Mail Order Charlotte (Brides 0f Sweet Creek Book 3) Read online

  Mail Order Charlotte

  Brides of Sweet Creek, Book 3

  By Sarah Banks

  Copyright © 2018 Sarah Banks

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter One

  “Charlotte!”

  Her father’s voice penetrated the pages of her book. She wasn’t sure if it was the first or fifteenth time he called her name, that was how immersed she became when reading. It was the first day of the month, the day she received her allowance from her father. Unlike other girls her age, she didn’t spend it on clothes or fripperies, no, she spent every single penny on books. And if she ran out of new books to read before the end of the month, she would reread a book from her collection instead of going to the lending library because she not only loved to read books, she loved to collect them. If it wasn’t for the bed in her room, this room could be mistaken for the library with shelves of books lining every wall. She loved everything about books – the flashy gilt of the title, the way the leather binding felt under her fingertips, the smell of the paper and even the glue, the way the book sounded when being cracked open for the very first time, especially by her. But most of all she loved how books pulled her inside the pages and transported her to another time and place, another world.

  She was laying diagonally across her bed, reading as she did every night, and every day for that matter. She was as close as she could get to the low-burning candle without singeing the corner of her book or her hair, the latter of which had unfortunately happened before and had required careful hairstyling each morning until it was no longer so obvious.

  The rest of the room was dark outside the small circle of light. It was late. She hadn’t looked at a clock since supper and never even heard the chimes of the grandfather clock downstairs in the foyer. It had to be close to midnight, maybe later as she often lost track of the hours when reading.

  “Charlotte Gertrude!”

  Charlotte cringed. Oh dear. If her father was using her middle name, then it was surely closer to the fifteenth time than the first time he had called her. She loved the grandmother after which she was named, her father’s mother, but wasn’t nearly as fond of the name Gertrude.

  She squinted at the faded gold wind-up clock on her nightstand, just beyond the candle. The clock had belonged to her mother and was as treasured as her books. It read seven minutes to midnight. Her father knew she often read until the early morning hours and was a late riser. But he was the opposite, he should have been abed hours ago.

  “Lottie!”

  Hearing the urgency in his voice, she pulled a ribbon from the cuff of her nightgown to mark her page before closing the book. She slid off the mattress in one quick motion and reached for her robe hanging over the back of a nearby chair. Not taking the time to find her slippers, which were never where she left them, she half-ran out of the room barefoot, tying the knot of her robe as she raced down the hallway. She stopped breathless on the upstairs landing and looked over the railing of the balcony. Her father stood in the center of the foyer below.

  “Father?”

  He looked odd to her. It was past midnight and instead of being in bed or dressed in his robe, he was dressed to go out. He had been out, she realized. He had probably told her at supper and she either hadn’t heard or had forgotten. She remembered eating quickly, books weren’t allowed at the table. She couldn’t even remember what had been served. As soon as she had finished eating she had returned to her room and the stack of books she had gotten from the bookshop, organizing them into the order she wanted to read them before starting the first one that now lay waiting on her pillow.

  His usually perfect hair was mussed, his eyes glassy, face flushed, his jacket wrinkled and unbuttoned. Had he just come in…looking like that? It was the opposite of his usual fastidious appearance.

  “Father, is everything okay?” She asked worriedly. He looked almost drunk. But she had never seen her father drink more than a half glass of red wine at supper each night. It was late. Even though they lived in a better part of town, the unsavory knew no boundaries, maybe he had been mugged. She gripped the newel post at the top of the stairs, preparing to rush down.

  “Everything’s fine. Better than fine! I’m getting married Lottie!” He announced, thrusting out his arms.

  Charlotte froze midway down the stairs. “What?” Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. Her legs felt weak. She tightened her grip on the banister.

  Her father held out his hand and a woman stepped out from the shadows near the front door. So focused on her father and any transgressions that might have befallen him, Charlotte hadn’t realized they weren’t alone. The woman only had eyes for her father and she smiled so widely, the corner of her eyes crinkled. She took his hand and he swept her to the center of the room next to him, almost like they were dancing. He put his arm around her. Only then did the woman look up.

  “Hello Charlotte.”

  “Hello Mrs. Mills.”

  Margaret Mills was their next-door neighbor. She moved in two years ago with one of her sons after her husband passed. She remembered her father mentioning Mrs. Mills name once or twice over the past few months but Charlotte hadn’t any idea they spent any real time together, let alone that marriage was even a possibility.

  “We wanted you to be the first to know,” her father’s voice pulling her from her thoughts. He hesitated at her silence, exchanged a quick, worried look with Mrs. Mills before continuing, “We hope you’ll be happy for us.”

  “Of course Father.” She slowly continued her descent down the stairs until she stood before the loving pair.

  Her mother had been gone for years now. It had only been her and her father for so long. They lived a quiet life on the outskirts of Philadelphia. She was content. She thought her father was too. Perhaps he hadn’t been because standing before her, he seemed so happy. His eyes were sparkling and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face, or his eyes off of Mrs. Mills. He seemed years younger. She was happy for him, she told herself. Yet her throat felt tight. And she felt a sense of foreboding. She watched as he lifted Mrs. Mills hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. She hadn’t seen him this happy since her mother was alive. She had almost forgotten there was this other side of him. Charlotte swallowed.

  “Congratulations to you both,” Charlotte said, taking another step forward. She gave Mrs. Mills a quick hug and then hugged her father tightly. She loved her father dearly and wanted nothing but his happiness wherever he found it.

  “Thank you Lottie,” he whispered in her ear, squeezing her tightly. He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “I know it’s a shock.”

  She forced herself to smile. “A surprise,” she corrected him softly. “A pleasant surprise.” Charlotte jumped as the clock struck midnight.

  ∞∞∞

  Her father remarried the following Saturday, a small, intimate wedding with only Charlotte, Mrs. Mills two adult sons and their wives and a few other close friends and family in attendance, followed by a wedding breakfast. Her father and stepmother left shortly after for a honeymoon up to Niagara Falls. In the few weeks they were gone, Charlotte’s life remained mostly unchanged although she missed sharing meals with her father and had never realized how empty the house was until now.

  When they returned, Mrs. Mills – Margaret, as her stepmother insisted Charlotte call her (her father affectionately called her Maggie), immediately moved in. Her plan to redecorate quickly turned into remodeling nearly the entire downstairs.

  “Imagine all the parties we’ll have here,” Margaret exclaimed, gripping Charlotte’s arm excitedly that first day as a large number of workers be
gan filing through the front door promptly at eight A.M. “I’m going to widen the front door, put a large window above and install a brilliant chandelier. And of course the floors will be marble and the banister…”

  Charlotte tried to focus on her stepmother’s words. She was a kind woman and she made her father happy but all Charlotte could think about was how her life was going to change and how much she liked it just the way it was.

  ∞∞∞

  “I think you should get out and meet some people,” Margaret announced one afternoon a few weeks later. The three of them were in a rarely used parlor in the corner of the house, farthest away from the construction noise. Her father was reading correspondence, her stepmother working on her embroidery and Charlotte had just started a new book. Usually Charlotte preferred to read in her room but during breakfast her stepmother extended the invitation to spend some time with them afterwards. It would have been rude to refuse.

  Charlotte looked up from her book. She couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of her eye that her father looked down, all of the sudden looking extremely interested in whatever he was reading. “Excuse me?” She asked her stepmother.

  Margaret set aside her sewing and gave her a bright smile. “I think you should get out and meet some people. Of course we love having your company each day,” she assured her, reaching over and patting Charlotte’s knee, “but it’s not natural to not socialize. You should meet men and women your own age instead of having your nose buried in a book all day and night. You’re missing out on life.”

  Charlotte stiffened at the unintended criticism. She knew Margaret didn’t mean anything by her words yet they stung nonetheless. Charlotte liked her life. She didn’t find anything wrong with it. She was content.

  “I like my life,” Charlotte said quietly, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. She stared down at her book, no longer able to focus on the words let alone having them paint a picture for her as they usually did.

  “Your father said you would say that,” Margaret said nonplussed as she rifled through her basket for a different color of thread.

  Chapter Two

  Over the following weeks, Charlotte somehow found herself thrust into a social lifestyle she never wanted, attending parties more often than not, even having frequent parties of their own now that part of the remodel had been completed. There were also daily calls from her new acquaintances, including young men, in addition to the callers her father and stepmother received. And that’s when Charlotte wasn’t doing the calling on others at her stepmother’s behest. She was miserable.

  For the first time in as long as she could remember when her father gave her her monthly allowance, she didn’t rush to the bookshop and spend it, because there was still a stack of unread books on her nightstand from the previous month. She didn’t have nearly as much time to read and when she managed to find a pocket of time, she couldn’t concentrate. She was unhappy. And she was at a loss of how to deal with it.

  She went from sleeping in late to getting up earlier than anyone in the house so she could have a quiet breakfast to herself, without her stepmother talking about shopping, parties, suitors, friends and gossip, none of which Charlotte gave a fig about.

  Serving herself from the steaming dishes at the sideboard, she filled a small plate with buttered toast, a pair of sausages and a soft-boiled egg. She sat down with a sigh, poured a cup of tea from the small pot in front of her and took the newspaper that had been set out for her father, half-heartedly glancing through it while she ate her breakfast.

  “Good morning Lottie,” her father said, startling her. The portion of egg that sat on her spoon and had been hovering between her plate and her mouth for however long, now cold, landed on her plate with a splat.

  “Good morning Father.”

  “What are you doing up so early?” He asked over his shoulder, as he filled his own plate.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she answered, which wasn’t a complete lie, she told herself. She had been having trouble sleeping amid all of the changes and trying to figure out what she was going to do. “What about you?”

  He joined her, sitting at the head of the table. He poured himself a cup of coffee, skipping the cream and sugar, she noticed with a wrinkle of her nose, and snagged half of the newspaper.

  “Early appointment. I’ll be back for lunch and to take you and your stepmother shopping.”

  “Shopping?” Charlotte echoed glumly. “Whatever else could we possibly need?” She wondered, thinking of the excessive amount of purchases that had been acquired over the past few months.

  He glanced up from the newspaper, eyeing her over the rim of his steaming cup of coffee and waved a hand, “This and that. You know women,” he said as if in explanation.

  Not all women are the same, she replied inwardly. She had always been able to speak with her father but lately there seemed to be an invisible wall between them. He was immersed in his new life with his new wife and it didn’t seem like he had the same time and attention for her as he did before.

  “Now that I think about it, a dress I think, for the Stephens’ party Friday evening. Maybe we can convince her to duck into a bookstore after, see if there’s anything you haven’t read yet,” he added with a wink.

  Charlotte nodded absently. She stared at her half of the newspaper, so hard that her vision blurred and the words began to swirl in front of her eyes. She forced herself to blink.

  “You okay pumpkin?”

  She looked up at him. He hadn’t called her ‘pumpkin’ in years. Not since before her mother died. She felt tears prick her eyes. She nodded and looked away. She swallowed. “I’m fine. It’s just, well, I’m not really all that happy with going out all the time, the shopping, parties, meeting so many people, constantly on the go.” She took a deep breath. “It’s just…not me.”

  “You just need to give it some more time Lottie,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Your stepmother wants this for you.” He glanced at his watch.

  “But what about what I want?” She whispered.

  Her father didn’t appear to hear her. Tucking his pocket watch back into his jacket, he pressed a kiss to her crown before leaving the room. “Tell Maggie I’ll be back around one.”

  Charlotte stared at the doorway. She had tried to tell her father how she felt and this wasn’t the first time over the past several weeks. They were quiet objections sure, but despite hearing the words, he didn’t really hear her. Never before had their relationship been like that. Now he seemed almost too busy for her.

  She pushed away her food and continued to flip through the paper. A tear dropped onto one page but she ignored it and turned to the next. Another tear fell. It landed on a large advertisement taking up most of the lower left corner of one page. The entire advertisement was framed with a thick black line. The tear had landed on the word BRIDE, it pooled briefly, blurring the word before soaking into the paper.

  She wiped away her tears in frustration and forced herself to stop crying. She never cried. Not since her mother had died when she was twelve. Tears were a waste of time, she thought. They never changed anything.

  She looked back down at the newspaper, to the wet and blurred BRIDE. Her eyes scanned the first line out of curiosity, then the entire advertisement. It was an advertisement seeking women to travel west to marry. She had heard of mail order brides before of course but never paid them much mind. Even though she had no intention of answering such an ad (The mere idea was outrageous!), she couldn’t help but choose her top three from the dozen or so men advertising for wives. She envisioned how she would fit into their lives based on the three to five short sentences describing what a man was seeking and a glimpse into his life. Finally she narrowed it down to one:

  I am thirty years old, tall, light hair, dark eyes. I live in Sweet Creek, Colorado, about 90 miles east of Denver City. I own my own furniture store and employ over a dozen people. I am often away on business. I am seeking a pretty wife who is self-sufficient, doe
sn’t mind being alone, kind, easygoing and has a good sense of humor.

  When Charlotte realized what she had done, chosen the ad she would respond to if she decided to become a mail order bride, she let out a shocked laugh and closed the newspaper, pushing it away. She began to clear her own dishes before remembering this house now employed a bevy of servants, still, she neatly stacked them before walking to the doorway of the dining room.

  She stopped and turned, eyeing the paper from across the room. It was true she felt her place wasn’t here any longer. Her father was understandably enamored with his new wife, they loved their new social life and she didn’t want to get in the way or hold them back. But this new lifestyle didn’t suit her. And she had always secretly wanted the adventures she read about in her books and she had always wanted to travel. While the people she recently met at parties always spoke of grand European cities like Paris and London, Charlotte had always been fascinated with the American West and the simpler life lived there, the natural beauty. She walked back to the newspaper and stared at it. Should she? Could she?

  Charlotte scooped up the paper and ran upstairs. At her desk she reread the advertisement she had chosen. It made no mention of cooking, housekeeping or children which was good because she had little experience with the first two and absolutely none with the latter.

  He said he wanted a pretty wife. She tilted her head so she could see her reflection in a nearby mirror. She wrinkled her nose. Her hair was bright red and her eyes hazel which was just a fancy way of describing brown mixed with green. Her father had always told her she was pretty, that she was the spitting image of her mother. If that were true, she would consider herself pretty as well, because her mother had been the most beautiful woman Charlotte had ever known.

  She tapped the tip of the pen against her lips. The ad had also said self-sufficient. That could be interpreted in many different ways she decided. Deciding she met all of the criteria, she quickly penned a response and mailed it before she could change her mind.