Prologue
Ingrid
By the time I had walked three miles, I had decided my future husband probably had no teeth.
By the fourth mile, I had decided that was uncharitable.
Perhaps he had three.
“Three is perfectly respectable,” I told myself.
A crow sitting on a fence post disagreed.
I ignored him.
The carpetbag in my hand seemed to grow heavier with every step toward town. Inside were two dresses, my Bible, a comb, sewing things, nine spare hairpins, several handkerchiefs, a little wooden box that had belonged to Father, and seven letters tied together with a faded blue ribbon.
Seven letters from Mr. Elias Whitcomb.
My future husband.
That was still such a strange thing to think.
My husband.
Well, not yet.
But soon.
Somewhere far to the west was a farm I had never seen, a house I knew only through his descriptions, and a man whose handwriting I recognized better than I would have recognized his face.
I had no photograph of Elias.
He had no photograph of me.
That was probably for the best.
Photographs seemed an unnecessarily cruel thing to exchange before two people had committed themselves legally.
I shifted the carpetbag into my other hand.
Perhaps Elias was handsome.
Perhaps he was not.
I had spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to imagine him.
Tall.
Short.
Thin.
Stout.
Bald.
Possibly resembling a turnip.
None of it mattered very much.
His letters were kind.
That mattered.
He worked hard.
That mattered.
He wanted a wife.
That mattered very much.
And he wanted children.
That mattered most of all.
I smiled despite myself.
“Four teeth,” I decided. “I am feeling optimistic.”
The crow flew away.
Apparently, even he had limits.
Six months earlier, Father had died in the room where I had spent most of that winter caring for him.
By the end, he could hardly lift his own cup.
I washed him. Fed him. Changed the bedding. Sat beside him through nights when his breathing became so faint that I would stop sewing simply to listen for it.
After he died, there was nowhere particularly meant for me.
My younger sister had married.
My brother had his farm, his wife, and children of his own.
He never told me to leave.
That almost made it worse.
I was useful there.
There were meals to prepare, floors to scrub, children to watch, vegetables to tend, and animals that had absolutely no respect for grief.
But useful and wanted were not always the same thing.
I had learned that quietly.
Martha, my sister-in-law, had learned it too.
That morning she had stood with me in the kitchen before sunrise, wrapping cinnamon buns in cloth for my journey.
“You don't have to do this,” she'd said.
“I know.”
“You could stay.”
I looked around the kitchen.
The little table.
The children's shoes near the door.
The chair my brother used every evening.
Everything had a place.
Even the chipped blue pitcher had a place.
I didn't.
“I think I should go.”
Martha stopped wrapping the buns.
“You think you should go because you believe everyone else's needs ought to come before yours.”
“That isn't true.”
She gave me a look.
Martha had a very effective look.
I sighed.
“Perhaps a little.”
“A great deal.”
I smiled.
She didn't.
“You deserve more than someone who merely has room for you, Ingrid.”
“I don't need very much.”
“That is precisely what worries me.”
I looked down at my hands.
They were work hands.
Broad palms. Short nails. Roughened fingers.
Useful hands.
“I want a home,” I said.
Martha's face softened.
“I know.”
“And children.”
“I know.”
“And a husband who is kind.”
“Only kind?”
“Honest would be useful.”
She almost smiled.
“Anything else?”
“Hardworking.”
“Good.”
“Not violent.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Obviously.”
“And preferably not a drunkard.”
“Ingrid.”
“What?”
“That is an extraordinarily low standard for matrimony.”
I laughed.
She didn't.
“You should want someone who loves you.”
I looked away.
Love.
That was a beautiful thing to want when one had reason to expect it.
“I would settle for being liked.”
Martha came around the table and took my face between her hands.
“No.”
“Martha—”
“No. You listen to me. You have spent your entire life being grateful whenever someone made room for you. That does not mean crumbs are a feast.”
My throat tightened.
So naturally I made a joke.
“If Elias has all his teeth, I shall consider myself blessed beyond measure.”
She stared at me.
Then laughed despite herself.
That was better.
I could handle laughter.
“You're ridiculous.”
“I've been told.”
“And you're really going?”
“Yes.”
“To California?”
I nodded.
“To marry a man you've never met?”
“I've read seven letters. That's practically an acquaintance.”
“Ingrid.”
“He seems kind, Martha.”
That quieted her.
I reached for the little bundle of letters on the table.
“He writes about ordinary things. His farm. The weather. What he planted. Once he spent nearly an entire page complaining about a fence.”
Martha smiled.
“Romantic.”
“Extremely. I nearly swooned.”
I tucked the letters carefully into my carpetbag.
“He wants children.”
“I know.”
“He wants a home and a family. So do I.”
“And if you meet him and don't like him?”
I considered that.
“I'll learn to.”
Martha's expression changed.
“Ingrid—”
“I don't mean that badly.”
I took her hands.
“I don't expect a fairy tale. I just want something of my own. A husband. A home. Children to love. Someone waiting for me at the end of the day.”
“You deserve someone glad you're the one coming through the door.”
I smiled.
“Perhaps he will be.”
For once, I allowed myself to believe it.
The Hartwell Matrimonial and Correspondence Bureau occupied two rooms above a dry-goods shop.
A painted sign beside the stairs promised:
RESPECTABLE INTRODUCTIONS
DOMESTIC CORRESPONDENCE
WESTERN MATRIMONIAL PLACEMENTS
Respectable was underlined.
That seemed reassuring.
I climbed the stairs with considerably more enthusiasm than dignity.
Today I would receive the last of my documents.
Soon I would board a train west.
And at the end of that journey—
Elias.
The thought made my stomach flutter.
I stopped outside the bureau door and smoothed my dress.
Then my hair.
Then my dress again.
Ridiculous.
Elias wasn't here.
Still, I checked my hair once more.
Eleven pins.
Every one exactly where it belonged.
“Perfectly respectable,” I whispered.
Then I opened the door.
Mr. Pembroke sat behind his desk.
The moment he saw me, his expression changed.
My smile faltered.
“Miss Söderberg.”
“Mr. Pembroke.”
He stood too quickly.
Never trust a man who stands too quickly before delivering news.
“Please sit.”
“I'd rather stand.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He rearranged several papers.
Then rearranged them again.
I waited.
“Have my railway papers arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful.”
He did not look as though anything were wonderful.
My excitement began slowly turning into unease.
“Is there a problem?”
Mr. Pembroke cleared his throat.
“There has been a complication concerning Mr. Whitcomb.”
My fingers tightened around the handle of my carpetbag.
“What complication?”
His eyes finally lifted to mine.
“I regret to inform you that Mr. Elias Whitcomb died approximately three weeks ago.”
I stared at him.
For a moment, I heard nothing.
Not the wagon outside.
Not the voices downstairs.
Nothing.
I actually smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes the mind refuses information so completely that the face does something foolish while waiting for sense to return.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Whitcomb is deceased.”
“No.”
My answer came automatically.
Mr. Pembroke's expression softened.
“I am very sorry.”
“But I have letters.”
It was a ridiculous thing to say.
I knew that as soon as I said it.
I opened my carpetbag anyway.
Seven letters.
There they were.
Proof of absolutely nothing except that a man had once been alive long enough to write them.
“He wrote to me.”
“I know.”
“He was waiting for me.”
Mr. Pembroke said nothing.
“How?”
“An accident involving farm equipment.”
I sat.
Apparently I did want the chair.
Three weeks.
For three weeks I had been preparing to marry a dead man.
I had wondered whether he was handsome.
Whether he would like my cooking.
Whether his house had curtains.
Whether our children might have his eyes or mine.
And all that time—
He had been dead.
“Oh.”
It was the only word I could find.
“I am deeply sorry, Miss Söderberg.”
I touched the faded blue ribbon around the letters.
Elias had written about his farm.
About planting.
About wanting children.
About the maple tree beside his house.
Once he had written that he hoped I liked apples because he had more apple trees than sense.
I had imagined that tree.
That house.
Those children.
I had never loved Elias.
How could I?
I had never met him.
But I had begun building a future around the possibility of him.
And now that future had disappeared before I ever touched it.
“What happens now?”
Mr. Pembroke blinked.
“Miss Söderberg?”
“My arrangements.”
“Oh.”
He glanced at his papers.
“Yes.”
That was when I should have become suspicious.
Instead, I was grieving.
“There is another possibility.”
I looked at him.
“A gentleman in California.”
California.
That might as well have been the moon.
“His name is Don Alejandro de la Vega.”
I said nothing.
Five minutes ago, I had possessed a future husband.
I wasn't particularly interested in acquiring another one before luncheon.
Mr. Pembroke consulted the file.
“Forty-one years of age. Widowed approximately five years. Two children—a daughter of nine and a son of seven.”
Children.
Despite myself, my attention sharpened.
“A girl and a boy?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to their mother?”
“She died several years ago.”
“Oh.”
I understood something about houses made empty by death.
“He is a rancher and landowner of considerable standing.”
“Considerable standing?”
“Financially secure.”
That could mean almost anything.
Perhaps he owned six cows instead of four.
“Is he kind?”
Mr. Pembroke blinked.
“The references describe him as honorable.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
He looked through the file.
“There are no reports of violence, drunkenness, criminal conduct, or mistreatment of his family.”
Better.
“Does he work?”
“He owns and personally manages a substantial ranch.”
“Then yes.”
Mr. Pembroke smiled faintly.
“He is Catholic.”
I shrugged.
He seemed surprised.
“You are Protestant.”
“Yes.”
“That does not concern you?”
“Does he believe in Christ?”
“I believe so.”
“Then we already agree on the important part.”
Mr. Pembroke stared at me.
I folded my hands.
“My mother used to say Christians spent far too much time arguing about the proper way to love the same Lord.”
“I see.”
“Will he object?”
Mr. Pembroke hesitated.
That should have been my second warning.
“He has expressed certain preferences.”
“What preferences?”
“Cultural ones, primarily.”
I waited.
“He is Mexican Californian.”
“I know.”
That had been written plainly on the paper.
“His family has been in California for generations.”
“And?”
Mr. Pembroke shifted in his chair.
“You are Swedish.”
I looked down at myself.
“I had noticed.”
He coughed.
I continued.
“Does he know about me?”
Mr. Pembroke went very still.
“Not yet.”
That stopped me.
“Not yet?”
“The circumstances surrounding the placement have changed rather suddenly.”
“What does that mean?”
He shuffled the papers again.
“It means Don Alejandro has an active matrimonial agreement with this bureau, and we are responsible for fulfilling the terms of that agreement.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
“Does he know that you intend to send me?”
A pause.
“He will receive the necessary documentation.”
I frowned.
“Before I arrive?”
Mr. Pembroke's fingers stopped moving over the papers.
“The documentation will accompany you.”
I stared at him.
“So I am the documentation.”
“Not precisely.”
“It sounds rather precise.”
He cleared his throat.
“The circumstances are unusual, Miss Söderberg, but everything will be properly explained to Don Alejandro.”
“By whom?”
Another pause.
“By the documentation.”
I stared at him.
He looked remarkably interested in his desk.
“And he has agreed to another match?”
“He has an active matrimonial agreement with us.”
That was not exactly an answer.
I knew it.
I should have pressed harder.
But grief and hope make dangerous companions.
I looked at the paper again.
Don Alejandro de la Vega.
Forty-one.
Widower.
Two children.
California.
I knew almost nothing else.
No photograph.
No letters.
No idea what he looked like.
Perhaps he was short.
Perhaps thin.
Perhaps bald.
Perhaps his face frightened horses.
It didn't matter.
At least, I told myself it didn't.
“Is he a good father?”
Mr. Pembroke looked surprised by the question.
“His references indicate that he is devoted to his children.”
That mattered more than the rest.
I thought of Martha's kitchen.
My brother's crowded house.
Father's empty chair.
Seven letters from a dead man.
Then two children in California who had lost their mother.
“What happens if I say yes?”
“We can place you with the group of women departing west. Your railway arrangements can be amended. You would travel under the bureau's documentation and carry the matrimonial papers with you.”
I swallowed.
California.
It was enormous.
Terrifying.
Absurd.
And perhaps there was a place for me there.
Not borrowed.
Not temporary.
Mine.
“Does he want more children?”
Mr. Pembroke's eyebrows rose.
“I believe he is open to them.”
“Good.”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I reached for the pen.
“Miss Söderberg, perhaps you should take some time.”
“If I take time, will Mr. Whitcomb come alive again?”
His face fell.
“No.”
“Will my brother's house become larger?”
“No.”
“Will California move closer?”
A pause.
“No.”
“Then time doesn't change very much.”
I dipped the pen.
My hand hovered over the paper.
For the first time, fear reached me properly.
“What if he doesn't like me?”
Mr. Pembroke said nothing.
That was almost kind.
I knew what men saw.
Fair hair.
Blue eyes.
A round face.
A body too full to be fashionable.
A large bosom I had spent years trying not to notice.
Wide hips.
Strong thighs.
A soft belly that refused to disappear no matter how much work I did.
Boys had called me Milkmaid.
Once, Piggy.
I remembered both.
Cruel words had remarkable longevity.
I set the pen down.
“If he expected someone prettier—”
“Miss Söderberg.”
I looked up.
“You are a respectable young woman of excellent character.”
That was not pretty.
I almost laughed.
But perhaps respectable would be enough.
It had to be.
I picked up the pen again.
“I don't care what he looks like.”
“Pardon?”
“I think that should be written somewhere.”
“I don't believe—”
“Tall, short, stout, thin, bald. It doesn't matter.”
Mr. Pembroke stared.
“If he resembles a turnip with teeth, I may require a few days to adjust.”
His mouth opened.
“But if he is kind, I will adjust.”
For the first time that morning, Mr. Pembroke laughed.
I signed.
Ingrid Söderberg.
My name looked very small beneath all that legal language.
Mr. Pembroke gathered the papers.
He gave me several documents and one sealed envelope.
“This is to be delivered directly to Don Alejandro.”
I examined the front.
His name was written clearly across it.
“Am I to read it?”
“No.”
“Then I won't.”
I slipped it carefully into my reticule.
I did not know that the envelope contained information that would change everything.
I only knew that California waited.
A stranger waited.
Two children waited.
And somewhere inside my carpetbag were seven letters from a future that had died before it began.
I stood.
My knees felt surprisingly steady.
“Where do I go?”
Mr. Pembroke gestured toward the adjoining waiting room.
“The other ladies are preparing to leave.”
Other ladies.
That helped.
I took my carpetbag.
At the doorway, I stopped.
“Mr. Pembroke?”
“Yes?”
“Does Don Alejandro have teeth?”
He stared at me.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
I nodded.
“Fair enough.”
Then I stepped through the door toward California.
Toward a husband who did not know my name.
Toward two motherless children I had never met.
Toward a life I could not possibly imagine.
I had spent most of my life being useful.
Perhaps, somewhere beyond New Jersey, there was a place where I could finally be wanted.
