CHAPTER ONE

August 25, 1915

Eagerly awaiting arrival. Stop. Money on way for fare. Stop. Inform arrival date. Stop. Meet at station. Your future husband, William. End.

With a dreamy sigh, the young woman rolled onto her back, closed her eyes in a moment of languor, the telegram clutched to her breast in wordless desire. She longed for a man that would be sincere in his fervor, sincere in his desire for her.

As if speared with a cattle prod, the woolgathering moment passed, and her eyes flew open, “Prince Charming does not exist, and if he did, he certainly would not be desirous of me,” she sneered in self-derision. Still, her lack of desirability could not prevent her enjoying the enthusiastic yearning she elicited in others. She cackled and wondered, not for the first time, whether her rejection—when she finally sent one along—would cause crocodile tears, anger, or perhaps sanctimonious indignation. Would any of them read her rebuff—carefully worded—and feel a sense they’d been duped?

“None has thus far,” she mused aloud.

She clutched at the telegram one more time, and a laugh issued forth as she thought about all of those men, just waiting for someone to arrive. Until now, she’d found little to laugh joyously about; had avoided genuine laughter as a rule over the years; especially when her first episode had elicited so negative a reaction.

“Dear Lord!” Her mother exclaimed, “Tell me you’re doing that on purpose.”

Of course, she hadn’t been; hadn’t realized how ear piercing her shrieks were, but did find its annoyance beneficial when she wanted to drive someone away from her; until it started driving away potential suitors. That’s when she learned not to laugh, unless she was alone. The deliberate tamping down of this primary emotional release, developed within her a sadness, a darkness, a desire to seek retribution against all men, her mother,—and one particular woman, for whom she had developed a deep-seated hatred only three months prior.

In this particular quest for vengeance against the woman, she likened herself to the evil queen in “Snow White”[1] whose fairytale world was disrupted by the appearance of the princess, much as her own world had been disrupted by the arrival of this woman—her cousin.

The comparison made her let loose an unexpected cackle, and a bird sitting on her windowsill squawked in agitated protest and soared away. She shot an annoyed look at the retreating blackbird and crinkled her nose in disgust. She hated birds. With a huff at the blackbird, which had settled on a higher branch, still squawking, she reread the telegram, and then laid the cream-colored paper on the mattress. She straightened the crinkled edges amorously until it lay flattened atop the previously read one.

With another wistful sigh, she turned and looked at yet another telegram lying on the other side of where she sat, awaiting her attention. She reached down, picked up the yellow parchment, and scanned its contents.

Can’t wait to meet new bride. Stop. Fare adequate? Stop. Sent yesterday. Stop. Meet soon. Yours, Kendall. End.

Such eagerness towards a stranger, she snorted tacitly, so desperate to wed me, sight unseen. “I could be a complete loony, yet you’re willing to take me into your home, take me as your wife. All you really want is someone to warm your bed. The same with all of you. What’s wrong with the lot of ya?” She continued aloud, conversing with the sheets of paper nestled beside her. “How desperate can men out west really be to place an ad, and then jump at the first response they receive?” She sighed, “How desperate am I to be willing to marry one of you?”

After a moment, she answered her own question, “Apparently, very.” She snorted again and then laid that telegram atop the first two with the same level of affection as she’d shown the last one. With a bemused shake of her head, she realized how careful she was and wondered at her ignorant and silly behavior. These men didn’t know her; would not grant her so much as a by-your-leave should they pass her on the street, yet she treated each of their responses with the attention one would a lover’s note?

That small reminder at her lack of prospects was nearly her undoing—again—and she eyed the communications with sudden suspicion and open hostility. She leaned toward the papers, her eyes narrowed and her lips stretched into a thin line of disapproval, “I should wad you all up and toss you into Hell’s fire,” she whispered. “That’s where you all truly belong, but if I do that...” The momentary lapse of insanity passed, and she sat up straighter. Ignorance was bliss, she reminded herself, for all parties concerned; and as these were her only connection with feelings of acceptance, she would treat these pages with the respect they deserved, at least until she collected the money each promised. Then she would relegate them to the wastepaper basket.

A final shudder raced through her, releasing her from her oppressing ruminations and a smile graced her inelegant features. She had read all of the telegrams now. All that remained was the only letter to arrive that morning. She knew from whom it originated, which is why she chose to read it last. This was the only man with whom she maintained open communication. Why she had not rejected him along with the others, she did not know. Something about his prose, although not much differently worded than all the rest, reached deep inside to what in some would be a responsive beating heart. His words touched her somehow, barely warmed her cold interior. If only provisionally.

My Dearest Iliamna -

I wanted to wait until completing the project before announcing it to you, but I fear I have allowed my eagerness to overrule my judgment in the matter. Still, it is my greatest hope that by telling you, you will endeavor to join me sooner so that we may begin our journey as husband and wife.

I ramble on. Forgive me.

The day I received your first reply to my advertisement for a bride, I knew that you must be the one for me, so casting aside my normal circumspection; I began immediately upon construction of a new house for which I hope you will soon call home.

I pray for your mother’s speedy recovery every day, admittedly to my own selfish ends, and fervently hope that you will join me before another month passes. I also know that it is a vast presumption on my part, but I have enclosed money for train fare in case my hopes become a possibility.

Eagerly await your reply—and possibly a date of arrival?

Affectionately yours,

Shreve

“Oh Shreve, if it were me, I would readily be on the next train out of this self-imposed prison in which I reside, but you are not really writing to me, are you, Love? If only you knew. Iliamna would not so much look your way twice—as you would not likely glance my way twice. She is far too beautiful and her hand in marriage too eagerly sought after, for her to consider entertaining suitors from such an uncivilized place as Texas. I wish I had the heart to exchange the drawing of her that I sent to you, with one of me; and to reveal to you my true name, but selfishly, I relish your correspondence too much.”

With a squeal of anger over the realization that Shreve would never be hers, she tossed the paper onto the floor, “You’re an imbecile!” She yelled. “Building a house for a woman that you’ll never know! Why do I even bother writing to you?”

She continued to glare down at the paper, her breathing heavy, as if it were Shreve sitting there, and then as quickly as her anger rose, it dissipated, and she fell off the bed, and onto her knees. Gingerly, she lifted the paper and held it to her breast, “Please forgive me. I cannot help myself sometimes. If only I could express why I act the way I do. If only you knew how people overlooked me so readily when Iliamna is in attendance; how readily you would.”

With a sigh, she stood, gently laying the letter atop the telegrams. She blew the pages a kiss, and then pulled a black lacquer box from her dresser; a box that she’d painstakingly hand-painted with renderings of flowers in bloom and blackbirds lying dead amidst the multi-colored flora—along with a multitude of other fowl.

The euphoria she felt at reading each telegram and Shreve’s correspondence slowly faded when she started to tuck them away, for only when she held them did she feel beautiful and wanted. A tear threatened to break free, but she slapped herself hard across the cheek to prevent it doing so. She would rather die than allow herself to feel sorry for her circumstances.

“I will see you all again soon,” she whispered, picking up the papers and laying them inside on the red-velvet interior. She would pull them out only once more, when it was time for her to go to the Western Union offices and collect the money each telegram promised would arrive for her and then to write one final return telegram expressing her sorrow over not being able to join them after all, due to familial distresses. Once she tended to the rejections, each telegram found its way into the nearest trash receptacle.

For now, tucking them away closed the lid on her fantasies, enabling reality to invade, reminding her that it wasn’t really she these faceless men were interested in; only words on a page and a drawing she’d done of a woman that wasn’t even a good likeness. Perhaps because it is not my face in the drawing, she smiled grimly.

With a concentrated effort, she shook the depressing thoughts from her mind—again. After all, it did not truly matter that it was not her face in the drawing, because each correspondence was addressed to her, by proxy. It may have been her cousin’s name on the communications, but each was for her and her alone. She was the one men wrote to with fondness; it was her words written to them that they cherished. It was to her they proposed. Her, not Iliamna, and that was enough—for now.

Of course, because of her deceit, it also fell to her to make daily trips to the telegraph office to ensure that she was the only one to take possession of any telegrams that arrived. The same with the post office. It was a daily exercise in worry that someone other would get there ahead of her and give the correspondence to Iliamna. For every successful excursion over the past three months, she felt invigorated to plan just a bit more of her own Snow White fairy tale. A story with more depth than just simple deception; it was a story in which unsightly would ultimately triumph over beauty. She would see to that.

She sighed, tucking her letterbox inside the dresser and retrieving another, less ornate box, “Before I answer any more ads, let me just see if I have enough to set my plans into motion; especially as my plans have an expiration date.”

She added the money that Shreve sent to the bills inside the box, and then started counting. With a sigh and a grin of satisfaction, she tucked the bills into her reticule. The accumulated funds would prove sufficient, she was sure. She then placed a kiss upon the black ink and tossed the newspaper into the wastebasket. There wouldn’t be a need for her to answer any more ads for now. Humming a happy tune, she bounded down the stairs towards the stables.

“It’s time to go for a ride,”

[1] The Brothers Grimm published it in 1812 in the first edition of their collection Grimms' Fairy Tales. It was titled in German: Sneewittchen (Wikipedia).