La Maison Pettigrew, Denver, Colorado, 1901

Fantine Leblanc finished her breakfast, left the kitchen and began her day.

She stopped in the hall and studied her reflection in a small mirror on the wall. Her employer, Madame Adelia Pettigrew, had regaled her with another fantastic tale yesterday, about a man named Oscar White who married a mail-order bride called (not a joke) Lily Fair. She’d been horribly burn-scarred, her body disfigured, but her face was untouched and still beautiful. And Oscar had loved her despite (or maybe because of) her flaws.

The story made Fantine think about the previous stories her employer shared with her – about Daniel Weaver, Eli Turner, Major Comfort (also not a joke) and Fletcher Vander, all of whom had received a beautiful bride via Madame Pettigrew’s mail-order service. Okay, Mr. Comfort received a bride he didn’t send for, which led to all sorts of twists and turns, but nonetheless each man married a pretty woman and were now quite happy.

But had Mrs. Pettigrew ever sent off a homely bride? Perhaps she should ask.

She went into her employer’s office and studied the walls, covered with framed letters from happy wives. If Madame Pettigrew had sent off a less-than-pretty bride, how did her story turn out? Was the groom disappointed? Did things work between them? Did they fall in love?

Another mirror graced one wall here. Fantine crossed the room and stared at her reflection. She didn’t consider herself beautiful, but she wasn’t hideous either. And what were looks if the heart was pure? Could a handsome man fall in love with an ugly woman? Well … perhaps “ugly” was too strong a word. What about “unattractive”? No, that meant the same thing …

“What are you doing, ma petite?”

Fantine gasped and spun to face her. “Madame Pettigrew, I did not hear you come in.”

Her employer eyed her a moment. “Obviously not. What were you doing? Why were you looking at yourself with such …” She made a circular motion with her hand. “… scrutiny?”

Fantine looked at the floor. “Because … I do not think I am beautiful.”

“Pardon? What do you mean? Of course you are beautiful!”

“No, Madame, I am not. Though I do not think I am ugly.”

“Well, that is a relief,” Mrs. Pettigrew said as she went to her desk and sat. She picked up a stack of letters and shoved them toward Fantine. “See that these get posted today.”

“Yes, Madame,” Fantine sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Do you wish to dictate any letters this morning?”

“No, I have applications to sort through.” She reached for another stack of letters with a weary sigh.

“Anything wrong, Madame Pettigrew?”

Her employer studied her. “Why do you think you are not beautiful?”

Fantine’s mouth dropped open. It was one thing for her to think of herself as undesirable, another for someone else to voice it. “Um … well, I am too thin …”

“Eat different foods,” was Mrs. Pettigrew’s calm reply.

“My eyes are too big …”

“Your eyes are easily read and full of the innocence of youth. I think they are your best feature.”

“They are?”

“Of course? Anything else of yours you’d like to disparage?”

Fantine looked away. “No, Madame.”

Mrs. Pettigrew sighed again. “What brought this on, ma belle?”

Fantine, eyes still averted, clasped her hands in her lap. “The last tale you told, the one about Oscar White?”

“What about it?”

Fantine looked at her. “Lily Fair was so scarred, yet still beautiful in face and form. Would Oscar have loved her if all of her had been scarred?”

Mrs. Pettigrew sat back in her chair and folded her hands in front of her. “So that is what bothers you,” she stated.

“But I have not said anything …”

“You did not have to, ma rose.” She drummed her fingers against the back of her hand before continuing. “You wish to marry one day, oui?”

Fantine wasn’t sure what to say. What if she said yes and lost her position? But she couldn’t lie. “I do.”

“Of course you do. You are young, with many years ahead of you. Why would you not want to marry?” She glanced at the walls around them, then pointed. “Fetch me that gold-framed letter over there.”

Fantine rose, got the letter and brought it back to the desk. “What bride is this?”

Mrs. Pettigrew smiled.

“Madame?” Fantine urged, retaking her seat.

“The tale behind this letter will make you think of yourself differently, ma petite.”

“How so, Madame?”

She smiled again. “You will see …”

Nowhere, Washington Territory, March 1877

Dear Mrs. Pettigrew,

I write to you in answer to an advertisement I came across regarding mail-order brides. I am acquainted with several men in the area whom are happily married to such women, and as the local population of single females is severely limited at present, I find it advantageous to utilize your service.

About myself: I am twenty-six years of age and a hair over six feet tall, with black hair and grey eyes. I hail from a small town in the Washington Territory by the name of Nowhere. The mainstay of the farmers here is apples, along with a few other fruit crops. It is beautiful country, very different from New Haven, Connecticut, where I am originally from. I am a banker, educated at Yale, and would do well with a woman in possession of an intellect similar to my own.

That said, I am not sure what caliber of women utilize your service. I’ve met only one: Ebba Weaver, the wife of Daniel Weaver, a local orchard owner. Ebba tells me she has written to you and told you of her wedding and subsequent events. It has been almost a year since Daniel and Ebba wed, and they could not be happier. Nellie Davis, the woman that caused Ebba so much trouble, is still performing community service as penance for her crime.

But I digress. I seek an educated woman with whom I can hold intelligent conversations, one skilled in the domestic arts, with a strong demeanor and constitution. As an aside, I am partial to taller women. I would appreciate your expertise and discretion when sorting through candidates in search of my potential future bride.

Yours truly,

Lucien Miller

Lucien folded his letter carefully, put it into a pre-addressed envelope and sealed it. “Now to post.”

He rose from his chair, straightened a book and a few other objects on his desk before grabbing his coat and hat. His home was new and small, a little cottage on the edge of town, and he was still putting the finishing touches on it. It was modest considering his position as the new vice-president of the local bank … but then the bank itself, like the town of Nowhere, was modest. He found it satisfactory.

Besides, he didn’t want to invest in a larger home as he wasn’t sure how long he would stay in Nowhere. He wanted a wife, and if he couldn’t get one here he’d go elsewhere – Seattle, perhaps, or Portland. Even Baker City had more women than Nowhere.

But a conversation with Arlan Weaver at Quinn’s Mercantile last month got him thinking. Arlan and his three younger brothers had sent away for mail-order brides. So had Clayton and Spencer Riley and Warren Johnson, and to his knowledge each man was happily married. Many of them had children now. Calvin Weaver acquired an entire family when his wife’s seven younger siblings came to live with them – quite the brood, but nothing the Weavers couldn’t handle.

Ever since the wedding of Daniel, the youngest Weaver brother, last year, Lucien had felt a gnawing in his gut that wouldn’t go away. He wouldn’t call it loneliness so much as an annoying emptiness – and it was growing worse. But then, he’d never felt lonely, not even as an only child. He’d always had friends, knew how to keep busy, and was his own best company. As he’d never get rid of himself, this was good news.

Now, however, he wanted more. He wanted to share his life with another, and the only natural course he could think of (other than getting a dog) was to wed. Besides, he wanted to converse with a companion, not just feed one. And he was getting awful tired of his own cooking and that of Hank’s restaurant. The help there wasn’t always as accommodating as it ought to be either – thank Heaven Nellie Davis’s community service would be over in a few months.

Hank wasn’t happy about losing the free help, but Nellie was eager to be done – and frankly, so were a lot of Hank’s customers. Nellie had been sentenced to a year of serving in Hank’s restaurant after arguing with Judge Whipple during a trial involving Ebba and Daniel Weaver and Stanley Oliver. Mr. Oliver was convicted of attempted rape and sentenced to two years on McNeil Island, a nasty place but no less than he deserved. And Hank’s patrons had been sentenced to a year of Nellie’s inept and grudging “service.”

Lucien left home and walked to Quinn’s Mercantile to post his letter. Nowhere was small, and slow to keep up with the world’s progress. It had a telegraph office now, but still lacked a post office.

Sheriff Spencer Riley appreciated the telegraph, though, especially since an outlaw gang had been harassing stagecoaches and trains between Seattle and Boise over the last year. Being right in the middle, the people of Nowhere were on edge. Spencer had tried to keep the news under wraps, but Nellie had overheard Spencer and Clayton while serving them breakfast and now the whole town knew. Ironically, Nellie had earned her one-year sentence for gossiping. She seemed far from rehabilitated.

“Good morning, Lucien,” Matthew Quinn called from behind the counter as he entered.

Lucien strolled over and set his letter down. “Good morning, Matthew. I need a stamp.”

“Right away. Your letter will go out in Monday’s …” He stopped short as he read the address. “Mrs. Pettigrew? Isn’t that …”

“Yes, the same woman who sent your cousin Daniel his bride.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Matthew picked up the letter. “You’re sending for a mail-order bride?”

“Yes, but I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for now. Who knows how long this will take? Mrs. Pettigrew might not find anyone suitable for a while, and I don’t want to be bombarded with questions from all and sundry in the meantime. Particularly not your mother-in-law – no offense.”

“None taken – I understand,” Matthew said with a nod. “I won’t even tell Charlotte.”

“You won’t tell me what?” Charlotte Quinn asked as she joined him behind the counter. Before either man could speak, she spotted the envelope. “Lucien Miller, are you sending off for a mail-order bride?”

Lucien rolled his eyes and softly groaned. “It’s not to be common knowledge, Mrs. Quinn. I beg of you.”

“Oh, stop with the ‘Mrs. Quinn’ – Charlotte will do. You’ve been in town long enough.”

“My apologies,” he said. “I know how people can get you and your mother-in-law mixed up.”

“True,” she agreed. “Well, I’m happy for you. Mrs. Pettigrew sent Daniel a wonderful bride.”

“Yes, Ebba and Daniel are very happy. How is she doing, by the way? Is it true she’s in the family way?”

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Charlotte said, then froze. “Lucien, where did you hear it from? We haven’t told anyone outside the family.”

“Your mother informed me as she served my lunch yesterday.”

Matthew tapped the envelope. “Which is why he was swearing me to secrecy about this.”

Charlotte closed her eyes and shook her head. “She’ll never learn.” She picked up a feather duster. “But I won’t say a word, Lucien. You can count on me.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” He glanced around at the various goods.

“Do you need anything?” Matthew asked.

“I was thinking about dishes. I have but a few. If I’m to have a wife, she’ll want more, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes.” Charlotte came around the counter. “Let me show you what we have. You could also order a nice set – you have time.”

“Yes, I’m sure I do. How long did it take for the last few brides to show up?”

“Hmm, let’s see … those would be the Weaver brides. Benjamin’s showed up after the preliminary letters were exchanged. Calvin’s took longer, which meant an extra letter here and there. To be honest, it’s getting harder to keep track. And we all know what happened with Daniel and Ebba …”

Lucien and Matthew nodded without comment, and Lucien cringed. Mrs. Pettigrew had unwisely added a single sentence to Ebba’s first and only letter to Daniel. That one line, read by none other than Nellie Davis, caused a heap of trouble that Nellie was still paying for – apparently to no avail.

“I can show you the catalogue we order from,” Matthew offered, shaking Lucien from his thoughts.

“Yes, please do.” The few pieces of china the mercantile had were rather dull, just blue and white. “I’ve seen red-and-white patterns back east. Do they have those in the catalogue?”

“Yes, as I recall,” Charlotte said. “Pink and white, too.”

“Pink, you say? Women like pink, don’t they?”

“Some do. Myself, I’m partial to blue. And violet.”

“You are?” he said, intrigued.

Charlotte smiled in amusement. “What else are you unsure of when it comes to a woman’s likes?”

Lucien shrugged. “If I’m to be honest, most everything.”

She nodded. “That’s what I thought. Come along and let’s look at that catalogue.”

Meanwhile, on a lonely road in New Jersey …

“Father!”

Captain Andrew Sneed clutched his daughter’s hand. “Jane, you’re bleeding!” he rasped.

“So are you.” She put her hand over the wound in his belly. “Hang on, I have to fix this.”

“Your … your face, child,” he said, weaker now.

“Hush, I have to staunch the flow.” She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief – it was all she had. She cursed under her breath and lifted her skirt.

“Jane,” her father whispered. “You can do nothing for me now.”

“Don’t say that!” She ripped at her petticoats to make a bandage.

“My darling daughter, I am …” He took a deep breath. “… dying. You must let me go.”

“No! I’ll save you!” She wadded the strip of cloth and pressed it over his wound.

“You must … take care of yourself. Your eye …”

“Never mind about it. I … I … your life is more important.” She saw his blood spread through the piece of petticoat and pressed harder. She felt lightheaded, and wondered how much blood she’d lost. The bilge rat that shot her father had also slashed her face with a huge knife. He didn’t want to kill her – if he had, he’d have shot her too. He must’ve had other plans for her, and she could just guess what.

She glanced at the unconscious heap lying nearby. The highwayman’s comrades had killed the driver of their coach, robbed them and left him to do his worst to her. She counted herself lucky – they could have stayed behind, each taking a turn once her assailant slaked his own lust. Instead he’d decided to be alone with her – and she hoped she’d made him pay for that.

“Jane,” her father rasped. “My little Billie …”

She looked into his eyes in the bright moonlight. “Father, hold on …”

“I can’t. No sense now.” He swallowed hard. “Promise me …”

“What, Father?” she asked and gripped his hand.

“Promise me you’ll marry, have children, a good life.”

Marry! The word sent a chill up her spine. No man had ever shown an interest in marrying her. Besides, she might not live long enough to …

“Promise me!”

She gripped his hand harder and pressed her ripped petticoat against the wound in his belly. “I promise.” Tears spilled over her left cheek; her right was covered in blood. She’d have to do something about that and quickly, but first she had to save her father. “Please hold on!”

He managed a smile. “You are the most precious treasure … in my possession. We still have a little money …”

“Shhh, please don’t talk,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Use it to find a husband. Go west, like we planned …”

She buried her face in his chest to stifle a sob. It didn’t work.

“Promise me, Billie.”

Her head came up, making her dizzy. She couldn’t see out of her right eye and wondered if she ever would again. “Yes, yes, I promise. I’ll marry, I’ll go west, I’ll …”

Her father’s head lolled to the side.

“Father?” She put her ear to his chest. Silence. “Father?!”

Billie Jane Sneed grabbed her father by the coat and shook him, but to no avail. He was gone.