Violet Pettit sat in the long grasses that grew along the bank of the small river near her home. This was the best vantage point for seeing the night sky, and tonight, the stars were incredibly brilliant. She could easily pick out several constellations, and as she sat there, she recited the names of them from memory. What would it be like to fly up amongst them? If only she could somehow manage it. She would count them and catalogue them all.
By the time she had gotten her fill, both the seat and the hem of her dress were soaked, but she didn’t care. Her notebook was full of sketches and questions and observations, and that meant her heart was full too. Her father had refused to pay her way to university so she could study astronomy more in-depth, but she was learning all she could on her own. Now, what she’d do with that knowledge without a degree, she wasn’t sure, but it interested her like nothing else did, and it gave her something to think about while she sat and embroidered the endless pillows her mother insisted she learn how to make.
Because pillows, obviously, were the answer to the world’s ills.
When she reached the back door of her house, she peered through the window. If she could sneak inside and up the stairs without being seen, she could change her dress and no one would be the wiser for how disheveled she’d become. She didn’t see anyone through the glass, so she eased the door open and slipped inside.
As she crept down the hallway, she heard voices coming from the parlor. It was that dreadful Mrs. Allan person paying an evening call, droning on and on about something. She had an opinion about everything, and she expected everyone to listen from start to finish. Violet rolled her eyes and continued on her way, grateful she wasn’t in the room.
But then she heard her name, and stopped.
“Violet runs wild—simply wild. It’s like she’s some sort of jungle creature rather than a young lady. My dear Margaret, I know you’ve done your best to raise her, and I’m not faulting you in the slightest. I just feel that something more should be done.”
“I have tried,” her mother faltered. “But she’s an adult now—I can hardly punish her like I would a child.”
“Well, something must be done. My boys have said they wouldn’t marry her if she was the last girl in Ottawa, and they tell me that their friends have all said the same thing. You must see to her future, Margaret. Do you want her unmarried and alone, tromping through the woods like . . . like some sort of muddy heathen for the rest of her days?”
Heat rose to Violet’s cheeks. Of all the things to say!
“Of course not,” her mother replied. “But I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried and tried, and she simply won’t listen to reason.”
“She must be made! Lock her in her room until she agrees to behave in polite society. Maybe then she’ll come to her senses. She must learn that this obsession she has must be put aside. Her responsibility is to marry and raise a family, not to go on and on about science and whatnot. She’s positively masculine sometimes.”
Violet couldn’t hold it in any longer. She turned and entered the parlor, her hands bunched up in fists at her sides.
“I will not be locked in my room, and I refuse to behave in any society that considers this sort of behavior appropriate.”
Mrs. Allan looked her up and down. “Is that so? Tell me, child. Is that six inches of mud on your hem, or eight?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure it’s fully eight. I would never settle for six when eight would be so much better.”
Mrs. Allan turned to her mother, whose cheeks were as red as Violet had ever seen them. “Do you see? She’s simply incorrigible. She will never find a husband among the boys of our set. You’ll have to send her away to someplace where they’ve never heard of her. Or perhaps finishing school—that would be a possibility, if you could find one that would take her.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Allan. You see, I’m already quite finished. Finished with this conversation, that is. As for finding a husband, I’ve already got that sorted out.” Violet didn’t know what had gotten into her. She didn’t usually speak up like this—she was often teased for being a shrinking Violet. But now, fury burned through her veins, and it was making her say things she would never have dared before.
“You have?” her mother asked, her voice both incredulous and hopeful.
“I have. Some of the girls from church have become mail-order brides to Mounties with the help of Mrs. Hughes, and I’ve decided to be one of them.”
Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth. Even Mrs. Allan, who was never at a loss for words, didn’t seem to know what to say.
Violet barreled on. “That’s right. She’ll find me a husband someplace where I can wander in the woods all I like and get as muddy as humanly possible. In fact, I plan to wear trousers, sit down in the mud, and roll around in it!” She actually didn’t intend to do any such thing, but it was so satisfying to see the horror on Mrs. Allan’s face when she said it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Mrs. Hughes and must go change. Have a wonderful evening, Mrs. Allan, Mother.”
She turned, paused for a moment to show off the puddle that her backside had become, and then fled, exhilarated. Oh, that felt so good. But then right on the heels of that elation came terror. What had she just done? She’d made a declaration that she was going to go marry a Mountie, and now she had to follow through with it or she’d lose all credibility, and her situation would be even worse than it already was. She closed the door to her bedroom and leaned against it, berating herself. She really should have thought it over before she said anything. She shouldn’t have been so rash.
On the other hand, though, if she had taken the time to think it over, chances were, she never would have come to a decision. It was the anger in her soul that had pushed her into action, and the more she thought about it, the better that action seemed. If none of the men here would marry her, it only made sense that she should go somewhere else, and if she chose a Mountie, she’d know that he was an honorable man. They might not get along in temperament, but that was something to be considered in any marriage—her parents had been in love when they married, but it had settled into indifference. Still, they made a life together, and Violet imagined she could do the same thing. Love would be nice, but really, who could guarantee that?
She changed quickly, putting on her yellow dress, the one that always made her feel pretty and confident. She’d need some confidence to go speak with Mrs. Hughes. This was a giant step she was taking, one that would change everything about her entire existence.
***
Richard Murray smiled and shook his head as he folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. If Peter had rambled on for one more paragraph about the wonders of married life, he’d have to hop the first train out to his brother’s post and pop him right in the nose. Yes, he was glad that his brother was happy with his new wife, but reading that letter was giving him a toothache from all the sugary sweetness.
It was the last paragraph of the letter that was really bothering him, though. You know, you’re the only member of the Murray family who hasn’t been matched by Miss Hazel. You should give it some thought—we’re all happily married, and it sure beats trying to court a dozen girls until you find the right one. But now I have to ask, are there even a dozen girls up there in Flying Squirrel for you to court? And who names a town Flying Squirrel, anyway?
Peter was right. There weren’t a dozen girls up here to choose from, if he were of a mind to court. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was. He was so busy with his work as a Mountie that it hadn’t even crossed his mind since he was stationed up here in the Northwest Territories.
Over the next few days, he tried not to think about it, but it seemed that everyone in his family had decided to gang up on him. He got a letter from his sister, Evelyn, who had been the first to work with Miss Hazel, and then he got a letter from Jonathan. Now the only sibling left was Samuel. He checked the mail daily, wondering if his brother had been left out of the loop, and had all but decided that letter wasn’t coming until presto, yes, it did. All saying the same thing, all encouraging him to write to Miss Hazel.
Just think about all the positives that could come from it, Samuel wrote. Having a wife is a comfort and a blessing.
The positives, eh? All he could think about was the hassle. Women cost money, for starters. Not only did they need clothes—layers and layers of clothes—but they wanted dishes and linens and curtains and froufrou. In addition, they required time. Lots and lots of time. If he had a wife, she’d expect him to sit and stare at her adoringly while she prattled on about absolutely nothing, and he’d have to agree to everything she said. Oh, and if something upset her? She’d cry buckets and buckets, and it would be on him to make it right even if he didn’t know what was wrong. No, sir. That didn’t interest him in the slightest. He put Samuel’s letters with the others in his sock drawer, pulled his socks over them, and resolved to forget the whole thing.
But then the family played a mean trick. He got a letter from his mother.
My greatest wish is to see all my children settled and happy, she wrote. As time goes by and I look at you all, I’m so proud of everything you’ve become. You’re each serving your country, following in the family tradition, and Evelyn is serving by supporting her Mountie husband. Your patriotism does us proud. You should see your father talk about you all—he reminds me of that old rooster in the barn that struts around and acts like he owns the place.
And now, Richard, the time has come for you to choose a wife. Your career is going so well, and all that you lack now is a family of your own. I dearly wish to bounce your children on my knee. I miss the days when I had babies of my own, and now I must live vicariously through you.
Drat. Just … drat. He could picture his mother’s sweet face as he read her words. She had devoted her life to supporting her husband in his Mountie career, and training her sons to follow in his footsteps. Everything she’d done had been for the benefit of her family, and now, she wanted grandchildren. Was that too much to ask?
He shook his head. His siblings would give her babies by the basketful, he was sure. Why did he have to contribute?
But then he thought back on Samuel’s letter, the part that spoke of counting the blessings of marriage. He’d covered the liabilities pretty thoroughly—he supposed he should give the same weight to the positives. If he were married, there would be someone waiting for him when he came home at night. His cabin wouldn’t be cold in the winter—a fire would be going, and he could come inside, strip off his boots, and warm his toes on the hearth. She would put a lantern in the window for him to see home by, and she would make meals and wash his clothes, and . . .
He shook his head. He couldn’t make lists like that—she’d probably be entirely different, and he’d be sorely disappointed. He shouldn’t get his hopes up for anything at all.
Another day went by, his mother’s voice echoing in the back of his mind, and finally, he relented while out riding his rounds. “All right!” he said aloud, startling his horse. “I’ll do it. I’ll write Miss Hazel. But if I have to go through this, I won’t do it alone!” He spurred his horse onward, determined to get back to the Mountie office as quickly as possible. He was going make his fellow Mounties send for brides too.