Frank.

She and Frank had been married a mere two months, sharing a little apartment on Poplar, just north of the busy downtown area. Some days she didn’t see him because he traveled for his work, but he was utterly devoted when he was home. That day, when she’d heard a knock on the door after Frank had left for work, she’d thought it must be one of the neighbor wives who liked to come over for a cup of tea. But her smile of welcome had faded when she found herself facing a finely dressed woman wringing her hands.

“I know he’s here,” the woman had said. “The detective agency gave me this address. Please, won’t you let me see my husband?”

Even remembering, she felt the cold sickness sweep over her. She’d thought surely the so-called Mrs. Reynolds was mistaken. Frank would laugh off the story.

After he’d returned that evening, Frank had tried to keep up the pretense when Dottie told him what had happened.

“She’s crazy, sweetheart,” he’d said, taking Dottie in his arms. “You’re the only girl for me.”

But Mrs. Reynolds had returned the next day and the next, until Frank was forced to admit the truth. Unhappy in his marriage, he had found solace in another woman’s arms.

In her arms. Dottie was the second Mrs. Reynolds, which meant she wasn’t married at all. Small wonder she’d used her maiden name ever since.

“A good husband,” she told Beth now, “is not so easy to come by. They generally don’t wear labels like ‘excellent provider’ or ‘kind to cats and children.’”

John Wallin smiled. Another man might have refused to have anything more to do with her after realizing his sister’s scheme. But then again, he didn’t know about Peter yet. Marrying a woman with a baby born out of wedlock might make even the kind, thoughtful Mr. Wallin turn tail.

“You might be better off seeking employment,” he suggested. “My family knows many of the business owners in town.”

And he believed she had the skills to succeed. That was refreshing. Too often men took one look at her lavender eyes and golden curls and assumed there was nothing behind them.

Beth straightened. “Of course! Maybe Maddie’s hiring.” She pushed back her chair. “I’ll go ask.”

Dottie raised her hand in protest, but Beth was already heading for the counter.

“She means well,” John said. “Her heart just gets in the way of logic sometimes.”

Dottie had been that way once, but she no longer had the luxury.

“I’m not sure about a position,” she told him. “I never learned a trade. And I have some issues with my schedule.” She took a breath and prepared to tell him about her son, but Beth bustled back to the table.

“They’ve just hired two more bakers,” she reported. “So they don’t need help at present.”

Once more, the patrons were glancing their way. Perhaps this wasn’t the best place to confess that she had a baby. Dottie rose, and John climbed to his feet as well.

“Thank you for asking about employment, Miss Wallin,” Dottie said. “I think we should continue this discussion elsewhere.”

Beth glanced around, cheeks turning pink as she must have realized the amount of interest they were still generating. “Of course. Come with me.”

Her brother stepped back to allow Dottie to go before him. She could feel him behind her, a steady presence, as she followed Beth out of the bakery.

The rain had stopped as they paused on the boardwalk of Second Avenue. Muddy puddles spanned the wide streets, and the signs plastered on the businesses on either side were shiny with moisture. The air hung with brine and wood smoke.

“Are you staying at Lowe’s, as I suggested?” Beth asked.

Dottie nodded. The white-fronted hotel was neat and tidy, and she had felt safe staying there alone the last two nights.

“Allow us to escort you back,” John said. He offered her his arm.

Dottie did not feel right taking it. Instead, she started forward, and he fell into step beside her, Beth trailing behind. That didn’t stop her from continuing the conversation.

“Maybe Dottie could farm,” she suggested. “She lived on a farm until she was twelve and her parents died. Then she went to live with her aunt and uncle in Cincinnati.”

A reasonable thought, but not here, not now.

“I remember how to work on a farm,” Dottie told Beth and her brother. “But I don’t know if I could manage one alone, particularly starting from the wilderness.”

John nodded in agreement. Beth, however, would not let the matter go.

“We could help,” she insisted, voice bright. “Our brother Drew logs. I’m sure he and his men could clear the fields for you and help you build a house. Simon has designed several, and John designed the church. I wrote you about my brothers.”

Yes, she had. Dottie felt as if she knew all about the Wallin family. Both parents were gone, the father nearly two decades ago in a logging accident, the mother a couple years back from pleurisy. Beth had five brothers, three of whom had married and were raising families and one named Levi, who had headed north to seek his fortune in the Canadian gold fields. A shame Dottie knew the least about the man she had come to marry.

John walked beside her now, his smile pleasant. The people they passed—mostly dapper gentlemen in tall-crowned hats and rough workers in knit caps—nodded in greeting. Their looks to him were respectful; their looks to her speculative. John cast her a glance as if his green eyes could see inside her to her most cherished dreams. She could have told him she had only one dream that mattered—a safe, secure home for her and her son.

“Farming alone might be difficult,” he agreed. “But we bear the responsibility for bringing you out to Seattle, Mrs. Tyrrell. I promise you I won’t rest until you have a situation that suits you.”

He sounded so sure of himself, so certain he could solve her problem. If only she could feel so sure, of Seattle and of him.

* * *

Mrs. Tyrrell did not look convinced by his statement, but John knew it for the truth. He still couldn’t believe his sister’s audacity in bringing him a bride. Did he truly seem so helpless?

Now Mrs. Tyrrell shook her head, her golden curls shining even under an overcast sky.

“I appreciate the thought, Mr. Wallin,” she said, her voice soft yet firm, “but you know nothing about me. How could you possibly understand what would suit?”

“He may not know,” Beth said, “but I do.” She tugged on her brother’s shoulder to get him to glance back at her. “I told you she enjoys reading, John. You should hire her for your library.”

That Mrs. Tyrrell liked books was certainly a mark in her favor. Indeed, as John faced front once more, he saw a light spring to her eyes, making the lavender all the brighter.

“A library?” she asked, and he could hear hope in the word.

“John is building a free library at Wallin Landing,” Beth said, “so everyone has a chance to improve.”

“Admirable,” Mrs. Tyrrell said, eyeing him as if he had surprised her.

Did she think everyone in Seattle illiterate? He’d seen articles from the newspapers back east that talked of the primitive conditions, the dangers from natives and animals, when they hadn’t had a problem in years.

“Our family is committed to building a town at the northern end of Lake Union to honor our father’s dream,” John explained. “We have a school, a dispensary, a new store, a dock on the lake, decent roads and soon a church. We’ve even applied for a post office. A library seemed the next most important civic improvement.”

“That’s why John came into Seattle to ask the Literary Society to donate funds,” Beth told Mrs. Tyrrell, and John nearly cringed at the proud tone. She tugged on his coat again, and he glanced back at her.

His sister’s dark blue eyes sparkled with interest. “How did it go? Did they see the logic? Agree to support you?”

The six women of the Literary Society, which included his longtime friend Allegra Banks Howard, had seemed more interested in quizzing him about why a fine upstanding gentleman like himself hadn’t married. He had been no more ready to confess his shortcomings to the most influential women in Seattle than he had been to the lovely lady beside him.

“Suffice it to say it will be some time before I have funds enough to build and staff the library,” he told his sister. “I’ll have to find some other occupation for Mrs. Tyrrell.” He turned to Dottie. “Do you have enough money to see you through the next few days while I ask around?”

Her step quickened, as if she would distance herself from the very idea. “I can’t take any of your money, Mr. Wallin. Now that I know we will not be married, it wouldn’t be proper.”

At least she wasn’t a fortune hunter, not that he had all that much fortune to hunt. He leaned closer to her, catching a scent like fresh apricots over the salt from Puget Sound. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to damage your reputation, ma’am. But my sister’s promises that I would marry you are responsible for bringing you here. You must allow us to see to your needs.”

She slowed her steps, body stiffening, until she reminded him of one of those golden-haired wax dolls on display at the Kellogg brothers’ store. She had every right to be offended by this entire affair. She was likely questioning his character, and Beth’s sanity.

At last she nodded. “Very well. I would appreciate it if you were to pay my room at the hotel for the next week, and I could use ten dollars for food and sundry.”

It was a reasonable number, but he hadn’t brought that much money with him to Seattle. “I’ll return with the funds tomorrow, along with a report on my progress.”

They were approaching the hotel, and she seemed loath to even allow them to enter the lobby with her. He supposed that was wise. Neither her future employer nor husband would approve of a rumor that she had received a gentleman caller in her room.

“Give your name at the front desk, and I’ll come down to meet you,” she told him. Then she dipped a curtsy. “Good day, Mr. Wallin, Miss Wallin.” She straightened, then swept into the hotel.

Beth sighed as she and John turned for the livery stable, where their wagon and team were waiting. “I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” John agreed. “You meant well, Beth, but I wish you would have consulted me first.”

“You would only have tried to dissuade me,” she said, her chin coming up as they passed the mercantiles on Second Avenue. “You persist in seeing me as your little sister, John, for all I’m a grown woman.”

She was wrong there. John and all his brothers knew she was grown. So did the gentlemen they were passing. Their smiles were appreciative as they tipped their hats in her direction. Beth paid them no heed whatsoever.

“Maybe you should think about your own wedding,” John suggested with a smile, “instead of mine.”

Beth’s lips thinned. “My wedding is years off, if I even consent to marry. You, however, have been pining away. Oh, but I could shake Caroline Crawford!”

“She is entitled to marry a man she can love and respect,” John said, finding his strides lengthening. “I am not that man.”

“Then she is foolish and temperamental,” Beth declared, scurrying to keep up.

Caroline hadn’t seemed so to him. Indeed, when she and her parents had first moved out near Wallin Landing, John had thought he’d at last met the perfect wife for him. Petite, delicate, with great gray eyes, sleek raven tresses and a slender figure, Caroline Crawford had hung on every word of advice she requested from him after driving with him into Seattle for church services each Sunday for a month, her parents in a wagon just behind. Her attentiveness and bright smile had made him begin to hope for a future together.

But when he’d emboldened himself to propose, on bended knee in the moonlight no less, she’d refused.

“Oh, I could never marry a man like you, John,” she’d said, as if surprised he’d think otherwise. “You have no gumption.”

No gumption. No drive. No willingness to claw his way to ever greater achievements. He had built a farm from the wilderness, managed it well, assisted his brothers and Beth where he could, helped his neighbors, tithed to the church and supported the school, but apparently that was not enough.

Heroes did more.

Heroes put their own needs aside to raise their fatherless siblings, as Drew had done when Pa had died. Heroes protected ladies across wilderness areas as James had done for his bride, Rina. Heroes fought off dastardly relatives as Simon had done for his wife, Nora. Heroes braved the next frontier, like Levi.

A hero did not sit safely at home, reading adventure novels and the latest scientific and engineering theories while his cat purred in his lap before the hearth.

Yet that seemed to be his role in the family—the scholar, the peacemaker. When Pa had died, John had been all of ten, old enough to feel the loss, to recognize the pain in others. Drew had assumed leadership as Pa had directed him with his dying breath, but Simon and James hadn’t sat well under it. Watching his brothers argue had just made John want to curl in on himself. And Ma had seemed so sad when her children didn’t get along, as if it was somehow her fault she was raising them all alone.

Surrounded by sorrow and strife, John had done everything he could to make sure everyone got along. He encouraged the best in his brothers, helped them through the worst. He pointed out things that made Drew think about how James must be feeling, pushed James to see things from Simon’s more logical perspective, reminded Simon that following Drew was what Pa wanted and tried to be an example to little Levi. Keeping things peaceable was how he contributed.

The trait was still with him. Now when John saw a problem, he was more likely to find a way to solve it quietly than to leap into the fray. He was the one who suggested compromises rather than demanding capitulation. A shame that habit kept him from living up to his image of a hero. Mrs. Tyrrell must have recognized that he lacked certain qualities, for she’d not held him to Beth’s promise to wed. He had no need to drag his bruised heart out of hiding.

Still, he seemed to hear it whispering encouragement as he and Beth reached the livery stable. It would take more than a pretty mail-order bride to get him to listen.

Chapter Three

Dottie climbed the stairs to her second-floor hotel room, feeling heavy. How could she have let this happen? Why had she believed what Beth Wallin had written to her? Had she learned nothing from her terrible experience with Frank?

Of course, none of the letters Beth had sent her or the conversation with John had been anything like talking with Frank. A salesman for a manufacturing firm in Cincinnati, with clients all over the state, he’d had a way of making people feel important. She’d needed that fifteen months ago when she’d first met him.

Her uncle, who worked for the same firm, had brought Frank home for dinner to meet Dottie. Frank hadn’t been the first fellow foisted upon her that way. Uncle Henry and Aunt Harriot lived in a manner her parents had found worrisome—drinking with friends most nights, holding their own riotous parties at least twice a month, saying vulgar words upon occasion and never attending church.

Though she tried not to complain, she could not bring herself to act the way they did, causing her uncle to dub her “Dottie Do-Gooder.” By word and action, they had made it very clear they wanted her out of the house as soon as possible. Only by doing all the cooking and cleaning had she convinced them to allow her to stay past her sixteenth birthday.

Every other man they had brought home to meet her had been just like them, favoring cheap cigars and alcohol. Frank had seemed different—polished, polite, friendly. Small wonder she’d begun to fancy she had found love. Frank had known just what to say, how to act, to get her to go along with his wishes and feel terribly happy about it as well.

Beth had also said all the right things, promising a kind, considerate husband well able to provide for Dottie’s needs. That part hadn’t been a lie. If anything, John Wallin was an even better man than his sister had described, if the way he had responded to Beth’s interference was any indication. Yet what sort of man needed a sister to fetch him a bride?

John seemed neither stupid nor lazy. He was not crippled, and he appeared to be in good health. If he was intent on building a library, surely he wasn’t the illiterate Dottie had feared. Most women would account him handsome. Even in Seattle, where there were far more men than women, he would likely be considered a catch.

So why did he lack a wife? Had he some flaw she hadn’t noticed on first meeting?

She was still wondering as she let herself into the narrow hotel room with its single window looking down toward Puget Sound. Mrs. Gustafson rose from the chair as Dottie shut the door behind her. A heavy woman with button-brown eyes and a wide mouth, she exuded motherly warmth, even in the somewhat Spartan conditions of the hotel room.

“A little darling he was,” she proclaimed in her thick German accent, looking fondly at the blanket spread on the floor. “Never once did he cry.”

Dottie’s son gurgled at her as she kneeled beside the blanket. He waved pudgy arms and begged to be picked up. She obliged, cuddling him close and feeling the soft tufts of his white-blond hair against her chin.

This was why she must stay strong. This was why she could not give up.

“Thank you for watching him,” she told the older woman.

Mrs. Gustafson waved a beefy hand. “Ach, he is no trouble. And your young man, how did you like him?”

Dottie had confided her purpose in coming to Seattle, though she had let Mrs. Gustafson, like Beth, think she was a widow instead of a woman shamed. Now she considered how to answer. In truth, had she met John Wallin before she’d known Frank, she would likely have been willing to let him court her. Now she needed a man ready to take a chance on a woman and an illegitimate baby, a man willing to fight for family. John Wallin, for all his gentle ways, did not seem likely.

“He decided we will not suit,” she told her friend.

The German lady recoiled. “Vas? Is he touched in the head? Such a lovely lady you are. And who could resist little Peter, eh?” She bent closer and stroked the baby’s cheek. Peter watched her, wide-eyed.

“I’ll simply have to find another way to support Peter,” Dottie said. “Surely someone here needs a worker and wouldn’t mind having a baby along.”

Mrs. Gustafson nodded as she straightened. “You could work on the railroad. I saw pictures all along the street here, asking everyone to come help on May Day.”

Dottie had seen them as well, posters plastered to any bare spot on the wall along the streets of Seattle. Come all ye adults of mankind. Nor let there be none left behind. It seemed Seattle had lost its bid to be the terminus of the Northern Pacific Railway, which would be coming to Tacoma, to the south, instead. Now Seattle was determined to build its own railroad.

“I doubt they are planning to pay the workers much,” she told her friend. “And I don’t know how I’d be much help carrying Peter around. If you hear of anything else, though, please let me know.”

“Oh, yah, of course,” Mrs. Gustafson promised. “But I don’t know of any places that will take a mother with child. And we leave tomorrow for the Duwamish. I would ask you to come, but it is my brother’s place, and he only has room for me and my Dieter.”

It was the same story every place Dottie tried that afternoon. Either the business did not want to take on a woman, or they needed her to work long hours away from Peter. The shops in Seattle, it seemed, were open by five in the morning and did not close until nearly ten at night. One of the owners even suggested that she give up her son, claiming many of the farmers in the area would be interested in adopting a baby that would grow into a strong young man. Clutching Peter close, she had hurried from the store. Peter was hers, not Frank’s, not anyone else’s. He was the one good thing to come from her bad marriage.

“You are a blessing,” she told him as she carried him back to the hotel. A passing gentleman favored her with a gap-toothed grin as if he thought she was addressing him. Peter snuggled closer.

That night, after she’d settled her son to sleep beside her on the bed, she allowed herself a moment to pray, asking for help finding work, a safe place for her and Peter to live. But still she found no peace.

Her mother and father had always prayed before bed and at mealtimes. They’d attended church services as well, read to her from the Bible. All that had changed when they’d been killed in a train accident. Her uncle had taken her Bible away from her, told her it was just a book of nonsense. She hadn’t seen the inside of a church in years. She shouldn’t be surprised she no longer felt God’s presence. She’d been the one to move away.

All Dottie could hope was that John Wallin had better connections in the frontier town than she ever would, and that he’d find something that would work for her and Peter.

* * *

John returned to Seattle the next day on horseback, leaving his mount at the livery stable while he canvassed the town. But it seemed Dottie had been unwilling to wait for his help, for most of the places he tried reported that she’d already been in.

“Lovely lady,” the tallest Kellogg brother said when John asked at his store about a clerk position, “but we simply could not accommodate the hours she wanted.”

He heard similar stories at other shops he tried. Dottie seemed determined to work as little as possible. He couldn’t understand it. Had she been so tenderly raised that she had no idea what employers expected? Surely if she’d lived on a farm she knew that work went on from before sunrise to after sunset most days.

He wished he knew more about her. He’d asked Beth as they’d ridden back to Wallin Landing yesterday, but his sister had obviously recovered her usual buoyancy and determined that he was the villain in all this.

“Oh, no, John Wallin,” she’d declared with a toss of her head. “You didn’t wish to heed my advice and marry Dottie Tyrrell, so don’t think you can get back into my good graces by appearing interested in her now. If you want to know more about her, I suggest you talk to her directly. I am quite finished playing matchmaker.”