A year from now she’d be married, living a new fresh life filled with possibilities. In Montana she’d not be trapped between social circles, and perhaps, God willing, she’d be cradling her own babe in her arms.
“Stop your daydreaming!” Cora shouted.
Abby straightened. “Sorry, Cora.”
Her dreams were within her grasp, but she’d have to move carefully. Uncle Stewart would stop her f he knew her intentions. His society friends would frown upon him if word got out his ward, who’d already disgraced him once, had become a mail-order bride.
So far she’d managed to keep the letters a secret. Normally, Uncle Stewart read the mail in the evening, so it had been easy for her to sift through the letters unnoticed. However, today her uncle had taken a day off from work in preparation for her cousin’s engagement party, which was to be held in two days. He’d chosen to sleep late and was having his breakfast an hour later. The entire household, which worked around his schedule, was in a tizzy over the change.
As she reached the top step, she nudged open the door that led to the dining room with her foot.
Her Aunt Gertrude, Uncle Stewart and cousin Joanne sat at the large finely polished dining table. Her uncle, as he did each day, was reading the Chronicle, while her aunt and cousin chatted about her cousin’s upcoming wedding. None turned to greet her as she entered the room.
Abby set her tray on the side table. She glanced nervously through the double doors of the dining room toward the front door. The post always arrived at nine twenty. If she hurried, she’d make it.
Managing a smile, she placed the coffee cups in front of her uncle first, then her aunt and her cousin last. As she filled each cup and placed the muffins on the table, Stewart reached for the strawberry jam on the table and started to spread it on his muffin.
Wiping her hands on her brown skirt, she moved toward the door that led to the foyer, grateful for the first time that they’d not acknowledged her.
As she reached the threshold, her uncle set down his knife on his white porcelain plate. “Abigail, a letter arrived for you yesterday.”
The nerves in her body tightened and she could feel the blood draining from her face. Slowly she faced her uncle. “I got the post yesterday. There was no letter for me.”
“The postman held it back. He thought it odd that you’ve been receiving so much mail lately.” He bit into the muffin and carefully set it back on the plate.
“If it’s my letter, then I’d like to have it,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm.
“Who is Matthias Barrington?” he said.
Abby felt the color drain from her face.
Aunt Gertrude’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “I don’t know any Barringtons in San Francisco.”
“He’s not from San Francisco,” Stewart said. “He’s from Montana.”
Gertrude poured cream in her tea. “Good Lord, Montana? I wasn’t sure if anyone really lived there, let alone anyone who could write.”
Abby crushed back the welling panic. “You opened my letter.”
“I did,” said her uncle. “And why shouldn’t I? This is my house and everything that happens in it is my business. “Now answer my question. Who is Matthias Barrington?”
She’d known this day would come. She’d rehearsed what she would say to her aunt and uncle a thousand times, but the words suddenly caught in her throat.
Joanne lifted her gaze from several trousseau sketches she was examining. Golden curls framed a heart-shaped face and emphasized pale skin and lavender eyes. The blue watered silk morning wrapper hugged her delicate figure to perfection. “Cat got your tongue?” she purred.
Abby stared at her cousin. Stewart and Gertrude had always thought their daughter perfect, especially in comparison to a niece who’d never been exposed to the finer social graces.
Abby managed a slight shrug of her shoulders. “He is a rancher in Montana.”
“And what business does he have with you?” Gertrude said.
A gold signet ring on Stewart’s right pinky finger winked in the morning light as he pulled the letter from his pocket. He laid it by his plate. “It seems this Barrington fellow is talking some nonsense about marriage to our Abigail.”
“Marriage!” Joanne laughed. “I thought you’d given up on love after Douglas made a fool out of you.”
Abby drew in a steadying breath, determined not to show her anger.
Annoyed, Gertrude tapped her finger against the linen tablecloth. “You told me nothing of this.”
Abby held out her hand. “May I have my letter?”
Stewart buttered his muffin. “Not until you tell us what this is all about. How could you even come to know such a man?”
Oddly, instead of fear she felt relieved to have it all in the open. “I answered his ad in the Chronicle for a mail order bride.”
Gertrude’s cup clattered down hard against its saucer. Stewart’s thin face whitened. “Why would you embarrass us in such a way? Haven’t we done right by you these last ten years? Lord knows we stood by you when we should have tossed you into the street.”
His words nearly rekindled the guilt that had kept her in check for so many years. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Everything you do is my concern. When it’s time for you to marry, I will see that you marry a suitable man.”
“When I marry?” For a moment anger tightened her throat. How many times had she heard this? “If I stay in San Francisco, I will never marry. Dearest Joanne and her gossip have seen to that. And I want a family of my own. It is time for me to move on.”
Joanne tossed her napkin on the table. “This is all very fascinating, but Mother, we’re going to be late to the dressmakers, if we delay too long.”
Aunt Gertrude nodded. “In a minute, dear.” She lifted her sharp gaze to Abby. “If it’s a husband you want, I’m sure we can find one. In fact, I heard the butcher, Joshua Piper, is looking for another wife. He seems rather fond of you.”
At forty-seven, the butcher had four unruly sons and a mother who still lived with him. It struck Abby then that on her last visit to his shop he’d spent extra time with her. It also explained the extra lamb chop in her order. “I want a fresh start,” she said. “Away from the city.”
Stewart pinched the bridge of his nose. “The city is far better than Montana. I’ve heard tales about that wretched land. It’s full of cutthroats and murderers.”
Abby could feel the tension building in the muscles at the base of her back. “It’s my choice.”
“You can’t marry without my permission,” Stewart said.
“I
