INGRID: BRIDE OF THE RANCHOPrologueIngrid Söderberg****New Jersey, 1877
The carpetbag felt heavier with every mile.
I knew perfectly well that this was impossible.
It contained precisely the same things now as it had when I lifted it from beside my brother's kitchen door shortly after sunrise: two serviceable dresses, one Sunday dress, stockings and underthings, my Bible, a comb, hairpins, sewing things, three handkerchiefs, Father's little wooden box, and seven letters tied carefully together with a faded blue ribbon.
There was also the parcel Martha had tucked into the very top.
Four cinnamon buns.
Possibly five.
I had not checked.
Martha believed every journey, illness, funeral, wedding, disagreement, birth, and general uncertainty of life could be improved by feeding someone.
She was often correct.
Still, unless cinnamon buns possessed some peculiar ability to multiply inside carpetbags, there was no sensible reason for mine to have gained ten pounds since leaving the farm.
I stopped beside the road and changed hands.
"Good gracious."
My right fingers were cramped nearly into claws.
I set the bag carefully in the grass and flexed them one at a time.
Five miles.
That was what my brother had said.
Five miles into town, and somewhat farther to the office of the Hartwell Matrimonial and Correspondence Bureau near the commercial district.
It had not sounded particularly far when he'd said it.
Then again, he had said it while sitting at the breakfast table.
I straightened and looked back.
The road curved behind me between fields washed pale gold by the morning sun. Somewhere beyond the rise, too distant now to see, stood the farmhouse where I had lived since Father's death.
My brother's farmhouse.
I corrected myself even inside my own thoughts.
It had never been mine.
For six months I had slept beneath his roof, eaten at his table, and worked from before sunrise until after supper beside his wife.
I had been grateful.
I was grateful.
I had learned it very well.
I picked up my carpetbag again.
"Come along, Ingrid."
No one was there to hear me.
That was perhaps why I began to sing.
Quietly at first.
An old Swedish song Mother used to hum while she worked, the words returning more easily than I expected. I had not sung it in years.
The sound followed me along the road.
My shoes made a steady crunch, crunch, crunch over the packed earth, and my skirts brushed my ankles with every step.
I had dressed particularly carefully that morning.
If I was going to begin an entirely new life, I saw no reason to arrive looking as though I had been pulled backward through a hedge.
My traveling dress was blue—dark enough not to show every speck of dust the road intended to throw upon me—with a fitted bodice I had altered myself and a skirt sufficiently full for walking. My bonnet was plain but good, tied securely beneath my chin with blue ribbons.
My hair had taken longer.
It always did.
It was fair, so pale a yellow that in strong sunlight some people called it flaxen, and there was a great deal of it. I had parted it precisely, braided it into two thick plaits, then coiled and pinned them neatly at the back of my head, as Mother had taught my sisters and me when we were girls.
I had used eleven pins.
I knew because I had counted.
Twice.
There would be no loose, untidy hair hanging about my face if I could prevent it.
There were some things a woman could control.
Her hair ought to be one of them.
I could not control the freckles that appeared across my nose whenever I spent too much time beneath the sun, nor the color that rose absurdly quickly into my cheeks.
I could not control being five-and-twenty and unmarried.
And I had never discovered any method for making myself smaller.
I glanced down at myself as I walked.
There was quite a lot of Ingrid Söderberg.
There always had been.
I had broad hips and strong thighs, a full bosom that made fashionable bodices an exercise in mathematics, and a belly that remained softly rounded regardless of how many floors I scrubbed, pails I carried, beds I changed, gardens I weeded, or meals I went without because someone else required the larger portion.
My waist existed.
It simply had no ambition to become wasp-like.
My face, fortunately, had never grown particularly heavy. It was round, yes, with fair skin, blue eyes, and cheeks that Mother had once said looked as though someone had rubbed them with rose petals.
I had never used rouge.
I wouldn't have known what to do with it if someone handed me a pot.
My hands told a more truthful story.
The fingers wrapped around my carpetbag were roughened by work. A small healing cut crossed the side of my thumb from peeling apples. My nails were clean and clipped short.
They were working hands.
I had always rather liked them.
My figure was another matter.
Children could be remarkably inventive when they discovered something about another child that caused pain.
Pig.
Cow.
Fat Ingrid.
There had been others.
The milkmaid remarks had bothered me less.
I had actually milked cows.
Quite successfully.
I smiled despite myself and continued walking.
Perhaps California men liked sturdy women.
Perhaps California men were sensible.
Or perhaps Mr. Elias Whitcomb did.
My smile grew.
Mr. Whitcomb.
Even thinking the name made my stomach flutter.
His letters were in my carpetbag.
All seven of them.
I had read the last so many times that I knew portions by heart.
He was thirty-three years old. He had a farm in California. He wanted a wife who was hardworking, Christian, sensible, and willing to build a household with him.
He had not asked whether my waist was eighteen inches around.
He had not asked whether I could embroider roses onto silk cushions.
He had asked whether I could cook.
I had written:
Yes.
He had asked whether I liked children.
I had written considerably more than yes to that.
He hoped for several.
So did I.
That had been the letter I slept with beneath my pillow.
I had not told Martha.
A wagon rattled past, and I stepped well onto the verge to let it by.
The farmer driving it lifted two fingers from his hat.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
His eyes traveled briefly to the carpetbag.
"Going somewhere?"
"California."
The poor man's head nearly turned all the way around.
I laughed for the next quarter mile.
Perhaps I ought to have said town.
But California sounded better.
It sounded impossible.
It sounded enormous.
It sounded like mine.
Martha had risen before me that morning.
I had known she would.
When I came downstairs with my bonnet in one hand, she was standing at the kitchen table wrapping the cinnamon buns.
For several seconds she had not looked at me.
"You've packed your stockings?"
"Yes."
"Your sewing needles?"
"Yes."
"Extra buttons?"
"Yes."
"Your Bible?"
"Martha."
That made her look up.
"What?"
"I have packed my Bible."
"Well. I was only asking."
"You asked yesterday."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Then I was making certain."
I'd smiled.
She hadn't.
The kitchen had smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and woodsmoke.
My brother's three children were still asleep upstairs.
He had already gone out.
That hurt more than I wanted it to.
"He said goodbye last evening," Martha had offered quietly.
"I know."
"He needed to see to the south field."
"I know."
"He isn't very good at these things."
"I know that too."
I had folded my gloves and put them into my reticule.
Martha wrapped another layer of cloth around the buns.
"He will miss you."
That time I looked at her.
Neither of us pretended.
My brother would miss having another person to milk before breakfast.
He would miss someone who could watch the children when Martha went to market.
He would miss finding his shirts mended without asking.
He would miss the garden weeded, potatoes peeled, floors swept, and bread started before Martha came downstairs.
He might even miss me.
But those were not quite the same thing.
"I think there will be less crowding," I said.
Martha's hands stopped.
There were two bedrooms upstairs.
My brother and Martha occupied one.
Three children occupied the other.
I slept downstairs on a narrow bed that was folded away during the day.
"I never minded," she said.
"I know."
"Ingrid—"
"I know."
She stared down at the parcel.
"You've done more for us these six months than anyone had a right to expect."
"You gave me somewhere to go."
"You had just buried your father."
I turned toward the window.
Six months.
Some mornings I still woke thinking I heard him call.
Near the end, he had been unable to leave his bed without help.
I had washed him.
Fed him.
Changed his linens.
Sat beside him through nights when his breathing became so labored I was afraid to sleep.
My brother visited.
My sisters visited.
People brought food and prayers and asked whether there was anything they could do.
Then they went home.
I stayed.
Of course I stayed.
He was Father.
"You gave him everything," Martha said.
"He needed me."
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"And now he doesn't."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Martha came around the table.
"Oh, Ingrid."
"I'm all right."
"No, you're not."
"I will be."
She took my hands.
Martha was not my sister.
Not by blood.
At that moment, however, I loved her very much.
"I wish we had more room."
"I know."
"I wish—"
"Martha."
She stopped.
We both knew there was no use wishing the farmhouse larger.
My brother had a wife.
Children.
A farm that barely produced enough in a good year and demanded everything in a poor one.
My younger sister had a husband and household of her own.
Father was gone.
Mother had been gone much longer.
There was nowhere in the picture where Ingrid naturally belonged anymore.
Unless someone needed something done.
That was different.
I squeezed Martha's fingers.
"I have Mr. Whitcomb."
She made a face.
"You have seven letters from Mr. Whitcomb."
"Seven very respectable letters."
"You've never seen his face."
"I have his photograph."
"That photograph is the size of a postage stamp."
"It is not."
"Nearly."
"He has a pleasant face."
"He has a mustache."
"I like his mustache."
"You don't know his mustache."
That startled a laugh out of me.
Martha finally smiled.
"Are you frightened?"
"Terribly."
"Good."
I blinked.
"Good?"
"I'd worry about you if you weren't."
She reached up and adjusted the edge of my bonnet.
"What if he isn't what he says?"
"Then I shall discover it."
"What if he's ugly?"
I considered this.
"Then I shall try not to stare."
"Ingrid!"
"What would you like me to say?"
She laughed despite herself.
I did too.
Then I sobered.
"If he is kind to me, Martha, I don't care very much what his face looks like."
Her expression changed.
"I mean it."
"I know you do."
"If he works. If he is honest. If he doesn't strike me. If he doesn't drink away everything he earns. If he allows me a little kindness and perhaps, someday…"
I stopped.
"Children," Martha finished.
I nodded.
My eyes burned.
"A home," I whispered.
Her mouth trembled.
"You deserve someone who loves you."
I looked down at our joined hands.
"I think kindness would be enough."
"No."
I looked up.
"No," Martha repeated. "You think it would be enough because you've spent your entire life being grateful whenever anyone made room for you."
"Martha—"
"You cared for your mother. You cared for your father. You helped your sisters. You help me. You help your brother. You help everyone. And you've convinced yourself that being useful is the same thing as being wanted."
My cheeks had gone hot.
I knew because they always betrayed me.
Martha touched one.
"There. Pink."
"Stop."
"You're pretty when you're cross."
"I am not cross."
"You're Swedish. It's difficult to tell."
I stared at her.
She burst out laughing.
I did too.
And then we were both crying.
Martha pulled me against her.
I was larger than she was and considerably stronger, so the embrace put her cheek somewhere against my shoulder.
"You write to me," she said.
"I will."
"Immediately."
"I will."
"Not six months from now when you're surrounded by twelve children and have forgotten all about us."
"Twelve?"
"California is a large place."
"I don't believe that's how children work."
She pulled back and gave me a watery glare.
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
She pushed the parcel of cinnamon buns into my hands.
"And eat."
"I have eaten."
"You'll be walking five miles."
"I know."
"You should have let Thomas take you."
"He has work."
"He could have spared the wagon."
"No."
"Ingrid."
"No."
That had been one point upon which I would not bend.
My brother had already given me six months beneath his roof.
I would not begin my new life by asking him to lose half a day's work carrying me toward it.
Besides, I had two strong legs.
I had used them before.
I could use them now.
She touched my cheek once more.
"Go get your home."
I nearly started crying again.
So instead I said, "You put five buns in here, didn't you?"
Her expression became suspiciously innocent.
And that was how I had left.
By the time I reached town, my feet hurt.
My shoulder hurt.
My carpetbag had become the personal instrument of Satan.
But my hair remained pinned.
All eleven pins.
I considered that a victory.
The countryside gradually surrendered to houses, workshops, shops, warehouses, and increasingly busy streets. Wagons clattered over the road. A drayman shouted at a horse. Somewhere nearby, a hammer struck metal in a rapid, ringing rhythm.
And then I heard something else.
A whistle.
Long.
Shrill.
Powerful enough to cut straight through the noise of town.
I stopped.
Beyond the rooftops, a column of dark smoke rose into the bright morning sky.
The railway.
My stomach fluttered again.
It was 1877.
Railways could carry a person farther and faster than Mother would have imagined when she first came to America. From New Jersey I could travel west across distances that only a generation earlier would have swallowed months of a person's life.
California still seemed impossibly far away.
But there were rails pointing toward it.
That made impossible things seem slightly less so.
I adjusted my grip on the carpetbag and kept walking.
The Hartwell Matrimonial and Correspondence Bureau occupied the upper floor of a respectable brick building above a dry-goods establishment.
The lettering on the glass read:
HARTWELL MATRIMONIAL & CORRESPONDENCE BUREAU
RESPECTABLE INTRODUCTIONSDOMESTIC CORRESPONDENCEWESTERN MATRIMONIAL PLACEMENTS
I wiped my palms against my skirt.
Then frowned at myself and smoothed the fabric.
"Well," I said. "You have walked five miles."
I looked up at the sign.
"You may as well go inside."
So I did.
A bell tinkled overhead.
The office smelled of paper, ink, furniture polish, and something faintly medicinal.
A young clerk looked up from behind a desk.
"Miss…?"
"Söderberg."
His expression emptied.
It happened frequently.
I helped him.
"Söderberg."
"Ah. Yes."
"No, you don't."
His mouth opened.
I smiled.
"My name was written on the appointment."
He looked relieved when he found the ledger.
"Miss Ingrid Söderberg."
"That's me."
"Mr. Pembroke will see you."
That sounded promising.
It was not.
Mr. Pembroke was a thin gentleman with an excellent collar and the nervous eyes of a man who had recently been given a problem by someone wealthier than himself.
He stood when I entered.
"Miss Söderberg. Please. Sit."
"Thank you."
I placed the carpetbag beside my chair.
He shuffled several papers.
Then shuffled them again.
"Your arrangements concerned a Mr. Elias Whitcomb."
"Yes."
"California."
"Yes."
"Farmer."
"Yes."
"Age thirty-three."
"Yes."
He stopped.
I stopped smiling.
"Is something wrong?"
Mr. Pembroke removed his spectacles.
"There has been a… complication."
My fingers tightened in my lap.
"My train?"
"No."
"The traveling party?"
"No. Nothing of that nature."
"Mr. Whitcomb?"
His face answered before his mouth did.
"What has happened?"
Mr. Pembroke cleared his throat.
"I'm very sorry to inform you, Miss Söderberg, that Mr. Elias Whitcomb was killed in an accident."
"What?"
"Approximately three weeks ago."
I stared at him.
Three weeks.
"No."
It came out before I could stop it.
Not because I believed Mr. Pembroke was lying.
Because Elias Whitcomb could not be dead.
Dead men did not have seven letters tied with blue ribbon in a woman's carpetbag.
Dead men did not have kitchens waiting for wives.
Dead men did not talk about planting apple trees.
Dead men did not write that they hoped their house would someday be noisy with children.
"But I received—"
My voice failed.
Mr. Pembroke looked genuinely miserable.
"I'm afraid the news reached the bureau after your final arrangements had already begun."
"How?"
"Miss Söderberg—"
"How did he die?"
"An accident involving farm equipment, I believe."
"You believe?"
"I don't have the complete report before me."
I looked at the carpetbag.
Seven letters.
His photograph.
His mustache that Martha said I did not know.
The farm he had described.
The little kitchen.
The porch.
The room he said would be mine to arrange however I pleased.
The children that did not exist yet but had begun existing in my imagination.
Three weeks.
While I had been packing.
While Martha had been hemming my traveling dress.
While I had lain awake wondering what it would feel like to see my future husband waiting for me.
He had already been dead.
"His farm?" I asked.
"Passed to his brother, as I understand it."
"Oh."
It was an absurd thing to say.
Oh.
But what else did one say when a man one had never met, but had nevertheless begun building a life around, suddenly ceased to exist?
Mr. Pembroke gave me a moment.
Not enough of one.
"There is another matter we should discuss."
I looked at him.
"Another matter?"
"Yes."
He shifted a second file toward himself.
"I want to emphasize that you are under no obligation."
That was not comforting.
"To do what?"
"We have another gentleman."
For one bewildered second, I thought I had misheard him.
"Another gentleman."
"In California."
"Do gentlemen grow particularly well there?"
Mr. Pembroke blinked.
I covered my mouth.
"I beg your pardon."
"No. Quite."
I wasn't sorry.
Something inside me had cracked just enough to make me reckless.
Mr. Pembroke continued.
"Don Alejandro de la Vega."
The name meant nothing to me.
Not yet.
"He is forty-one years of age."
Eight years older than Mr. Whitcomb.
"He's a widower."
My amusement disappeared.
"How long?"
"Approximately five years."
"And?"
"Two children."
My heart gave a strange little turn.
"Children?"
"Yes. A daughter of nine and a son of seven."
I looked down.
Nine.
Seven.
Old enough to remember their mother.
Young enough still to need one.
"Are they well?"
"As far as the correspondence indicates."
"Does he love them?"
Mr. Pembroke looked surprised.
"I believe very much."
That mattered.
More than forty-one.
More than the ranch.
More even than whatever money he possessed.
I looked back at him.
"Why does he need your bureau to find a wife?"
Mr. Pembroke hesitated.
That was becoming a habit.
"He is a gentleman of considerable responsibility. His household is substantial. His children require stability. He has apparently found the ordinary process of courtship… inconvenient."
"Inconvenient."
"Time-consuming."
"Ah."
I wasn't certain I liked that.
"What does he do?"
"He is a landowner and rancher. His family has been established in California for generations. Cattle, grain, and other agricultural interests."
"Is he Spanish?"
"Mexican Californian."
I nodded slowly.
"Does he speak English?"
"Yes."
That seemed useful, since I did not speak Spanish.
"Religion?"
"Catholic."
I was silent.
Mr. Pembroke watched me.
"I'm Protestant."
"Yes."
"Does he know that?"
"No."
My eyes narrowed.
"Does he know about me?"
There it was.
The question Mr. Pembroke had apparently been hoping I would not ask.
He adjusted his spectacles.
"He knows the bureau has been attempting to arrange a suitable matrimonial introduction."
"That was not what I asked."
"No."
"Does Don Alejandro know about me?"
"No."
I leaned back.
"He has never read a letter from me."
"No."
"He has never seen my photograph."
"No."
"He does not know I am Swedish."
"No."
"He does not know I am Protestant."
"No."
"He doesn't know what I look like."
"No."
"Does he know my name?"
A pause.
"No."
I folded my hands.
Mr. Pembroke looked as though he wanted to crawl beneath his desk.
"What exactly does Don Alejandro think is coming to California?"
His collar suddenly seemed too tight.
"A prospective bride."
"What prospective bride?"
"Miss Söderberg—"
"What prospective bride, Mr. Pembroke?"
He looked down at the file.
"A young woman of Mexican Catholic background had originally been considered particularly suitable."
I stared at him.
Ah.
There it was.
"And where is she?"
"Unavailable."
"Unavailable how?"
"She has declined the arrangement."
That sounded carefully phrased.
"Did she decline it before or after Don Alejandro was told about her?"
"After."
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
"And now Mr. Whitcomb is dead."
"Yes."
"And I am standing here with a ticket west."
"Yes."
"And Don Alejandro is standing in California without a bride."
"I would not characterize—"
"You looked at the two problems and decided they could solve each other."
Silence.
Mr. Pembroke shifted in his chair.
I ought to have been furious.
Perhaps later I would be.
At that moment, however, I was too tired, too shocked, and far too aware of the five miles between myself and a folding bed in my brother's parlor.
"What happens if I say no?"
"We would, of course, attempt another placement."
"How long?"
"I couldn't promise."
"Weeks?"
"Possibly."
"Months?"
"Possibly."
"Would I go home today?"
His expression softened.
"If that is what you choose."
Home.
Such a small word.
Such a difficult one.
My brother's farmhouse was not cruel.
Martha was not cruel.
The children loved me.
There would be a place for me there if I truly needed one.
A narrow folding bed.
Work.
Gratitude.
And the quiet knowledge that everyone else's life had already been built.
I was the extra piece.
Useful.
Loved, perhaps.
But extra.
"And if I agree?"
Mr. Pembroke sat straighter.
"Your existing travel arrangements can largely be preserved. The bureau would amend the necessary documentation. You would travel west with the other ladies as planned. Further instructions and papers would accompany you."
"Would you send word to him?"
"Immediately."
"Before I arrive?"
"Certainly."
That reassured me somewhat.
At least I would not simply materialize on a stranger's doorstep.
Then another thought occurred.
"What did he ask for?"
Mr. Pembroke blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"When he wrote to your bureau. What did Don Alejandro ask for in a wife?"
"Miss Söderberg, I don't think—"
"I think I should know."
He hesitated.
Then opened the file.
"A Catholic woman."
I nodded.
I had already failed.
"Preferably of Mexican heritage or at least fluent in Spanish."
I failed twice.
"Someone accustomed to children."
There was one.
"Respectable. Healthy. Capable of managing a large household."
Two.
"Educated sufficiently to oversee children's lessons."
Three.
"Presentable."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"I believe it means… presentable."
"Helpful."
He coughed.
"There are other details."
"Go on."
Mr. Pembroke looked increasingly unhappy.
"Dark hair was mentioned."
I touched one of my pale braids through my bonnet.
"Of course it was."
"Miss Söderberg—"
"Brown eyes?"
He checked.
"Yes."
I closed mine.
"Naturally."
"I don't believe eye color is likely to determine—"
"You have never met a disappointed man at a railway station, have you, Mr. Pembroke?"
"No."
"Neither have I."
That was not as comforting as I had hoped.
He removed his spectacles again.
"You need not accept this arrangement."
I knew.
That was the problem.
I could leave.
Walk five miles back.
Unfold the bed.
Wake tomorrow before sunrise.
Milk the cow.
Start the bread.
Help Martha with the children.
Wait for Hartwell's bureau to find another man who wanted a twenty-five-year-old Swedish woman with rough hands, broad hips, eleven hairpins, no fortune, and an unreasonable fondness for children.
Perhaps they would.
Perhaps they wouldn't.
I thought of Elias.
The letters.
The future that had disappeared before I even knew it was gone.
Then I thought of a nine-year-old girl.
A seven-year-old boy.
A widower who loved them.
"Is he kind?" I asked.
Mr. Pembroke hesitated.
"I am told he is an honorable man."
"That wasn't what I asked."
For the first time, he looked directly at me.
"No," he admitted. "It wasn't."
I waited.
"I have never met Don Alejandro personally. My employer has handled most of his correspondence. But he has no reputation for cruelty or dishonesty. Quite the opposite. He is considered demanding, proud, responsible, prosperous, and highly respectable."
"Demanding."
"So I understand."
"That sounds promising."
Mr. Pembroke stared.
I smiled faintly.
"I was joking."
"Oh."
Poor Mr. Pembroke.
I almost liked him.
Almost.
"Does he drink?"
"I couldn't say."
"Does he gamble?"
"I have seen nothing suggesting it."
"Does he strike his servants?"
"Good heavens, Miss Söderberg."
"I am considering crossing an entire continent to marry him. I think I may ask."
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
"Yes," he said quietly. "You may."
That answer improved my opinion of him.
"I have seen no complaint of cruelty," he continued. "His references are excellent. His financial position is secure. He appears devoted to his children and respected by those who do business with him."
I drew in a breath.
"What if he doesn't want me?"
Mr. Pembroke's face changed.
Perhaps that was the first time all morning he saw me not as a difficulty in his ledger but as a woman sitting alone in front of him.
"Then the bureau remains responsible for assisting you."
I nodded.
That was something.
Not enough.
But something.
I thought of Martha.
You have convinced yourself that being useful is the same thing as being wanted.
I wondered whether a man who had asked for a dark-haired Mexican Catholic woman could look at Ingrid Söderberg and want anything at all.
I wondered whether I was a fool.
Then I wondered whether staying because I was afraid would make me any less one.
I straightened.
"Send him word."
Mr. Pembroke blinked.
"Miss Söderberg?"
"Tell Don Alejandro de la Vega that Miss Ingrid Söderberg has agreed to the proposed introduction and will travel according to the bureau's arrangements."
His hand was already reaching for his pen.
Then I added, "And tell him the truth."
The hand stopped.
"The truth?"
"All of it."
"Of course."
"Tell him I'm Swedish."
"Yes."
"Protestant."
"Yes."
"Twenty-five."
"Yes."
"Blonde."
"Yes."
"Blue-eyed."
"Yes."
I hesitated.
Mr. Pembroke waited.
"Do you normally describe a woman's figure in these things?"
He turned scarlet.
I had my answer.
"Oh, for heaven's sake."
"Miss Söderberg—"
"If you are sending the poor man a bride who contradicts practically every physical preference he listed, perhaps we ought not leave the largest surprise until I step off the train."
His face became even redder.
"I can simply say that you are…"
He searched desperately.
"Healthy."
I stared at him.
"Healthy."
"Robust?"
"That is worse."
"Well-built?"
"Mr. Pembroke."
"Yes?"
"Stop helping."
He did.
I sighed.
"Tell him I'm full-figured."
His pen moved.
"And sturdy."
He looked up.
"Sturdy?"
"I walked five miles carrying that."
I pointed at the carpetbag.
"Sturdy."
He wrote it.
"And tell him I can cook."
"Certainly."
"Bake."
"Yes."
"Sew."
"Yes."
"Manage children."
"Yes."
"Keep accounts well enough for a household."
"Very good."
"Play the pianoforte."
His eyebrows rose.
"You didn't mention that before."
"You didn't ask."
He wrote it down.
"And tell him I'm willing to learn Spanish."
Mr. Pembroke's pen stopped.
"You are?"
"If his children speak it, yes."
A small silence followed.
Then he nodded.
"I'll tell him."
"Good."
He reached for another document.
"There are papers you'll need to carry with you, including the amended correspondence and a sealed packet for Don Alejandro. Please don't lose them."
"I don't generally lose things."
"Excellent."
"I count my hairpins."
He looked at me.
"Eleven."
Mr. Pembroke appeared uncertain what to do with that information.
I stood.
And immediately realized I had another problem.
"Mr. Pembroke?"
"Yes?"
"Where is your privy?"
The privy was behind the building.
Of course it was.
I had to go back down the stairs, through a narrow rear passage beside the dry-goods shop, across a little yard, and past two barrels that smelled strongly of pickles.
It was not how I had imagined spending the first minutes after learning my intended husband was dead.
Then again, very little about the morning had proceeded according to imagination.
When I returned inside, a woman working downstairs directed me toward a small washstand tucked behind a partition near the rear of the shop.
There was a ceramic basin, a pitcher of clean water, a cake of soap, and a towel that had seen better days.
It was the most beautiful thing I had seen all morning.
I removed my gloves.
Poured water into the basin.
And stared at myself in the small looking glass hanging above it.
Eleven pins.
Still there.
"Well done," I whispered.
My reflection did not look particularly triumphant.
My cheeks were pink from the walk.
A few freckles showed across my nose.
There was dust along the edge of my bonnet.
I untied it and set it carefully beside the basin.
For a moment I simply stood there.
Then I washed my hands.
The water clouded faintly with road dust.
I washed them again.
I splashed cool water over my face, careful around my hairline, then pressed the towel against my cheeks.
Elias Whitcomb was dead.
The thought arrived differently in private.
In Mr. Pembroke's office there had been questions to ask.
Arrangements.
Papers.
A stranger named Alejandro.
Two children.
Here there was only Elias.
I gripped the edge of the washstand.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
I didn't know precisely whom I was speaking to.
Elias.
God.
Myself.
Perhaps all three.
"I would have tried."
My throat tightened.
"I really would have."
Seven letters were not love.
I knew that.
But they had been the beginning of something.
And beginnings deserved to be mourned when they ended.
I let myself cry.
Not dramatically.
Not for long.
Just enough.
Then I washed my face again.
I looked into the mirror.
"Now what?"
The woman looking back at me had no answer.
So I supplied one.
"California."
It sounded considerably more frightening now.
I retied my bonnet.
Checked my braids.
Counted what pins I could feel.
Eleven.
Still eleven.
There were some things a woman could control.
I picked up my gloves.
Then I went back upstairs.
There were six women waiting in the adjoining room.
Six carpetbags.
Six nervous faces.
Six women preparing to cross a continent toward men who were, for the most part, little more than handwriting on paper.
A petite brunette immediately stood when I entered.
"Are you going west too?"
"I believe so."
"California?"
"Yes."
She beamed.
"So am I! Clara Bennett."
"Ingrid Söderberg."
Clara tried.
"Soder…"
"Söderberg."
"Sodderberg."
"Close enough."
A red-haired woman beside her laughed.
"I'm Margaret O'Leary. Oregon."
Another raised her hand.
"Eliza Bell. California."
Within minutes came two more: quiet Nora Finch, bound for Oregon, and cheerful Louisa Mayfield, whose prospective husband owned a general store somewhere outside Sacramento.
Then someone dropped a carpetbag.
It burst open.
Stockings, a nightdress, a hairbrush, two books, and what appeared to be an entire lifetime of embarrassment spilled across the floor.
"Oh!"
The youngest woman went scarlet.
Nobody moved quickly enough.
Except me.
I crouched.
"Don't worry."
I gathered the nightdress before anyone passing the open door could see it and tucked it safely into the bag.
"I packed mine three times," I whispered. "Then sat on it."
The girl stared at me.
"You did?"
"Twice."
She laughed.
Her eyes were wet.
"I'm Rebecca."
"Ingrid."
"Are you frightened?"
I looked around the room.
At Clara.
Margaret.
Eliza.
Nora.
Louisa.
Rebecca.
Women leaving families, graves, disappointments, poverty, loneliness—or perhaps merely lives that had become too small for them.
Some had letters.
Some had photographs.
Some had promises.
Every one of us had enough hope to do something that sensible people would probably call foolish.
I thought about the five miles behind me.
And the thousands ahead.
"Terrified."
Rebecca smiled.
"So am I."
I took her hand and pulled her upright.
"Good."
She blinked.
"My sister-in-law says that means we're sensible."
Margaret snorted.
"I've been called many things. Sensible has rarely been one."
Clara laughed.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing that can be proved."
That made Eliza laugh.
Even Nora smiled.
And somehow the room felt warmer.
Mr. Pembroke appeared in the doorway carrying a packet of papers.
"Miss Söderberg?"
Every woman looked at me.
I stood.
He handed me several folded documents and one sealed envelope.
"This is for Don Alejandro de la Vega. Please deliver it unopened."
"I will."
"And these are your amended travel papers."
I looked down at them.
My name.
Ingrid Söderberg.
Black ink.
Ordinary paper.
Yet somehow they seemed to weigh almost as much as my carpetbag.
"Thank you."
Mr. Pembroke lowered his voice.
"The telegram will be sent today."
I nodded.
So somewhere in California, a man who had expected another woman would soon receive word that Ingrid Söderberg was coming instead.
I wondered what expression would cross his face.
I decided I was happier not knowing.
For now.
I slipped the papers carefully into my bag.
Beside Father's box.
Beside my Bible.
Beside seven letters from a dead man.
And, when I reached farther down, beside what appeared to be the fifth cinnamon bun.
"Martha," I murmured.
"What?" Clara asked.
"Nothing."
A clerk called for the western party.
The room changed instantly.
Women stood.
Bags were lifted.
Gloves were pulled on.
Someone began crying.
Someone else began laughing.
Rebecca grabbed my arm.
Clara announced that if she fainted at the railway station, we were all forbidden to leave her behind.
Margaret informed her that this depended entirely upon how heavy she was.
For the first time since Mr. Pembroke had told me Elias was dead, I laughed without forcing it.
Then I picked up my carpetbag.
It was still heavy.
My feet still hurt.
My future had become considerably stranger than it had been five miles ago.
But I was moving.
That counted for something.
We descended the stairs together and stepped into the noise of town.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the buildings, a locomotive whistled.
California.
I had said the word to a farmer that morning as though I knew exactly what it meant.
I didn't.
I knew even less now.
There was no Elias Whitcomb waiting for me.
No little farm from his letters.
No kitchen I had imagined arranging.
Instead, there was a wealthy Californio rancher named Don Alejandro de la Vega.
Forty-one.
Widowed five years.
Proud.
Demanding.
Catholic.
Father of a nine-year-old daughter and a seven-year-old son.
A man who had requested a dark-haired, brown-eyed Mexican Catholic woman and was about to receive a large, blonde Swedish Protestant who spoke no Spanish whatsoever.
That ought to go beautifully.
I nearly laughed again.
Perhaps Providence had a sense of humor.
I hoped Don Alejandro did too.
I walked beside six women who had been strangers less than half an hour earlier.
Soon we would board a train.
Later there would be more trains, unfamiliar towns, stations, meals eaten in strange places, nights away from home, and miles upon miles of a country I had never seen.
Eventually some of us would separate.
Oregon.
California.
Different men.
Different homes.
Different lives.
I did not know yet how much I would come to care for these women.
I did not know that saying goodbye to some of them would hurt.
I did not know what waited at the end of my own journey.
I knew only what lay behind me.
Father's empty bed.
My brother's crowded farmhouse.
A folding cot put away every morning.
Martha crying over cinnamon buns.
A lifetime of being useful.
I tightened my hand around the handle of my carpetbag.
Inside were seven letters from a man I would never meet.
Ahead of me waited a living one who did not yet know my name.
I ought to have felt defeated.
Part of me did.
But beneath the grief and fear lived something stubborn.
Hope.
I had spent most of my life being useful.
Perhaps somewhere beyond New Jersey, beyond the mountains, beyond everything I knew, there was a place where I could finally be wanted.
I touched the carpetbag with the toe of my shoe while we waited to cross the street.
California.
A husband.
Two children.
Perhaps…
If the Lord were willing…
A family of my own.