Tag: words

Finally, after all the letters were written and all the papers signed, Iris found herself in her small room, a square box now that it was stripped of all her belongings. Two young men were carrying her heavy trunk to the hackney waiting in the street. She had informed Mr. Emerson only the day before that she would be leaving the city for good on the morrow. Mrs. Emerson, who was in the shop as well, said that nothing good would come of it, Iris was going to her destruction with her unthinking stubbornness, the Territories were a wild and ruthless country, and she was silly to risk her reputation and good health by doing something so rash. She had rather stay and meet George Leibowitz, the young man who always came to buy mints, he had already asked about her twice. Mr. Emerson said Mrs. Emerson should calm herself, Iris had always been an independent young woman, and it was best to let her go, which did not sound like a compliment coming from him but Iris did not comment. Instead, she said her goodbyes, though she only nodded to Carter, who thankfully was busy with a customer. Iris had taken one last look then walked out of the shop, grateful she would never have to enter it again.

*

Standing in her empty room the following morning, Iris looked at the small golden band that spanned her ring finger, made on commission by Sanders, Sanders & Jones, as an initial wedding ring until Mr. O’Brian gave her his own. Mr. Sanders explained it was part of the MCA service, since one could not expect a married woman to travel such long distances alone without the sign of her family status. Mr. O’Brian’s last letter had been short but cordial, confirming the particulars of her journey that she had sent him after receiving her train ticket from Messrs. Sanders and Jones. She would be taking a sleeping car with full board and it would be a total of seven days until she reached Riverton, the coastal town where Christian O’Brian lived. Iris straightened herself, stepped out of her empty lodgings, and closed the door behind her. She had already said goodbye to Mr. Godfrey, Young Hamish, and Mrs. Rose too, who was at first shocked, then irritated, and finally almost benevolent when she saw Christian O’Brian’s picture during their last Sunday tea. ‘It seems you are as clever as your mother always said,’ Mrs. Rose had said then. She embraced Iris when saying farewell and insisted Iris write to her about her life in the Territories.

The train ride was long but pleasant. Iris spent most of her time alone during the first day, watching the landscapes, stations, and towns pass by when she wasn’t reading the book on housekeeping Mrs. Rose gave her as a farewell present. It was written by a certain Mrs. Beeton, an Englishwoman, and apparently was Mrs. Rose ‘infallible guide’ during her first years of marriage. She insisted Iris should have it, ‘all alone out there as you’ll probably be for a while’. It made Iris realize that her clever plan had become an actual reality, since Mrs. Rose obviously believed it too. On the second day of her journey, Iris was accosted by a widow by the name of Davidson during her lunch. Mrs. Davidson descended on the dining coach out of her first class domain, swathed in black and pearls, her portly frame filling out almost the entirety of her side of the red-leather bench. Iris’ table was the only free one at luncheon, and Mrs. Davidson was determined to have a partner during her meal, she was in sore need for conversation, train rides were otherwise very depressing. Mrs. Davidson was very curious as to why such a young woman was traveling alone, unless of course, silly me, she was going to meet her husband, which made Mrs. Davidson smile widely and ask innumerable questions about Mr. O’Brian.

Iris had practiced getting used to being called Mrs. O’Brian and so did not look startled when Mrs. Davidson called her so. She did her best to answer the widow’s questions without revealing too much of the truth of her situation, grateful she could show Mrs. Davidson a picture of her husband, smiling when the older woman said, ‘My, he is a handsome fellow.’ Iris no longer knew if this was true, or if she had looked at the photograph for so long with pleasant, amiable thoughts that Christian O’Brian now seemed to her quite a handsome man. She was still flattered by the widow’s comment, though she was glad when the subject turned to Mrs. Davidson’s children and grandchildren, most of all her youngest daughter who had just born her first child, a healthy boy by the name of David (to honour her father, you see). It was this daughter Mrs. Davidson was going to visit, since she was now in need of her motherly help and advice. Everyone had thought the child would come in two weeks’ time, but alas, Nature could not be stopped, but Mrs. Davidson was on her way and glad about it.

After her lunch with Iris, Mrs. Davidson would have no one else for a partner during her meals, and so Iris had a long conversation three times a day. It did not matter whether she felt no need for breakfast as she did on the fifth day: Mrs. Davidson wanted company and promptly appeared at her door with a pot of coffee, cups, spoons, milk and sugar, and a couple of hot cross buns she ordered specifically from the cook, the scallywag, insisting that Iris at least drink some coffee, she couldn’t stand young people who were too busy to eat well.

They had a pleasant though slightly crowded breakfast in Iris’ small compartment, Mrs. Davidson saying goodbye after their meal since her stop was soon to come. She also left her address, since she was curious to know how Iris experienced the Territories, not to mention how it was to see her husband after such a long time. ‘I know I’m being abominably curious, Mrs. O’Brian, but humour an old woman, if you don’t mind, I always like a lively correspondence.’ Mrs. Davidson left the train late that afternoon, and though Iris missed her amusing questions and loud laugh during dinner, she was also relieved to have the last leg of her journey to herself. Iris felt she needed the peace and quiet of her own compartment to prepare herself for her first meeting with Christian O’Brian, especially after a comment on Mrs. Davidson’s side put the alarming thought into Iris’ mind that the photograph she had might not be an adequate portrayal of Christian O’Brian. Iris felt foolish that that never crossed her mind but it was the simple truth: she would never have sent a false picture of herself and thus expected everyone else to do the same. For a few agonizing hours she went through all the horrendous possibilities until she resolved to patience, it was the only choice she really had. And, if Mr. O’Brian did turn out to be an ogre, she could still live as a housekeeper and return to the city and start her old life again. She would wait and see.

At five thirty-three in the afternoon of the seventh day, the train stopped at Riverton Station. Iris followed the boy who hauled her trunk onto the platform, tapping his cap when she gave him his tip, and found herself in the centre of a crowd of strangers, feeling strangely separate from all the talk and laughter and busy bustling.

*

She was still there, on Riverton Station’s platform, standing next to her trunk, watching as the platform slowly emptied without any sign of Christian O’Brian. Iris turned left and right, searching anxiously for a tall frame, if he was tall that is, or the telling hat, yet all she saw were loggers and families leaving and an empty station hall, until finally the platform was deserted. This was Riverton Station, was it not? Yes, it was. The sudden whistle of the stationmaster startled her, and the first churn of the enormous pistons filled the air. Turning, Iris watched the train slowly pull out like a giant steaming bull, while the lamps inside the train were lit one by one with dusk falling in dazzling colours of royal blue and blazing crimson and gold. It was a fiery sunset, dramatic and bright, though she could not see all of it until the train had retreated into the growing gloom like some ancient beast and finally disappeared.

Only then did Iris realize that she was standing on a platform of a town she had never seen before, wearing the ring of a man she did not know, with all her worldly possessions carefully packed in her trunk, though by the way the boys at both stations had hauled it up and down, all the order must have been destroyed by now. Still, she was here now, and there was no changing that.

Iris stroked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and looked down herself just to be sure that she still looked the same: a simple starched blouse under her slim-cut jacket matching her deep brown skirts; her boots, though well worn, were well-tended and very comfortable, the tips peaking out from under the hem of her skirts; her hat, a simple straw piece, yes, but it fitted to her appearance which had nothing extravagant about it, nor any frills. Mrs. Davidson had commended her on choosing simple clothes for the beginning until she got used to living ‘upstate’ as she called it. ‘It’s a rough country up here, even though Riverton’s rather civilized. It still shows you have good sense, though, Mrs. O’Brian, your husband is a lucky man. Many girls come here thinking they’re going to the Governor’s Ball, so you can imagine the disappointment when they find out it’s all woods and water and only a dance every other week.’

And it was all woods and water, Iris could see the vast expanse of forest behind the station’s barracks and storage houses, dark pines shooting up into the sky, bright leaf-trees speckled in between, and if she was not mistaken, a mountain range not very far off. Here she was in this wild country, a city girl who only knew trees from the ones she saw in parks and gardens, a young woman who couldn’t imagine how a flood really looked like, though she remembered how the streets a block away from her little room had been covered with rainwater and sewage when one of the pipes burst. It was not a nice scene and the acrid smell had lingered in the air for days.

‘Miss?’ someone called behind her right then. Iris turned and saw an elderly man wearing a blue railway suit come towards her, the stationmaster who had just whistled the train out of the station. His whiskers were smoky grey and his blue eyes looked friendly, his quick steps loud on the planks when he approached her, bowing his head.

‘Excuse me, Miss, I mean Ma’am,’ he added quickly, seeing the ring on her finger, ‘but I saw you standing there and thought you could need some help.’
‘Well, yes, in fact,’ Iris answered, not knowing what else to say.
‘Your husband forgotten you then?’ he asked in a friendly tone.
‘I…’ Iris started, and then stopped. Why lie if the truth was so obvious? And humiliating.
‘It would seem so.’
‘It can happen around these parts,’ the stationmaster said, smiling kindly. ‘Something gets in the way, and suddenly you have to run up the mountain to fix it. I’m sure he didn’t forget you, he’s just delayed. Happens all the time. You come straight from the city then?’ he added. Iris nodded.
‘Yes, I thought as much,’ the stationmaster smiled. ‘It’s good to see another one of the lads got settled enough to send for his wife. It makes things respectable to have women around, you know, and it calms things down. I say, I just put on a pot of tea, the Missus said I should stop with the coffee for a while, what with getting no sleep and all, but anyway. Would you mind some while you’re waiting? You can leave the trunk here, Jeremy will keep an eye on it, though I don’t think there’s anyone here who’d want to take it anyway. None of the lad’s would want women’s blouses now would they?’ he chuckled.

Iris smiled a little. There was a moment of hesitation when the stationmaster motioned her to proceed, but seeing there was no one in sight who looked remotely like Christian O’Brian, Iris walked on. She did her best not to feel frustrated, or worse, scared. What if he had forgotten and wasn’t just delayed? What if the picture didn’t in the least resemble the real Christian O’Brian? What if she had made a terrible, terrible mistake?

© 2016 threegoodwords

Christian O’Brian’s answer came five days later, just as Iris found out that she had only two more weeks to stay in her room before Mrs. Norman, the proprietor’s wife, would have to ask her to leave the premises. Mrs. Norman could no longer keep Iris on such a low rent without Mr. Norman noticing. Though Mrs. Norman took care of the business of finding suitable lodgers, it was Mr. Norman who oversaw the bills and transactions, and so far he did not mind. Yet now there was a small family of new arrivals who had asked for a room only the other day, and they were paying a dollar more than Iris, which was no mean rate. Mrs. Norman had looked downcast and not a little embarrassed, but like a character in a play Iris once saw, Mrs. Norman shrugged her round shoulders and said, ‘My hands are tied, Miss Moore, Mr. Norman insists. Two weeks, that’s as far as I can let you stay.’

Iris was pacing the room, hugging her shawl close, grateful her window was due south and thus allowed the sun to warm her for most of the day. It was then when the tan rectangle slid out from under her door and stopped not far away from her feet. She could hear Young Hamish, who was responsible for the mail in the house, walk back down again; Hamish was a quiet boy who luckily never asked any questions. Iris, both relieved and excited by another letter from Mr. O’Brian, quickly opened the envelope and started reading without waiting to sit down.

He wrote that he was glad to know that she was in favor of children, since he could not think of a family without them. He knew that many men would prefer sons to daughters, ‘especially out here’, yet he himself had no particular favor for the children’s sex as long as they were healthy, though he had observed that it was always favorable to have one of both. He was glad to find that they already agreed on one thing (which made Iris smile). He knew it was maybe a little forward of him to be so direct about the circumstances that had begun their correspondence, ‘but I think a sense of modesty, in this case, would be misplaced.’ If his letters had not in fact repulsed her (Iris smiled again), and she thought favourably of the match, he would see to it that his lawyers brought everything to order in the following weeks. If she did not object, he suggested she send him a telegram with a simple ‘Yes’, which he would understand as her acceptance of this clumsy proposal (again, Iris smiled). Since he did not know her circumstances, and would not put her into any uncomfortable position, he had added some money that would cover any means of transport to the nearest office and the fee for the telegram. Surprised, Iris looked into the envelope again and there she saw, between an empty sheet of paper, a bright and fresh twenty dollar bill which made something clutch violently in her middle.

Iris hardly dared touch it, but she did look at it. On the one hand, she felt very uneasy that a man she did not know should send her so much money, but on the other hand, this was to be the man she was to marry, for she had already made up her mind to send ‘Yes’. Iris did not know this until she thought it, but once thought she knew it was true. She would marry Christian O’Brian though all she knew of him were a few letters and a photograph. It was, to her mind, a much better match than following the course of a Mrs. Rose, Mrs. Whitney, or Mrs. Emerson.

The rest of the letter said that Christian O’Brian hoped she did not think him too brash in his actions, and trusted in her sound judgement that she knew he meant nothing more than to clarify an otherwise awkward subject, ‘C. O’Brian’. Iris couldn’t help wonder why he had left out all possible well-wishing, though there was a certain formality to having only his name end the letter. He did write quickly, that she could see, and from his sentences it sounded as if he did not pause and ponder long to write let alone finish a letter. It fit to his directness, and Iris decided to leave it at that.

*

After finishing the letter, Iris found herself starting another until she remembered she was to send a telegram with an acceptance of his ‘clumsy proposal’, which, considering the time of day, she could do right then. Keeping her purse with the twenty dollars tightly in her grip, Iris went to the General Post Office three streetcar stops away, and sent the telegram, blushing when the young telegrapher read the address, saw her ‘Yes’, and smiled widely at her. After paying the tram fare and the fee, Iris found that she still had more than fifteen dollars left. This meant that she could not only extend her rent but also buy more petroleum for her lamp, fill her storage cupboard, and purchase some personal supplies she would be in genuine need of in a few days, though she would be careful not to buy them at Mr. Emerson’s who would inevitably ask questions.

Following through with her errands after another long day at Mr. Emerson’s that following Monday, Iris felt that she was feeling the first effects of her connection to Christian O’Brian. She could not help a murmured thanks when looking to the sky on her way home, since she knew where this particular blessing came from. To think that, if all went well, she would no longer have to stand behind Mr. Emerson’s counter and dash into the storage rooms when he or Carter virtually ordered her to… There would be no more Sunday teas with Mrs. Rose either, whom Iris had started to visit again since Mrs. Rose was after all the only friend she really had; nor would there be any more coaxing letters from Mrs. Whitney, let alone blunt suggestions from Mrs. Emerson… Iris’ relief was beginning to make itself known. If all worked out well, she would soon leave her small room opposite the large Forsythe’s White advertisement and the busy downtown street. She would move away from this teaming city, she would take the train West to the wilds of Washington Territory and live a completely different life with a man by the name of Christian O’Brian. It would be very different from anything she knew, but right then Iris was grateful for anything different from what she knew. A new beginning out West at least meant there would be a genuine end to what she was in now.

Once home, with her ‘Yes’ sent and her future far less grievous than it looked like only a day before, Iris allowed herself to wonder why Christian O’Brian only ever wrote C. She wondered, too, what kind of voice he had and if his manners were well at table. She wondered if he had any family and what his friends were like, and if he had found any in Riverton. She wondered many things, and spent many of her following hours behind Mr. Emerson’s counter wondering about these things and more, which earned her a few sharp remarks, though Iris had stopped caring. Soon she would leave Emerson’s General Goods for good, and start a new life as a respectable woman, though she was careful not to reveal anything until she was absolutely certain that her ‘Yes’ had been favorably received and all had been ‘brought to order’.

*

In the space of three weeks, all was settled very efficiently by Messrs. Sanders & Jones, who asked her to a total of three interviews. Once in their spacious, imposing offices, young Mr. Sanders Jr. (son to the first Sanders of Sanders, Sanders and Jones) and grey-haired Mr. Jones explained the procedures to Iris, which was where she found out that all the fees had already been paid for by Mr. O’Brian, since it was common that the lady in question was of little means. Iris was also surprised to learn that there was a space of three months during which both partners could renounce the connection as long as the marriage had not been consummated. Sanders, Sanders & Jones would write out a letter explaining Iris had worked for three months as Mr. O’Brian’s housekeeper which would keep her name intact, and Iris’ three months of absence vouched for. However, if the marriage was consummated this could no longer be done, since a separation would mean a divorce, which was a completely different legal procedure that could not be supported by the Mountjoy Courtship Agency.

Before the marriage could be completed, though, Iris had to procure two letters of recommendation from married women about her conduct, since she too would receive two letters of recommendation from two married men about Mr. O’Brian’s conduct. Iris had worried about this, but finally asked Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Whitney if they would undertake this task, saying that she wanted to apply for a new place as a tutor and a letter of conduct from a respectable married woman was needed. Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Whitney were glad to do this, though both replied they had rather hoped Iris ‘good news’ was an engagement. Even so, they both wrote glowing letters to Sanders, Sanders & Jones, both in highest approval of Iris’ conscientiousness, tact, thrift, good manners, and Christian upbringing, both praising her as a healthy, pretty young woman, whose presence was a delight to all those who knew her. Iris was very flattered by these recommendations, and duly felt ashamed for having lied to Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Whitney as such. She finally decided that she would explain in full once she was the rightful Mrs. O’Brian.

Iris in turn received two letters from a Mr. Winters of the Seattle Timber Exchange, and a Mr. Lestrange of Lestrange National (San Francisco-Philadelphia), who both said Mr. O’Brian was a successful businessman who had the honourable trait of never breaking his word. He was known to be straightforward, down-to-earth young man, who directed his business responsibly and was not known to act rashly. Both Mr. Winters and Mr. Lestrange wrote that they considered themselves fortunate to count Mr. O’Brian as one of their oldest friends and associates, since they knew no man whose loyalty and dedication was equally unwavering. Messrs. Sanders, Sanders & Jones could not find a better business partner, nor a more honest one. Reading the letters, Iris had to smile at the fact that Mr. O’Brian obviously concealed from his friends what these letters of conduct were for, but even so they portrayed what she already knew: that Christian O’Brian was a man who she could very well see as her husband.

© 2016 threegoodwords

 

More than a week passed before the answering letter came. By the time she saw the envelope lying square on her little room’s floor, Iris was already convinced that her reply had been too short and mean for Mr. O’Brian to answer it. She had been courteous and written to both Kenneth H. Williams and Trevor Bowden, thanking them for their letters, though, regrettably, she could not continue their correspondence since her choice had already been made.

Trevor Bowden wrote again, a letter that arrived by express merely three days after she posted her replies. Mr. Bowden’s second letter was a longer, more passionate one. He proclaimed he had fallen desperately in love with Iris the moment he saw her photograph. He could hardly eat let alone sleep since knowing she existed in the world – ‘I cannot live knowing you live just two days by train away!!’ – and quite nearly begged her to reconsider her choice. It was a sweet letter, never mind its incredible exaggerations (‘My heart bleeds in rivers, Ms Moore!’), repeated vows of undying love (‘God’s truth, I will never love another!’), and multiple exclamation marks (at one point five in a row), all of which had caused some amusement on Iris side and put an end to whatever inclination she might have still had to consider him. Kenneth H. Williams in turn never wrote again, and in his silence Iris thought to detect a certain element of pique, though she told herself she was being silly. It was just as well that he didn’t answer, since that meant she didn’t have to read another conceited letter.

Finally, one Saturday, ten days after she sent out her three replies, Iris returned home in a pensive mood. She had just been to an early afternoon mass where she had supplicated an honest, deeply felt plea to the Lord to help her out of her situation, for now Mrs. Emerson had started talking about some young men as well, young men who apparently inquired after Iris more than once. Much more forthright than Mrs. Rose as she was, Mrs. Emerson was becoming downright pushy. If the Lord, who was almighty, if He could furnish a table before King David’s enemies, could he do the same for her, her current enemy being the painful situation of soon being penniless? With the pittance she earned at Mr. Emerson’s and her diminishing savings, she would probably soon have to follow through with either Mrs. Rose’, Mrs. Whitney’s, or Mrs. Emerson’s plans for her, which Iris thought of with genuine dread. The prospect of spending the rest of her life with one of those eligible young men always made goose bumps sprout on her skin, and never pleasantly.

Seeing the tan rectangle on the wooden floor when she returned from church had felt like an answer to her plea that Saturday, and Iris had opened the letter eagerly, smiling when she read ‘Miss Moore’ in the now familiar quick, though legible hand. It was two pages long and explained the circumstance of Mr. O’Brian’s business, which was both in timber and land, explained the expanse of his house, which sounded spacious and well-thought out, next to a large front and back garden, and even a small cluster of apple trees whose fruit he had been told were very good for making pies and compotes, which was all rather meaningless of course if she did not like apples (this had made Iris smile). He explained the surrounding countryside, which, apart from the growing town of Riverton, was comprised of estates and wildlands, his own house surrounded by neighbours and families who where much in his own trade.

As to the household, there were work-hands and a cook who took care of the bare essentials, but a man in his position could not afford to be a bachelor for long, at least not in this part of the country. Since he did not have the time for adequate courtship, and she, Miss Moore, sounded like a sensible, straightforward woman (which had somehow flattered Iris, though it did sound a little aloof), he thought their chance for happiness was as good as any others. His philosophy on marriage had always been a simple one, meaning that as long as both marriage partners respected each other, nothing could go materially wrong. He hoped he was not mistaken in thinking that this would be the case between them, if Iris consented to be his wife. As for any further knowledge to her character and person, there was one thing he would have liked to know, for she had omitted this in her form: what, by and large, were her thoughts on children? He hoped the letter found her in time, since the Post could be slow this time of the year what with the floods coming in, ‘Yours, C. O’Brian’.

Iris read the letter twice, trying to picture the house, the garden, the apple trees and countryside, looking every now and then at Mr. O’Brian’s photograph, thinking his clear and unadorned words fit very well with the unflinching gaze he directed at the camera. He was not, she felt, someone who spoke for mere speaking and very likely only ever said what he truly meant. His honesty was maybe a little blunt, but better live with an honest man than a charming, deceiving one. She was not unintelligible to the familiar ‘Yours’ either, though it had nothing of Kenneth H. Williams’ expectation of seeing Iris as his wife. Rather, she felt that Christian O’Brian was very simply asking her to marry him, not for romance, and not because he expected her to, but because he needed a sensible housekeeper and thought they had as good a chance as anyone to find felicity in such a connection. It was this frankness that pleased Iris. There would be respect on both sides, that much they both had surmised during their short exchange, and with that in place, a harmonious life was possible. All in all it sounded very promising and Iris was quite ready to consent, if Mr. O’Brian officially asked for her hand. She was surprised and a little mortified, though, to find out she had omitted the Children section in her application form and so immediately sat down to write an answer.

She thanked him for his reply and praised his description of his house, compound and neighbourhood as very vivid, making her curious to see it. Though she did not know how time-consuming timber and land were, she could imagine that it left a man in need to make his living little time for more domestic affairs, and thus understood his more modern means of finding a companion. She too had always believed that respect was essential to matrimony and so far was convinced that this would be the case between them, if the marriage would be agreed upon. She was very sorry if her omission of that particular section in her form had led to any misunderstandings, but she was very fond of children and very definitely wished some of her own. She did not have a preference regarding their sex, since she hoped for one of each, though she would be interested to know if he, Mr. O’Brian, thought otherwise. Finally, Iris could not help add that she was surprised to read that the floods in that part of the country could be so devastating as to halt the entire Post, and wondered if the officials did nothing to overcome this disturbance since it must be detrimental to business transactions if torrents of water kept on carrying off the mail. ‘My warmest regards, Iris Moore.’

© 2016 threegoodwords

Her situation was not favourable. Mrs. Whitney, who liked to write her long letters, had suggested Iris move to New York. It was true that her own daughters had no longer need for her excellent services, but one could certainly find a family who would be very glad to have Iris. She could make no promises, but Iris should consider the offer. And being such a pretty young lady, Mrs. Whitney was certain that Iris would not have to be a Miss Moore for long, since there were very many eligible men in New York with a steady income and excellent manners. Iris read these repeated offers and felt she was sitting in Mrs. Rose’ small parlour again, drinking tea and eating cakes while Mrs. Timms and Mrs. Smith-Feldworth eyed her carefully as if she might be carrying the Independent disease.

The letters had surprised and disappointed Iris who had thought Mrs. Whitney to be a more lenient woman. After all, she avidly supported the Suffragettes, much to her wealthy friends’ horror. Then again, Mrs. Whitney’s continuous invitations and suggestions to see New York’s eligible bachelors for herself also made Iris wonder if her life alone with her mother hadn’t made her a little too independent. She was used to taking care of herself, of cooking for herself and cleaning the house without any help, managing her own income and reading whatever she liked and wanted.
The reading, admittedly, was something not only Mrs. Rose and her friends, but Mrs. Whitney had always disapproved of: a young mind needed guidance in all things printed. Something that looked intelligent and fortuitous could be deepest vice in disguise, and thus adequate guidance was needed, though all suggestions the older women made were always met with polite smiles and an iron will never to follow them, though, naturally, Iris was careful not to show this explicitly.

Even at a young age Iris had considered herself bright enough to know what was good for her and what would make her spirits unnecessarily troubled. She made sure to keep an even balance between those novels Mrs. Timms disapproved of so much and more worthy literature such as that of Messrs. Milton, Coleridge, and Browning. When she grew older, she did add one or two French writers for entertainment’s sake, though Iris was careful to hide them from sight when they had guests in the parlour. Consequently her mind had acquired a certain natural independence, one her mother did not curtail, since she had come from a learned family; not to mention that, with Captain Moore gone for so many months, Mrs. Moore had acquired a sense of independence herself. Iris’ mother had always said it was an Eduards’ trait, Eduards being her maiden name.

‘All the women in our family were known to be headstrong, maybe even rebellious,’ Mrs. Moore had once said. ‘I guess there is some truth then, in the story about one of our ancestors who married a Red Indian. And with Grandpa Eduards’ marrying an Italian, you can imagine what that amounts to. So you see sweetheart,’ she sighed then, smiling at Iris. ‘It seems that a part of us will never adhere to rules.’

It was maybe this knowledge that had led Iris to not question her own independence. She always felt a sense of surprise if not outright disdain for those young women her age who were scandalized by her opinions or openly made fun of her, though that was no longer of any importance once they sold the house in Maple Street. And now she was in a small room above a busy street, living on very little, and that growing even less by the day. Iris’ circumstances didn’t look as if they were going to change soon either, despite her daily prayers for a means of help or at least a better place to work than Mr. Emerson’s.

Iris soon grew despondent. Was she to always live in this small room with the large advertisements of Forsythe’s White across of her, watching the carriages and trams pass by, while the sidewalks teemed with people? Was she to never live in a house again? Was she ever to cook in a decent kitchen again, instead of making some soup or frying a couple of eggs on the small stove she also used for heating? Would she ever drink real Earl Grey again instead of this very second-rate tea? Iris didn’t know, though she never ceased saying her nightly prayers. She saw her hours behind Mr. Emerson’s counter as an act of Christian patience, trying not to think of the fact that Mr. Emerson often treated her no better than a maid, even resolving to call her Iris rather than Miss Moore if there were no customer’s present. And sometimes even when they were present. At least Carter never forgot the Miss, but then Carter would look at her that way… Daily, Iris wished, hoped, and prayed for something to happen that would change her circumstances and so never forgot to say her prayers before she went to bed.

*

It was an unassuming day when things began to change. Iris could still remember how and when Mr. Godfrey from next door gave her his paper. He was a salesman whose family lived in the country. He only stayed in the room next door during the week, and like Iris during her days at St. James, took the train to his family every Friday afternoon, only to return straight to work on Monday morning. Mr. Godfrey was a portly man of forty-five who had had some education and was, though a little gruff, always a gentleman. He liked to say that it was nice to talk to a person with some sense in these parts. He also felt sorry for Iris, and if he happened to remember, asked her if she wanted the paper. That was the case that afternoon when Iris returned from Mr. Emerson’s feeling she would need some real and lasting distraction after a very trying day.

She accepted the offer and had a small chat with Mr. Godfrey about the past week, since that day was a Friday, before he ran down the stairs to catch the next tram to the station. Back in her small room, Iris made her meagre tea and drank it sitting at her window, watching the busy street below, and quite forgot the newspaper due to her fatigue. She didn’t remember it until the following morning which was a Saturday, the day of Sabbath for Mr. Emerson’s wife, who was actually a Lieberman, which made Saturday Iris’ only truly free day. Every other Sunday afternoon she had to help with the tea parties and picnics the Emerson’s liked to arrange for the wealthier families in Summerfield half an hour away.

The sun shone brightly that Saturday morning, the light falling in a broad beam into her small room. Iris sat at her small table in the sun and started reading the paper Mr. Godfrey had given her. She ended up reading every piece, from the news and society pages to the business section and the funnies. She even went through the obituaries, until she reached the personals, where she came across a peculiar advertisement.

It was from the law firm Sanders, Sanders & Jones and explained that there were men in the Territories out west, hardworking, respectable men who, due to their work, did not find the time to respectfully court a woman to be their wife. The Mountjoy Courtship Agency (MCA), headed by said law firm, had taken up the duty to find suitable women for these hardworking men. These women should all know how to cook and take care of a household by themselves, and be of a good Christian upbringing. For more information one was to write to the Mountjoy Courtship Agency, c/o Sanders, Sanders & Jones whose offices were, considering the address, in one of the best parts of the city. It was added that the Women’s Weekly Journal, one of the leading women’s magazines of the city, considered the MCA ‘a respectable organization that honored the values of upstanding Christian citizens’.

It was very strange. To Iris, it sounded as if these men were ordering their wives by mail, or rather, sending out lawyers to find them. How busy could they be to not find the time to meet and court a young woman? That was when she had to think of her neighbour Mr. Godfrey and those like him, men who worked all week and only had time to visit their family on weekends. If you did not have enough friends, or did not have the means to go to the city for some time and maybe attend a dance, finding a wife would prove difficult. And no respectable young woman would go to a dance without a friend at her side, or an eagle-eyed chaperone which made the situation even more difficult.

Iris read through the advertisement again, thought, pondered, and considered. The chances she had of finding someone suitable without the help of Mrs. Rose and her friends, or Mrs. Whitney and her eligible New York men was very slim. Yet to rely on these means to find a husband irked Iris greatly, for she had met some of the sons and nephews praised to her in the highest tones by Mrs. Rose, and had often seen the young and not-so-young men who came to visit the Whitney’s when she was still tutoring Rosemarie and Abigail. Iris could not see herself connected to a person who could either only talk of food and horses or only of himself. Thus, it maybe was not so unfortunate that she had come across the MCA c/o Sanders, Sanders & Jones.

Even so, Iris considered for the whole of that Saturday if she should contact Messrs. Sanders & Jones about the MCA. Then again, with the way things were going, with Mr. Emerson’s subtle insolence and Mrs. Rose’ repeated invitations to tea, Iris didn’t see why she should not see into finding an eligible bachelor on her own. Mrs. Rose and her friends would have found it very independent of her, but Iris felt she would rather prefer the Mountjoy Courtship Agency to find a possible suitor than Mrs. Rose and her fastidious friends. At least with the first she could be certain of an amount of objectivity. It was late afternoon when Iris took out ink and paper, and set up a short letter to the Mountjoy Courtship Agency, writing that a friend of hers had heard of their agency and was now interested to know what kind of courtship was to be expected from a respectable firm of law. She kept the letter serious and maybe a little cool, and sent it out that evening, using one of her last two-penny stamps.

The answer was prompt: a whole set of pamphlets and copies of ‘experiences’ by women who wedded these hardworking men, men they only knew by photograph and name. An Agnes Thornton née Bernard said her Mr. Thornton was an honest Christian, steady in his ways and never given to waywardness or drink. She counted herself fortunate to have married such a good man and could only encourage other unmarried women to find their partners by Sanders, Sanders & Jones’ honourable assistance, who enabled such a blessed opportunity to enrich the lives of so many.

A Winifred Reynolds née George was in even greater raptures. She had at first been sceptical, but finding herself in the uncomfortable position of having neither family nor fortune, she decided to find out if what Messrs. Sanders & Jones promised held true, only to meet Mr. Reynolds by letter and photograph, after which a few month’s of courtship ensued by mail. They were married by post and notary with the legal assistance of Messrs. Sanders & Jones and with the due blessing of a curate. Finally, said Winifred joined her Mr. Reynolds in a small logging town in Montana. It had been love on first sight, or rather, first letter, and meeting the real Mr. Reynolds, whom she until then had only known by paper, only enhanced her joy. Since then, Winifred Reynolds née George lived in constant praise of the Lord’s graciousness for helping her out of a truly desperate state to a life of happiness and contentment. She was forever grateful to the MCA and to Mssrs. Sanders, Sanders & Jones, since through their aide she had found true happiness.

All other letters, of which there were ten, were much the same, and seeing the women’s accounts were in fact only slight variations of her own, (for she, Iris, was indeed coming into ‘a desperate state’), she decided to fill out the form Messrs. Sanders & Jones had sent with the pamphlets and letters, describing her height, eye- and hair-color, writing ‘Christian’ in the Religion section, listing three of her best dishes, adding that she had learnt how to make a Bolognese from her mother. In the Housekeeping section, she gave her opinion on cleanliness and the necessity of good, lasting clothing and sturdy footwear, adding that she had nursed her mother for three years before Mrs. Moore passed away due to the gravity of her illness. Seeing there was also a space for Tastes, Likes, and Dislikes, Iris wrote that she enjoyed reading a good book on quiet evenings with the fire bright in the fireplace. She also added that there was nothing like the smell of freshly baked bread on baking day and that she approved neither of gambling nor swearing. In brackets she also added that it was said that she had a good voice in singing. Once written she felt a little silly about it, but left it since the words were in fact the truth.

Finally, with the application form written, there was the question of her photograph. She had gone to have a few made, three years before, when her mother was still well and their savings still allowed it. Comparing her present appearance in the mirror to that of her favourite picture, Iris found she had not undergone any drastic changes, but looked much the same. In fact, it seemed as if three years had not passed, though she felt it was only right and due to write on the back of the photograph that it was three years since it was taken. And thus she tore the blue slip from the white form to retain a copy of her application as the instructions said. Messrs. Sanders & Jones were intent on retaining their respectably, and would not have any of the ladies have suspicions – and very possibly lose the favour of Women’s Weekly, Iris added silently, remembering how her mother had always said she had a devious little elf inside her who spoke all those sly things. It made Iris smile sadly for a moment. Next to her mother’s warm voice and loving presence, she missed the freedom of speaking her mind the most. Now she had to make her little comments silently, to herself, and not even show with her eyes what she was thinking, for Mrs. Rose and her friends seemed to understand very well what they were saying. Finally, Iris slipped the form and the photograph into the provided envelope, added the stamp, and sent it all that evening, wondering if and hoping sincerely she did the right thing.

© 2016 threegoodwords