Authors: Rose Jenster
With answering hope,
Not-Ophelia
She signed the letter with the little nickname he’d given her in his letter, thinking it might form a link between them, a personal connection of some sort. Impetuously, she kissed the letter and sealed it. She dreamt sweet dreams of far-off mountains that night and awaited his next message. Though she had indicated she would only check the post every few weeks, she kept a faithful vigil each day, hoping unreasonably for a letter even before hers could have reached him. One day her expectation was rewarded with one that must have been mailed before hers was even received.
Dear Leah,
I have not yet heard from you. That is not meant as a reproach, as I know the mails take much time to reach across this great mass of land. It is only that I am anxious to hear from you. Not anxious, I think, but expectant, perhaps excited, if that were not a juvenile impulse unbefitting a man of business. Therefore if I were excited I would certainly not own to the fact.
There is much I do not own to here. The postmaster knows that I subscribe to the lending library but no one else does. I take the agricultural papers as a matter of course so I may keep informed of the events concerning my fellow citizens but it is of no interest to me in itself. I order some titles by mail to own. It was the last time I filled out a catalog form to secure the newest of Mark Twain that I wondered why might I not order a bride with the same spirit, as other men have done? Select a volume I would like to read again and again as I have Mr. Twain’s Roughing It. Does it seem arrogant to suggest I may shop for a wife in the same way? I do not mean it as an insult, only I am sometimes flippant, careless in my speech and I revere books, so do not think me irreverent in my discussing you as just such a wished-for item I might order.
Reading is not a pastime much approved in this region. So much of life out here is rough and uncivilized. Men, if they have leisure time, will spend it whittling, smoking, hunting for extra game. Physical strength is valued, as well as piety and modesty, so outside ideas and new philosophies are not welcomed with zeal. I keep my reading to myself, but I may talk of it with you. I ride around the countryside. I have a favorite mount, a stallion I call Dionysius, that I bought at auction two years ago for a bargain after being told he was unrideable. The owner had tried to break him but failed, only managing to injure his mouth with a large bit. I trained him myself and I ride him bareback, as it seemed he was most frightened of the bridle and saddle. I will not expect you to ride without a proper ladies’ saddle, though. Apart from Indians, I am the only man in Montana, I believe, who rides bareback…men around Billings think it too risky.
I debated with myself three nights altogether as to whether it would distress you to receive another long letter from me before you had an opportunity to reply to the first. Ultimately, I decided that if you were to bear with one such as me for any time at all, you would have to be more robust in your sensibilities than to be prim and proper about my waiting a decorous interval before writing again.
A bit about my life here—I have made it sound restrictive, I fear, as if Montana were populated by ignorant ruffians. That is not the case at all. The Northern Pacific Railroad has made Billings a major rail hub, so many people who are moving West come here. My inn has prospered as a stopping place for those visiting relatives or needing a place to rest before traveling further than the rail line goes. I sell and rent horses and wagons as well, which is a booming business.
In the next year, I expect to build on to the inn—a large front room and a kitchen to serve as a restaurant. With the shortage of womenfolk, the men eat whatever they can fry up in a single pan and would gladly part with their hard-earned money for a genuine home-cooked dinner. I see a great deal of opportunity in the expansion and I have money laid aside for it. I borrowed from a bank to start the inn and I was able to pay it all back the year the railroad came. My business is without debt. I make my home in the rooms behind the common room of the inn. There is a sitting room, a kitchen, and a bedroom. I employ two grooms and a stable master as well as a charwoman to clean the inn.
I came West on a diet of fatback and cornbread and was glad to have cabbages and potatoes from the garden once I got work as a shop assistant at a trading post in Coulson. The food here is abundant with wild game, cattle, and chickens to provide meat and plenty of eggs and milk and butter.
The mountains themselves are as beautiful as anything God’s made, I’ll wager, and the river Yellowstone, when not clogged with riverboat traffic from far-off St. Louis, is a glorious sight to behold. The reason I came was not for mountains. It was for a chance to be my own man and see what I could make of myself. If I may be boastful, I am proud of the man I’ve become. Though I take moods like any man, I have a successful business and a comfortable home to offer.
If you will look kindly on my suit, I would ask for your consideration now as a husband. My plan (I am a practical man, after all) is to send you a train ticket and ask that you come to Billings to stay in Mrs. Hostleman’s boarding house. We could get to know one another and try courting, see if we suit. In due course, we would have the banns announced at church and wed. If you do not like the look of me or my odd ways, there will be a return ticket enclosed in the letter as well. By your staying with the respectable Mrs. Hostleman, your virtue will be unquestioned and if my plan fails you would be no worse off in the way of finding a husband than you were before.
I have read your letter so often it is soft in the creases from being unfolded and refolded and stored in my pocket. I’m not a man who is accustomed to having a sweetheart, but I find I like the idea of it and I like you especially, if I may be so bold as to say so. Your letter made you seem kind and practical and intelligent, all qualities I am looking for in a wife, not-Ophelia.
Think on it a while and write to me then. Consult your family about the propriety of my plan. I will be happy to have Mrs. Hostleman write a letter of introduction to reassure them if you like. She is a widow with children who refuses to marry again and keeps a clean, Christian establishment. This is no advertisement for Mrs. Hostleman, though. I hope you will like me better than the boarding house.
Sincerely,
Henry
Leah had tears in her eyes as she finished reading his letter. Henry had chosen her. She need not have worried that he had many handsomer women writing to him. He wanted her to come to Montana. He even offered her respectable accommodation while they got to know one another, afforded her the option of rejecting him and going home. It was so much more than she could have hoped for.
She pressed the letter between her palms reverently. She would keep this to herself, would tell Jane and Walter only after the term was done at school. She would notify the board of education at the end of term and tell her family the same day, she decided. This secret happiness felt too fragile, too new to share yet. Something might happen in the intervening weeks that prevented her travel or caused one or both of them to change their intentions. She didn’t want to expose this dream to the sunlight in case it evaporated before her eyes. She would keep it safe just this little while.
Dear Henry,
I have received your letter, unexpected as the loveliest things always are. My school term ends in one month. If you would be so kind as to book a train ticket after that time, I would be honored to accept it. I look forward to seeing the mountains and rivers of Montana Territory. I look forward most of all to seeing you. I confess that I quite fancy the idea of you riding Dionysius bareback…it sounds quite like something from the cowboy serials in the papers!
I hope you will not be disappointed when we meet. I am small and rather ordinary with brown hair. I did not inherit my mother’s blue eyes but I am told I have her smile. I am very shy, which you may not be able to discern from my letters. I grew up around a stationer’s shop and paper and pens are as natural to me as books, as breathing and walking and turning my face to the sun. You will find me quiet, but hopeful. I will bring my belongings with me, leaving nothing behind. This is a testament to my belief that I will find reason enough to remain in Montana by your side.
I have not read any of Mr. Twain’s books. I look forward to borrowing one from you if I may, so we could discuss it. Would you be agreeable to trying a favorite of my own by Miss Austen? I should so love to talk to someone about it, and not since my dear mother’s passing have I had such a friend.
Do write again and tell me more of your interests and occupations. I will await details of your plan. I shall not speak to this arrangement of ours to my family yet, though I believe a letter from the keeper of the boarding house would be a welcome reassurance. I am grateful for this chance and, if you will forgive another fancy of mine, I believe my mother had a hand in it from Above.
Wishing you well,
Leah (not-Ophelia)
In the weeks that followed, Leah Weaver positively bloomed. Her commonly pale cheek took on a becoming rosiness and she took more care in the arrangement of her hair. Instead of the plain low knot she favored, Leah trimmed a fashionable fringe with her sewing scissors and puffed and curled it across her forehead using Jane’s curling tongs. The fringe framed her heart-shaped face, and even her usually inattentive brother commented that she was looking well.
She took some of her quarter’s salary and had a few dresses made. For travel, she chose a sturdy wool dress in black with only a narrow braid at the wrists and high collar; a fitted jacket in a lovely shade of cranberry with a matching striped skirt; a snug basque bodice in serviceable gray with a flare at the hips; and a narrow skirt of the same fabric.
Leah indulged in a pretty dark green dress whose narrow skirt had a bustle in the back and was trimmed with braid and buttons. She had her mother’s love of pretty things, and so purchased a pair of heeled kidskin slippers to wear with her green dress instead of her practical boots. When the dresses were ready, she packed them in paper, unwilling to wear them before she traveled to Montana.
Henry’s letter came in answer to the lengthy missive she wrote before receiving his proposal. She read it again and again joyously.
Dear Leah (whom I hope soon to call MY Leah),
I spent many an afternoon in an empty hall listening to the orchestra rehearse under my father’s direction. My lack of musical aptitude was a disappointment to him, I believe. I have great appreciation for that art, however, and I count Bach as my favorite composer. I am not shocked by your interest in Mr. Whitman’s poetry. To thrive on the frontier of Montana Territory, you could not be a shrinking violet with very delicate sensibilities. Ladies are respected here, of course, but you will find more of the earthy side of daily life, with animal husbandry and whatnot. I should hate to think you would faint upon entering a stable or having to walk past the saloon on the way to Sunday services. It is better that you are well-read and know something of the world lest you find yourself shocked by the matter-of-factness in our way of life.
I am unfamiliar with some of the books you mention but I have ordered one of Jane Austen’s novels from my lending library since receiving your recommendation. I do like Gulliver’s Travels and would be happy to see your copy sitting beside my own on the shelf. I have no copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I read them at school as a boy and thought little of them, but a man’s eyes see differently.
What your eyes will see when I meet your train, if you are willing to come, is a man of twenty-nine, sturdy from work but not run to fat, brown from the sun and hair pale for the same reason. I can say little for my appearance apart from the fact that I have my teeth and I am healthy. The rest you must judge for yourself.
As for life here, you may expect to become my wife and helpmeet. I do not expect you to clean the inn or work among the people who patronize that business. I can hire workers when I need them. What I need is a friend, a like-minded person to talk with and understand, and whom I might persuade to care for me in time. I go to church on Sundays and I do not take strong drink. I am neat but given to seriousness and what my father, in times of anger, called melancholy. I think a deal of that is from being lonesome, the cure for which is yourself.
Bring your books, bring everything. I have read your letters. I would not send you back. Come here with patience, with your thoughts and ideas, and I will meet you at the station. Enclosed is your ticket. If you find my proposal unacceptable, you are free to turn it in for the purchase price. It is a round trip ticket, but I trust the return voucher will lie in a drawer unused.
I hope you will come.
Henry
Leah could not believe her good fortune, to find such a man, so clever and kind and romantic, so open about his feelings. She took out the composition book from her hope chest and turned the pages lovingly. When her mother had known she was dying in those final weeks, she had sent her daughter down to the shop to get a blank book and had helped her fill it with stories and advice, everything she wanted to say to her little girl. Leah had written in the last blank pages herself, all the storms of her sorrow when her mother died, all the loneliness and fear of those early weeks after she was bereaved. Now she turned the pages, touching lightly and affectionately on those few that bore her mother’s beautiful slanted script. Finding the section she wanted, she looked over the pages about marriage.
You will be a beautiful and accomplished young woman and some man will ask permission to court you. You mustn’t be afraid to tell your father that you do not wish to court with this man if he makes you uncomfortable. These novels we have read together, these poems, might give you a mistaken idea of what love and marriage ought to be. What you feel ought not to be stormy and frightening and anxious. You should feel joy and hope, and above all you must feel comfortable with the man you marry.