Loving Arabelle

By E Ayers

Orphaned and raised in a convent, wealthy Arabelle Nor has no one to arrange a proper marriage for her, so she decides to become a mail order bride.

Claude Rumstiller has one dream: to homestead the Western frontier. A Quaker and a farmer’s son, it doesn't take him long to recognize the difficulties he faces in the windswe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indie Artist Press
• Release date: Dec 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781625221490

E Ayers

E. Ayers is a true believer in love at first sight because it happened to her, she thinks everyone should find that special someone. When it happens, it's magical. Writing about that love is what she enjoys doing and when she's not spending time with her two dogs and waiting on his royal highness (the cat), she's busy writing. The official matchmaker for all the characters who wander through her brain, she likes finding just the right ones to create a story. She writes a slice-of-life novel, the romantic slice in two characters lives. In today's world, most people have careers and responsibilities. Figuring out how to blend two separate lives into one can be a huge dilemma. No one is perfect. She brings that into what she writes. The fantasy of a handsome hunk who will sweep the damsel off her feet and carry her off to a castle in the clouds is still there, but that castle is probably a condo. And that damsel isn't going to be persuaded by a few smooth lines

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Loving Arabelle

By E. Ayers

First Digital Edition

copyright © 2019

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 973-1-62522-149-0

September 2019

This literary work is independently published by the author in association with Indie Artist Press. If you receive this book in print format without a cover, or electronically by any means other than purchase through established channels or participation in a bona-fide ebook sharing subscription or program, the author did not receive compensation. Piracy of electronic or printed literary works is a crime.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events, or locales is purely coincidental.

To George, who always believed in me

CHAPTER ONE

Two flights of stairs and several hallways led from Arabelle’s attic room on the third floor to the children’s schoolroom on the first floor. Her biggest problem was meals. She had to negotiate an extra hallway and a set of narrow steps to the basement’s kitchen. If she was lucky, Mr. Harrod wasn’t waiting for her. She hated when he grabbed her.

She rounded the corner to enter the kitchen staircase when a hand clasped her elbow. She didn’t need to wonder whose hand had captured her. His other fat hand roamed over her chest, and he gave a slight squeeze as he did.

Good morning, Arabelle. You are up early today. His hot breath could be felt on the nape of her neck.

Please release me, Mr. Harrod. I wish only to break my fast.

A body such as yours needs more than food. My wife intends to visit her sister next week. I will devote my time to you and show you the pleasures of my wealth.

If there had been anything in her stomach, she might have vomited. She propelled herself away from him and heard his laugh as she hurried down the stairs.

In the kitchen sat an envelope addressed to her. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket, wondering what the letter inside would say this time. She would read it when she was alone. There was no reason to alarm anyone.

That evening when she retired to her room, she took out the envelope and read its brief message.

I want my money.

Twice more that week Mr. Harrod caught her, and each time he became more aggressive. That last time, she knew she had to leave immediately. If she stayed, he would ruin her.

During her midday meal, she told the cook that she was quite ill. Please inform Mrs. Harrod that I will not be teaching the children this afternoon.

Arabelle decided she would be gone from this house before the clock struck midnight. No longer could she stand another pawing from Mr. Harrod or his hot, alcohol-laden breath upon her skin. The man made her flesh crawl. If she could leave without being seen, she was certain the letters would also stop, for no one would know where she had gone.

The problem was that the Harrods were supposed to be a good Christian family. Everyone knew they were patrons of the church. They could be counted on for extra money whenever there was a need. Accepting a job as governess to their children was considered a plum. At the time, Arabelle felt honored to be able to teach the young sons when she finished her schooling. Little did she know what was awaiting her. When she tried to tell the nuns who had placed her what was happening, they refused to listen and blamed her for arousing the master of the house.

In her bedroom, the afternoon sun filtered through a small window that she had opened to allow the trapped heat in her attic room to escape. Every Sunday morning for the last four months she had sat by the small window reading the letters that a Mr. Claude Rumstiller had sent. His penmanship was plain and lacked the flourishes of men who had attended better schools. But each letter was neat and properly aligned as though he had used a ruler. It was very easy to read. But this was a Thursday, and the ruckus from the children floated up the stairs to her room. She no longer cared if the boys destroyed the entire house. Enough is enough.

Arabelle looked at the letters and tried to decide if she wanted to marry this stranger. She could stay where she was and put up with Mr. Harrod - although death would be better than bedding the master of the house. It was one thing to teach four spoilt children, and quite another to succumb to the man’s constant sexual invitations. Had he no care for his own wife, the mother of his children? Rumor had it that he had taken the scullery maid to his bed every chance he had. When she was with child, he tossed her out and would not acknowledge his own offspring. Certainly, marrying a man with an honest job was better than staying where danger lurked in every hallway.

From an envelope posted in Homestead Canyon and mailed to the Longwood Bridal Agency, she withdrew the first letter from Claude.

Greetings Arabelle,

I’m thrilled that you’ve answered my letter to the agency. I’m not exactly certain what to tell you, but I’ll do my best. I read and write. No one has had to help pen my letters, although I am without a proper writing desk. My home is quite humble, and I have no complaints, as it is mine alone. I live in town, but I’ve been saving for a piece of land. Homesteading is popular, and it’s easy to see why. The lure of untamed land is exciting. Unfortunately, many who attempt it fail. Frequently the city boys will try it. They have no idea how to live off the land. Others might know how to herd a few animals, but they aren’t savvy enough to succeed.

I’m a farm boy and the third son. My family’s farm goes to my oldest brother. I wound up here in Homestead Canyon working for my father’s friend, Mr. Peter Van Dyke. He’s the nicest boss anyone could have, and he takes good care of his workers. It’s a small town in the middle of no place. Mountains are on one side of town and the prairie is on the other. Mr. Van Dyke owns a copper mine. I work the mine’s stamp. The stamp breaks the rock into powder so that it can be separated from the copper, or rather the copper from the rock. It’s a mechanical job and I’m responsible for daily operations.

I would like to find a place to homestead where I can build a house and settle down as a rancher. As much as I admire Mr. Van Dyke and appreciate my job here, I want more. That includes a family of my own.

I do hope that you are willing to help me achieve my goals. As promised, I will give you time to decide on marriage once you have arrived. If I do not suit you or you find me objectionable, I will provide you with the money to return.

Yours truly,

Claude Rumstiller

It was the first of many letters. Each she had read multiple times. Every letter seemed better than the one before it, and all of them held the promise of an exciting life. And Mr. Rumstiller was romantic enough to stir something inside of her. She didn’t have time to think of love. Besides love was elusive, an unknown entity. Having been raised by nuns, she’d been cared for and educated, but she couldn’t say she was loved. Although, Sister Mary Elizabeth did seem to care more than the other nuns at the convent.

Arabelle watched other people. The quick kiss that someone stole before hopping on the trolley, and the mother who embraced her crying child. The young couple walking arm in arm, stealing occasional kisses. She had never experienced any of these things. No one had ever kissed her. How could she love somebody when she didn’t know what love was?

Arabelle read through Claude’s letters one more time. She didn’t need to do it. Each had been memorized as they arrived. This was her chance at a life of her own. The nuns had given her more than enough cash. Passage wasn’t the problem. She had nowhere to go, Claude was her only hope for a future. With an old carpetbag for her possessions, she determined she could buy whatever she needed when she arrived.

That evening she packed her meager belongings, including her letters from Claude, and left the house under the cover of darkness. She walked twenty blocks to the train station. Booking trains wasn’t as simple as she thought. She had to change trains frequently. Eleven train rides and five days later, she was on her way westward. Her ticket was expensive, but having her own Pullman for a few days was a luxury unlike anything she had ever experienced. Arriving without giving notice wasn’t proper, but staying in the city would ruin any hope of her finding happiness. If her unexpected arrival created a problem, it was something she couldn’t help. She had escaped the clutches of Mr. Harrod. Nothing else mattered.

The train ride was uneventful, and for that, she was glad. She’d had enough excitement in her life to last for a hundred years. She sought a quiet place where she could live without being harassed. And without letters demanding my money.

The idea of having a man to call her own appealed to her. Being subservient to one didn’t. Mr. Rumstiller wanted a partner. He wasn’t a penny pincher according to his letters. He made it clear that she would probably desire a few items to create a comfortable home, and promised her the money for such things along with the funds for food.

She was fortunate to have her own money and therefore she would never be dependent on anyone, including Claude Rumstiller.

As she stared out the train’s window, her mind drifted to her seventeenth birthday. She had been summoned to the convent where she’d grown up. A man of small stature and an impressive, bright red, handlebar mustache had been waiting with Reverend Mother Ruth.

This is Mr. Hillberry, the elderly nun said. He handles certain financial matters for the Convent.

Arabelle did an ever so slight dip without doing a true curtsy but didn’t offer her hand. There was something about the man that made her uncomfortable. Then she took a seat in front of Reverend Mother Ruth’s desk. Is there something wrong?

Everything is fine. Reverend Mother Ruth reached across to Mr. Hillberry. The envelope, please. She placed the large packet in front of her and folded her hands over it. I do believe everything is here. We have done all we could to provide for you and protect what you have.

When the older woman was done speaking, she held out the fat envelope that was tied with a string. Arabelle swallowed as she took the proffered packet.

Please check it carefully. If you have any questions, Mr. Hillberry and I are here to answer them.

It was what was left of the funds from her parents, along with an accounting as to how her money had been spent. She had no clue that she had assets or that anything was being held for her.

She counted the money twice, then removed a hundred dollars. Please take this and hold it for another child who might need to live here. She wiped a tear from her cheek. Thank you for all that you have done.

She hadn’t meant to cry that day. The Reverend Mother took the proffered money with barely more than a nod and a thank you. It was as though Arabelle’s gift was expected. It still left her with plenty, as the convent had been very frugal with what had been left in her name.

Now, sitting by the window on the train meant she had a reasonable view. The windows weren’t exactly clean. They were covered in coal dust and soot. Opening a window allowed a breeze into the Pullman, but it came with dust and cinders. She decided that being dirty was better than being hot.

When the train pulled into Hanover, she immediately inquired about passage to Homestead Canyon. She was told that a man named Sam Bowmen was preparing to leave with the mail and other supplies in a few hours. He often transported passengers to and from the remote town.

When she caught up to him, he greeted her. He was polite but not friendly. A couple would be traveling with Mr. Bowmen. Arabelle found security in knowing another woman would also be traveling with them. Without a moment to spare, Arabelle went shopping for a few food supplies that she could take on the long trip. She was unaware it would take more than a day to get to Homestead Canyon. She also had no idea where she was going once she arrived. Claude didn’t have a street address or a house number. She didn’t know very much about him or what he looked like other than he alleged he was of average height and weight with dark brown hair and eyes. Arabelle figured he had described most of the men in the United States and its territories. She would need to inquire about Mr. Claude Rumstiller by name.

Claude was anxious for