Mail Order Bride: Esther - Paradise Mistaken: Brides Of Paradise, #3

By GRACE HEARTSONG

1877. Young idealist Wade Helter is a mere waiter at the Claremont in Paradise, Iowa--but dreams of more. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the country in Boston, Esther Witten wishes to escape the stuffy confines of her factory job for a peaceful life in the country with a wealthy husband to take care of her. 

When the two meet through a mail order bride ad - under false pretenses, however, they soon find that expectations are not met and they must make do with each other.

Book 3 in the Brides Of Paradise mail order bride series BUT can also be read as a standalone novelette!
 

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Tags: Mail Order Bride Romance, Historical Religious Christian Frontier Western Romance, Historical Short Stories & Series

• Language: English
• Publisher: BlissRockHub OU
• Release date: Dec 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386107187

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Annalise – Part 1 & 2

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ESTHER

PARADISE MISTAKEN

BRIDES OF PARADISE BOOK 3

MAIL ORDER BRIDES

BY GRACE HEARTSONG

PARADISE MISTAKEN

Wade Helter burst into the alley behind the Claremont, blonde hair sticking to his perspiring forehead, his waiter’s uniform askew. It was Christmas, and the Claremont was bursting at the seams with celebrating families and traveling businessmen seeking the comfort of a hot meal while away from their own families.

Wade sucked the cold air through his teeth and let it fill his lungs several times as he regained his breath. He’d been working since dawn, and had been toiling nearly twelve hour days since the start of the holidays. He’d been born at a nearby farm that had fallen on hard times, and had left home early to secure a job to send money home. He’d started at the Claremont as a busboy at age fourteen, and four years later, he was one of the mid-level waiters. 

Over the years, Wade had witnessed all manner of people coming through the Claremont. The most recent events of interest had been a few months prior, when stagehouse magnate Hector Dawes had married his so-called mail order bride, Mabel Lynn, from New York City. Wade watched the drama of their romance unfold, Hector’s pushy mother Lizzy at the helm. He’d taken their orders in the dining room and offered his polite smiles, but he’d observed it all. He’d known from the start that Hector and Mabel were a smart match, and no doubt a couple worth a second look.

And months before that, even the flame-haired Paradise farmer Bucky Clayton had married the pretty Hattie Watson through a similar matter.

Sure, Bucky had a successful working farm and Hector had a booming stagecoach business, but surely Wade could also secure a bride of his own—couldn’t he?

He drew the order pad from his jacket and flipped through the paper before settling upon the draft for his own ad. He had saved enough over the past few weeks, forgoing his own meals by eating scraps from the Claremont’s sometimes half-eaten plates, to place the ad in the largest newspapers on the east coast.

Several pencil sentences littered the small page, some crossed out and others circled. He scratched the stubble on his chin and poised the pencil above the page. He couldn’t very well entice a woman all the way to Paradise, Iowa by telling the truth. Who on earth would want to marry an eighteen year old waiter from a dinky little town?

Hands shaking from the cold, he pressed pencil to paper.

Hardworking businessman, aged twenty-two, seeking a bride who wishes to escape her bustling city.

He bit the inside of his cheek in thought. Best focus on the place, instead of himself—that way he wouldn’t have to too deeply construct a lie.

The opportunity to live in Paradise awaits you—Paradise, Iowa, that is. Our grass is greener than any you’ve seen, and our air is sweeter than any you’ve tasted. Come to Paradise and you won’t regret it!

He frowned. Was he writing a travel ad or a bride ad? Those skills would be best put to use the next time he tried to submit work to the local newspaper.

For years, the dream of becoming a writer had fueled him. But Mr. Hardwick of the Paradise Leader was a grumpy, steadfast man who was anything but eager to take on new staff.

Enough about stuffy old Mr. Hardwick.

Please send your reply care of Mr. Wade Helter at the Claremont Hotel - Paradise, Iowa

Well, whoever read the ad might not know exactly what the Claremont was, but the hotel’s name sure as well sounded fancy and impressive enough.

Wade! a voice called from the side door.

He jumped, as did a scavenging cat who’d found her way to the trash bin in the alley. He watched its small, dark form take off in the opposite direction.

Breaks over, Wade, get yer butt back in here! the voice called again, this time the door cracking for as a man peeked his head through. Another grumpy old man, this one by the name of Mr. Gunzel—who also happened to be the head of staff at the Claremont.

Sure thing, Mr. Gunzel—right away, Wade said, stuffing the pad back into his coat pocket.

Why on earth you want to stand out in the freezing cold, I’ll never know, Mr. Gunzel said, holding the door open for him.

It gets hot in there, Wade said, the wave of stiffling air from the kitchens quickly engulfing him. Mr. Gunzel closed the door and Wade hastily straightened his jacket and bow tie. He turned to the looking glass and smoothed a hand through his blonde hair.

You need to cut it or bind it back, Wade. The patrons don’t want hair in their stews, Mr. Gunzel snapped.

Wade dipped his head. Of course, Mr. Gunzel.

The head of staff took him by the shoulders and steered him into the main dining room. Table twenty three—they’ve been waiting from near twenty minutes and won’t be happy. Offer them a free round of drinks—

But—

I didn’t ask for your opinion. Go!

And with that, Mr. Gunzel pushed him out into the dining room. He’d spend the rest of the night formulating the perfect ad, and come tomorrow morning, he’d submit it through the wire.

ESTHER WITTEN STRETCHED luxuriously, muscles giving way and bones popping back into place. Her feet hit the twin bed frame—far too small for her. But she didn’t have a choice of adequate bedding in the factory dorms. The mattress, if you could even call it that, was also far too thin. But she stretched to make herself somewhat comfortable regardless, for her muscles and bones ached and burned from another twelve hour day on the line.

The textile factory was just outside Boston, in Lowell, and was unforgiving in its torrent of work. Not only was she tested daily by the demand of work, but also by the stuffy factory and dangerous machines. Often she ended up with a cough or various scratches—but she was lucky compared to most. Esther’s only solace had been the other young girls she worked with; all around her own age of eighteen. Girls who understood just as she what it was to thread a needle for hours on end, to wrestle with the stubborn machines, to stand for an endless expanse of time until their feet became numb and their backs throbbed with a somehow simultaneous dull and searing ache.

Some girls had gotten out, though. The demand of the factory left little time for anyone to have a social life, but there were others ways. Soon after her arrival at the factory, Esther had been introduced to the world of mail order bride ads: men from out west would place ads in east coast newspapers with the intention of securing a wife.

Many girls from her dorm had done so indeed, favoring the risk of company with a virtual stranger over the harsh working conditions of the factory. Esther hadn’t necessarily been opposed to the whole system of arrangements, but it did always seem odd to her. Yes, the factory was near back-breaking, but what would life be with a stranger—marrying a stranger? Would a girl’s safety be a risk entering into one of these arrangements? But then again, a girl’s safety was always compromised as long as she worked in the factory.

But there weren’t many choices for girls like Esther. The majority of them, including herself, had been orphans who had been carted off to factories upon turning eighteen to earn coin. And she did earn..meager though it was, but her long hours often prevented her from going out to spend her money anyway. Instead, she kept it in a stocking beneath her mattress. And someday, she’d have enough to leave the factory altogether.

She dreamed of the countryside. She’d never been out of the general vicinity of smoky, murky Boston, but she’d seen postcards. Often she would daydream of rolling green hills, sparkling streams and lakes, sweet and clean air, wild animals frolicking in magical glades. Those images were all that kept her going through the work