The Other Bride

“This is Doreen Llewelyn-Bowes.”

Doreen briefly glanced up from her novel. She offered a smile that was somehow lacking in warmth, then returned to the volume of poetry.

Mrs. Cates seemed relieved to be so summarily dismissed. “This is Edith Diggery,” she said, her tone bright again. She drew Phoebe toward a delicate blond girl at the window.

“She’s an orphan, poor lass,” Mrs. Cates said under her breath. “Her father made provisions for her to marry the son of a friend.”

Edith offered Phoebe a nervous half smile, and Phoebe’s heart ached for the girl. Surely this youngster wasn’t ready for the demands of marriage, especially to a stranger.

“And this is Betty Brown.”

Betty jumped from her spot on the settee and bounded toward them.

“I’m from Long Island, so I haven’t come very far at all, but I’m destined to marry a schoolteacher in Oregon whose name is Harry. Isn’t that a rather funny name? Harry? I wrote to him and asked if it was short for something, Harold or Horace, but he wrote back to say, no, it’s just Harry. Plain old Harry.”

Phoebe immediately warmed to the gregarious girl with the snapping blue eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what his name is,” Doreen drawled from the swooning couch. “You won’t be seeing him anytime soon.”

The joy dimmed from Betty’s eyes as quickly as it had come. “Oh,” she offered forlornly. “That’s right.”

“What’s happened?” Phoebe breathed, almost afraid to discover what calamity could be preventing their journey.

“It’s that blasted Overland Settlers Company,” Betty said with a sniff. “They’ve absolutely forbidden us to accompany them on their trip West.”

Phoebe felt her stomach lurch. A fuzzy blackness swam in front of her eyes, but with a great strength of will she managed to push it away.

“Help her to the couch, ladies, or she’ll swoon!” Mrs. Cates sang out. Several helping hands moved her to an overstuffed settee near the window.

“Water! Get her some water!”

Before she knew what was happening, a glass was being thrust into her hand. Phoebe took a sip, then gulped greedily when the water tasted cool and fresh—unlike the stale, barreled supplies she’d been forced to drink on the ship.

“I’ve got smelling salts if you need them,” the woman named Twila offered, extending a small vial in Phoebe’s direction.

Even a faint whiff of the stuff was enough to clear Phoebe’s brain, and she pushed it aside, saying weakly, “No. Thank you.”

Phoebe stared at each of the women in turn, her blood turning to ice.

She wouldn’t be going West.

None of them would.

“What happened? Why won’t we be allowed on the train? Our husbands-to-be have made all the arrangements.”

Doreen sighed as if she’d been called upon to explain a difficult concept to a child. “Apparently, it doesn’t matter.” Doreen’s voice adopted a peeved note. “The trail boss hired to take the group West has forbidden us from joining them.”

“But why?”

“He refuses to take a group of unaccompanied women on the journey,” Maude explained.

Phoebe was still confused. “What do you mean, unaccompanied? We’ve arranged to travel together.”

“She means that we haven’t got a male chaperon,” Mable explained with a sniff.

Phoebe eyed the glum faces that surrounded her. “There has to be a mistake. The Overland Company has already accepted payment for our passage, knowing full well that we wouldn’t be under the auspices of a male companion. Surely they wouldn’t go back on their word regarding their earlier commitment.”

Doreen sniffed. “Well, they have, and there’s no changing their mind. We’ve been in touch with the Overland offices, and they refuse to hear our complaint. We’ve sent letters, notes, telegrams, and they refuse to budge.”

“What about the trail boss who made the stipulation? Has anyone talked to him? Can we find a way to change his mind?”

Phoebe took heart from the answering silence, and noted the quick spark of hope passing from woman to woman.

“We’ve written to him, naturally, but we haven’t tried to contact him directly,” Doreen stated archly. “Personally, I don’t think such a course of action would be…appropriate.” She looked down her nose at Phoebe and her simple traveling suit. “A woman of proper breeding must draw the line at a face-to-face confrontation. It isn’t seemly.”

Righting the angle of her bonnet, Phoebe ignored the fear and weariness that tugged at her heels and urged her to sit on solid land and rest, if only for a minute.

She had to leave on that train or everything would be ruined. If she didn’t…

If she didn’t, too many things could go wrong.

“Propriety be hanged,” she muttered, draining the glass of cool water and jumping to her feet. “If that man thinks he can brush us aside like a swarm of bothersome flies, he’s about to get a rude awakening.”

In no time at all, Phoebe was striding down the boardwalk again. But this time she was far from alone. In her wake came Maude and Mable, Edith, Twila, Betty, Greta and Heidi. Doreen, who still contended that it wasn’t proper to instigate such a confrontation, had stayed behind.

Phoebe glanced down at the tiny scrap of paper Mrs. Cates had given her, then said, “We need to find 65 Fairfield Lane. The location should be fairly close to the station.”

The walk to the railway station took much longer than Phoebe had anticipated. The genteel surroundings of the boardinghouse had gradually melted away, and the poorer section of town they entered became more and more tawdry.

Despite her outer bravado, Phoebe felt her skittishness increase. After all, who was she to say that they had nothing to fear from taking matters into their own hands? Only weeks before, she’d had little experience of associating with the masculine gender at all. And here she was, charging through a maze of tangled streets and alleyways as if she knew what she was doing. If any of the women who accompanied her were to discover that her bravado was feigned—

“There’s the proper street!” Maude exclaimed.

“The address must be straightaway and to the right,” Mable added, pointing in the direction with her walking stick.

Now that their goal was close at hand, Phoebe felt her stomach flip-flop in reaction. She’d volunteered in a moment of passion to speak to the trail boss, but she suddenly realized she had no idea what she intended to say.

Phoebe’s worries scattered when Edith suddenly gasped in horror. Looking up, Phoebe saw a huge, gaily painted placard proclaiming Golden Arms Hotel.

This time it was Phoebe’s turn to utter a choked cry. Without thought, she stopped in her tracks so suddenly that the other women crashed into her like dominoes.

“What in heaven’s name—” Twila grumbled.

Phoebe gestured to the placard with its brass lettering and a painting of a woman in a shocking state of dishabille.

“No,” Phoebe whispered to herself. “It couldn’t be.”

But a glance at the paper assured her that the address she’d been given as a temporary office for Mr. Cutter was the same as the title emblazoned on the sign.