seek their fortune, too .
She saw no change in her future, not at twenty-four, with only a
modest dowry. The story might have been different, were she
beautiful enough to allow a man to overlook the deficiency of a
skimpy marriage portion.
She was hardworking and ordinary, with no
glaring defects, but no soaring beauty beyond kind eyes. On the
bright side, she would never lack for employment, and the house
would be hers when her father died. Is that all? she asked
herself there on the bridge. Tell me that isn’t
all.
She put off the letter, deciding to save it for
herself alone. She could tell her father over breakfast what John
had said. She knew from long experience Papa would advise her to
end this deception and send the man a letter explaining just who
has written the letters he thought came from Margaret. Ministers
were like that.
Better to let her father talk through supper,
even though he was retired from the ministry and seldom ventured
much before their doorstep now. She knew he had little to tell her,
beyond what he had read in Bartell’s Confessions of a Penitent
Sinner , or some other tract or treatise. She would listen
through supper, drink a small cup of negus with him in the sitting
room later, then make her way to bed, another day done, one much
like the day before, except for John’s occasional
letters.
So it was that she made herself comfortable in
bed, cap on her head, warming pan at her feet, and opened the
letter.
She couldn’t help observing that the stationery
was even more expensive this time, too heavy to see through as she
held it to the lantern light, and possessing a watermark. On a
whim, she reached under her bed, pulled out the Restorative Tonic
box and reached for the earliest, most fragile letter, written on
scraps, but still signed Faithfully Yours .
“ You have come so far, my dear,” she
whispered, even though Papa snored in the bedchamber across the
hall and couldn’t have heard a black bear trundle through—black
bears that John had described in some detail during those first few
years in Canada.
She carefully replaced the old letter and
hunkered down in bed to read the new one, pretending, as usual,
that John McPherson was her fiancé. She knew it was a harmless
diversion, but one that she would never divulge to another
soul.
She read slowly and with growing delight,
relishing the words. John described his promotion to assistant
purveyor of furs to John Jacob Astor—a German immigrant, Sally had
learned in a previous letter, who had come to American shores with
ten dollars and a suitcase of clarinets to sell. This had strangely
led to trade in furs, and then real estate, hence the Fifth Avenue
address. Apparently there was no end to what even a musician could
achieve.
Margaret, I have a place of my own here in New
York City, Sally read. It’s been ten long years. I can finally say
that the wisest thing I ever did was to leave Dumfries and seek my
fortune.
She settled lower in her bed, reading of his
only occasional trips now into America’s interior on flatboat and
by canoe. Generally, he signed off on great packs of beaver and
buffalo robes floated down the Missouri to St. Louis, where they
were sorted, then taken overland to New York City. The final
destination was the Paris and Frankfort markets, now that the long
war had ended and commerce could return safely. We are even
negotiating to sell buffalo robes to Czar Alexander, to make
overcoats for his troops , John wrote.
As always, Sally read between the lines,
savoring the confidence that nearly leaped out of the page at
her—well, at Margaret. She put down the letter, thinking of her
last sight of John McPherson, ragged duffel slung over his
shoulder, as he left Dumfries sitting on the back of a hay wain
heading toward Carlisle. She had waved to him, and he had smiled
back. No one else had seen him off. Even then, through his dirty
clothes and hair in need of cutting, she had seen confidence
burning in his
She saw no change in her future, not at twenty-four, with only a
modest dowry. The story might have been different, were she
beautiful enough to allow a man to overlook the deficiency of a
skimpy marriage portion.
She was hardworking and ordinary, with no
glaring defects, but no soaring beauty beyond kind eyes. On the
bright side, she would never lack for employment, and the house
would be hers when her father died. Is that all? she asked
herself there on the bridge. Tell me that isn’t
all.
She put off the letter, deciding to save it for
herself alone. She could tell her father over breakfast what John
had said. She knew from long experience Papa would advise her to
end this deception and send the man a letter explaining just who
has written the letters he thought came from Margaret. Ministers
were like that.
Better to let her father talk through supper,
even though he was retired from the ministry and seldom ventured
much before their doorstep now. She knew he had little to tell her,
beyond what he had read in Bartell’s Confessions of a Penitent
Sinner , or some other tract or treatise. She would listen
through supper, drink a small cup of negus with him in the sitting
room later, then make her way to bed, another day done, one much
like the day before, except for John’s occasional
letters.
So it was that she made herself comfortable in
bed, cap on her head, warming pan at her feet, and opened the
letter.
She couldn’t help observing that the stationery
was even more expensive this time, too heavy to see through as she
held it to the lantern light, and possessing a watermark. On a
whim, she reached under her bed, pulled out the Restorative Tonic
box and reached for the earliest, most fragile letter, written on
scraps, but still signed Faithfully Yours .
“ You have come so far, my dear,” she
whispered, even though Papa snored in the bedchamber across the
hall and couldn’t have heard a black bear trundle through—black
bears that John had described in some detail during those first few
years in Canada.
She carefully replaced the old letter and
hunkered down in bed to read the new one, pretending, as usual,
that John McPherson was her fiancé. She knew it was a harmless
diversion, but one that she would never divulge to another
soul.
She read slowly and with growing delight,
relishing the words. John described his promotion to assistant
purveyor of furs to John Jacob Astor—a German immigrant, Sally had
learned in a previous letter, who had come to American shores with
ten dollars and a suitcase of clarinets to sell. This had strangely
led to trade in furs, and then real estate, hence the Fifth Avenue
address. Apparently there was no end to what even a musician could
achieve.
Margaret, I have a place of my own here in New
York City, Sally read. It’s been ten long years. I can finally say
that the wisest thing I ever did was to leave Dumfries and seek my
fortune.
She settled lower in her bed, reading of his
only occasional trips now into America’s interior on flatboat and
by canoe. Generally, he signed off on great packs of beaver and
buffalo robes floated down the Missouri to St. Louis, where they
were sorted, then taken overland to New York City. The final
destination was the Paris and Frankfort markets, now that the long
war had ended and commerce could return safely. We are even
negotiating to sell buffalo robes to Czar Alexander, to make
overcoats for his troops , John wrote.
As always, Sally read between the lines,
savoring the confidence that nearly leaped out of the page at
her—well, at Margaret. She put down the letter, thinking of her
last sight of John McPherson, ragged duffel slung over his
shoulder, as he left Dumfries sitting on the back of a hay wain
heading toward Carlisle. She had waved to him, and he had smiled
back. No one else had seen him off. Even then, through his dirty
clothes and hair in need of cutting, she had seen confidence
burning in his
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