Above Rubies

By Fyn Alexander

The year is 1885 and all May Jakobsson wants is a home of her own and a woman to love. Leaving behind her poor immigrant family, she claims her one hundred and sixty acres under the Homestead Act in Dakota Territory. Life on the farm is lonely and there seems no hope of meeting the right woman, or any woman with her inclinations. That is, until an itinerant seamstress arrives in town.

When wealthy Boston socialite Temperance Lowell decides to take her sewing machine and travel the rails staying in different towns, she is seeking adventure while escaping Boston where the woman she was having an affair with is getting married. The last thing she expects is to meet a tall, shy woman wearing men’s clothes to whom she is instantly attracted.

Not only does their attachment cause an uproar in the town of Livingstone, especially among the men who were already hostile to a woman like May, and were more than interested in the beautiful and elegant Temperance, but it confuses May who, in her own words, is “as common as the dirt I dig.” Temperance, a little older and very sure of herself, knows May is the woman for her.

Can they make a life together in a rough town among farming folk? Will their love survive the challenges thrown their way?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Dec 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685506018

Fyn Alexander

Fyn Alexander grew up in Liverpool, England and moved to Canada as an adult. She lives in a small town in Ontario where she writes and fosters children. Fyn is the proud mother of two daughters. Fyn is the author of eleven books including the Angel and the Assassin series.

Book preview

Above Rubies

By Fyn Alexander

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2023 Fyn Alexander

ISBN 9781685506018

* * * *

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Above Rubies

By Fyn Alexander

Chapter 1

March 1885

Removing her black Stetson, May sidled along the back wall of the church to stand with the young men as she always did. It was her habit to wait until the first hymn was being sung before slipping in quietly.

Morning, Jakobsson, the man beside her whispered. She liked Billy Christensen. He was always respectful, and he called her by her surname as he would call any man he might be friends with. May never trusted men who called her by her first name, afraid they might see her as marriageable.

Morning, Christensen.

From the front pew to the left of the aisle, Mrs. Bullock turned around and stared straight at her. May nodded at the woman who immediately turned back to face front. Maybe this would be the Sunday she’d manage to escape at the end of the service without Mrs. Bullock giving her advice on how to behave so the men in town would find her attractive enough to court. At the same time, the woman had been very kind to May—unlike some people.

Before we begin, I have an announcement for all you ladies who hate to sew, Reverend Grant said, his eyes bright, his tone teasing.

Despite the man’s grizzled beard and pot belly, he seemed to think himself very attractive to his female parishioners, and the titters of laughter that greeted his little jokes each Sunday definitely egged him on.

The traveling seamstress will be arriving on Tuesday and she will be staying with Mrs. Grant and myself, as usual. However… He held up one hand as if about to deliver momentous news. It’s not Mrs. Duke this time. She is getting on in age, as you know, and she doesn’t travel well anymore. But she told me in her last letter, she highly recommends Miss Temperance Lowell, who will be taking over her route. He paused before saying, "Miss Lowell, gentlemen. If one of you can catch the lady in your net, she might just stay on."

There was a sudden shuffling of feet and pricking up of ears, along with a few shy chuckles from the young men lining the wall beside May.

And there are still one or two single ladies in Livingstone. His gaze fell accusingly on May, as if she had no right to be unmarried when there were men needing wives. If you ladies have any ideas about fancy gowns you’d like Miss Lowell to make for a special occasion—a wedding gown perhaps—come to the house and get your orders in. First come, first served. I believe Miss Lowell will stay for a month.

Billy Christensen leaned toward May, whispering, I wonder if Miss Lowell is pretty.

No. I bet she’s got a big mole on her nose with hairs sticking out, and a wonky eye. Billy punched May in the shoulder and they both laughed, until the reverend’s frown landed on them like a vulture on carrion.

"The subject of today’s sermon is Proverbs, chapter 31, verse 10. Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. Now please join me in singing, ‘All the Way my Savior Leads Me’."

That’s I what I want, a virtuous woman.

But May found it hard to even consider the prospect of a woman in her life. A woman to love and take care of. One whose worth was above rubies. Was it even possible to have a home life with another woman? The longing such thoughts left her with made her lonely claim shanty appear even drearier than it was.

Two hours, much singing, and a long sermon later, May stuck her hat back on her head as she walked out into the watery March sunlight and sharp wind. Shivering, she fastened her worn old sheepskin coat. She had always been slender, not enough meat on her bones to keep her warm. Tall, lanky, and plain—that’s what Ma had called her.

The problem with arriving late to church was that the only place left on Main Street to hitch her horse was near the saloon. The men who frequented the place were rough and coarse, and they had a tendency to stand by the swinging double doors, talking while they drank. Watson from the lumber yard was often there, and today he stood gabbing with another man who had a claim on the east side of town. May avoided eye contact as she passed, but it was a rare day when one of them did not say something crude to her.

Hey, Jakobsson, got yourself a man yet? When she didn’t respond, the other man said, I bet she’s got a bigger dick than me. They laughed, seeming to think themselves hilarious. May was long inured to the coarseness of men, and she avoided getting into fights whenever possible, so she carried on walking as if they were not there.

Two steps from the hitching post, a shrill voice cried, Miss Jakobsson! Stopping in her tracks, May turned to see Mrs. Bullock bustling along the street toward her. Yes, ma’am?

Coming to an abrupt stop, the woman said, We’ve known each other a year now, Miss Jakobsson, so I feel I can be honest with you.

May avoided the woman’s gaze. From my recollection, you’ve been honest from the start.

Humph! Mrs. Bullock’s face was forever set in stern lines, and the black silk she always wore did nothing to soften her appearance, but May knew she meant well, and took the noise for the censure it was.

Give it to me straight, ma’am.

When the seamstress arrives, I want you to take full advantage of her skills. You need a decent Sunday gown. You could do with one for weekdays as well, but even just a Sunday dress for church and summer socials will get lots of wear. Something smart and serviceable.

May looked down at her cheaply made indigo shirt, her denim trousers with holes in the knees, and her boots which needed a good polishing. Yes, ma’am.

And you need to fix that hair. Your hair is a lovely color, but I’ve never seen you with anything other than that long braid. Meet me on Tuesday morning at the Mercantile and I’ll help you choose some cloth and some hairpins. You need to learn how to put your hair up. Even a plain bun will do with a few pin curls in front.

May didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but if she had to opt for one, it would most likely be crying at the thought of a dress and pin curls.

I’ve got plans to start the plowing tomorrow, ma’am, and I’ll be hard at it every day. The weather was predicted to be dry and fresh throughout the spring, according to the Old Farmer’s Almanac. I got near fifty acres plowed last year. This year I want to do fifty more. I’ll leave a few acres of pasture to graze the cow and Rosie here. She patted the horse on the shoulder. And I’m going to farm hogs next year.

Hogs? Mrs. Bullock’s weathered face contorted in horror. Hogs are big and dangerous. You’d be better off with cows until you marry.

Yes, ma’am. There was no point in arguing.

It’s near impossible improving a quarter section for a woman alone, but once you have a husband, he’ll do the outdoor work and you’ll be able to settle into doing the cooking and household chores, and of course the vegetable garden and chickens. That’s women’s work. Plowing fields and planting crops is for men. I’ll see you Tuesday morning at nine o’clock sharp.

Yes, ma’am. The last thing May wanted was to waste her hard-earned money on dress goods, but she just couldn’t say no to the woman. But I’d prefer to meet after dinner, if you don’t mind. Then I can get in a full morning’s work first.

As you wish. Mrs. Bullock’s grudging tone set May’s teeth on edge. She stuck her toe into the stirrup and leaped up onto the horse. Good day, Mrs. Bullock.

On her way out of town May raised her hat to two young ladies walking along the board sidewalk, going home from church. They giggled and hurried on, their arms linked. For land’s sakes, she was only being polite. Why did that warrant giggling? If she were a man those girls would have been pink-cheeked and flattered. Why couldn’t people just leave her alone? All she wanted to do was farm, improve the shanty until it resembled a livable house, and get on with her life.

Come on, Rosie, she encouraged, digging her heels into the horse’s sides until she trotted faster, but she didn’t want to wear the animal out, not with all the plowing she’d have to start tomorrow.

Half an hour from town, May’s quarter section loomed on the horizon and the excitement she’d felt the first time she had laid eyes on it last March, sprang up again. She would make a go of it. It was her land. Her home. Nothing would stop her.

* * * *

Chapter 2

This is madness, Temperance. Sheer madness. I should never have let that Mrs. Duke in the house. I only wanted her here to sew sheets and pillow slips. Look at the damage she’s done, giving you ideas that are not in keeping with your station in life. You are a lady, not an itinerant seamstress. To her husband, Hope Lowell said, George, do something! Hands on hips, the woman was breathless from pacing the thick Turkish rug in front of the blazing hearth.

Temperance regarded her mother with undisguised indifference. They had never been close. Mama, we’ve been through this. I’m going to give it a try. You can’t stop me. I’m twenty-four years old. I’m a grown woman, and I have money of my own. I can move out if you’d prefer.

You will not move out! This time her mother’s tone was more threatening and less hysterical. You will not leave this house until you are respectably married, and I wouldn’t go bragging about being twenty-four. By my estimation, that makes you an old maid.

Temperance never could figure out why her intelligent, handsome, stoic father had chosen this woman to be his wife. George Lowell was a tall, well-built man with close trimmed gray side whiskers and a goatee beard. His tone, when he spoke, was quiet and thoughtful. People listened to him; though he was always hard-pressed to get his wife to mind him.

Hope, stop this now. You’ve known for weeks Temperance was planning to travel the rail road with her sewing contraption. I’ll give her two weeks and she’ll be back—less. A week! The first muddy town full of rough men and with not a bandstand or a perfume shop in sight will send her running for the comforts of home.

Papa! Her father had always been her champion, always encouraged her independence, and she’d thought he supported her in this notion.

Of course I knew she was planning this ill-thought-out venture, her mother continued. I just never thought she’d actually go through with it. With a last hurt look, the woman stormed from the room, shouting, I will die of shame when the neighbors find out! But she wasn’t done yet and turned on her heel, entering the drawing room again. Furthermore, Temperance, you have turned down offers of marriage from two good, wealthy men. Ramsay Cuthbert has asked you to marry him twice. People will start to think you’re a little strange if you don’t get married soon. One day your independence will land you in trouble.

With that she left and Temperance sighed with relief at the clatter of her mother’s footsteps on the wide, curving staircase.

She’ll go up to her parlor now to cry, George Lowell muttered.

Really, Papa. I thought you’d defend me a little more.

With a long sigh, he said, You know I’m on your side, kitten, but I don’t understand why you want to do this anymore than your mother does. What’s to be gained? You don’t need money. Sewing for yourself and your sisters is a worthwhile pursuit for a lady, even if I can afford a modiste for you all, but to get on a train and head across the country sewing for strangers is an odd pursuit—even for you.

Even for me? Temperance arched one eyebrow. I’m leaving whether Mama approves or not. And you don’t really think me so fragile I’ll run home in a week, do you?

No, of course I don’t. I was trying to placate your mother. When you’re gone, I’ll still be here listening to her complaining about you. That’s what scares me.

I have to go somewhere. I can’t stay here just now. I can’t.

It’s because of that girl, isn’t it? he whispered. Agnes? That’s why you’re going.

Does Mama know? Temperance asked.

Of course not, and I’m not about to tell her. She’d drop dead from shock. Come here. He waved her over and she crossed the rug between them and sat on his lap. You’ve always been independent, always a little different, but you have to put that behind you now. You’re all grown up. You’re a lady and you must marry. Go off on your adventure and by the time you get back, one of your suitors might just look a little more appealing.

Papa, please!

Can’t you at least give it a try? You’ve always wanted to be a mother.

The desperation in his tone made Temperance wish she could give it a try, but there was no getting around her abhorrence at the very idea of being intimate with a man. If it’s just about grandchildren, Patience’ll marry Maitland Harding in the fall, and give you a grandchild before the year is out. As for Faith, she’s already watching the boys like a hawk with a telescope.

George Lowell laughed out loud. Your mother would say that was crude. He chuckled again.

I know what’s expected of me, but I can’t do it.

Issuing a long sigh, he said, We’ll talk about it when you get back. Now tell me where you’ll go first.

Excited at the prospect of what lay ahead, Temperance smiled and smoothed the lapel on his beautifully cut dark gray jacket. Mrs. Duke travels as far as Dakota Territory, to a town called Livingstone. It’s bustling and growing all the time, or so she says. Then she works her way back, south of the Great Lakes, stopping at a list of towns in different states. From each stop she writes to the minister’s wife of the next town to let them know when she’s coming, and she boards with them, for about a month in each town. She gave me all their names and addresses. She said she makes good money.

Her father ran the back of his forefinger over Temperance’s cheek. If it wasn’t for Agnes, would you be going at all?

With certainty, she said, Yes. I would. I want an adventure.

Were you in love with her? Her father’s understanding and acceptance were all she’d had to fall back on when Agnes had announced her wedding in The Boston Globe, rather than in person.

I don’t know. Probably not. I was obsessed with her for a while, but even that’s faded. It’s just that she left me so she could marry a boring man who’ll spend his life working in his father’s firm, and she had the nerve to invite me to be a bridesmaid.

George Lowell stroked his small goatee beard, a thing he always did when pondering something. If you stay away the whole summer like you want to, she’ll be married before you get back, and you can put that episode behind you and think about the future. Did you decline her invitation to be a bridesmaid?

Yes. I said I’d be away. All her tears for Agnes had been wept months ago. Now she could not summon even one, but her heart still ached a little. I couldn’t be her bridesmaid. I just couldn’t.

No. You couldn’t. But you didn’t have to become an itinerant seamstress either. Wouldn’t you rather to go to Switzerland instead, and maybe Italy and France?

I’ve been to all those countries.

Denmark then, or even Russia. You could take Faith. Tour around together.

The very thought of traveling with her younger sister made Temperance shudder. I wouldn’t want to tour the back garden with Faith and listen to her endlessly talking about boys, and dances, and her prospects for marriage. I want to go away on my own. And thank you for buying my sewing machine. I’ll earn enough money to pay you back.

I won’t hear of you paying me back. You go off on your adventure, kitten. Shake away the cobwebs, and when you return, settle down and put your mother’s mind at ease. That’s all the payment I want. Can’t you marry and try to be happy?

Try to be happy? If she were with someone she loved, no effort would be needed. All her life she had been burdened with the expectation of conformity, while always knowing she was different.

Darling Papa, I love you to the ends of the world, but even for you, I cannot marry a man.

* * * *

Chapter 3

The Mercantile sold everything from farm tools to silk and lace. Women went there mostly on Saturdays, being too busy with household chores during the week. Men went there all the time buying the things they needed for farming, but it seemed the announcement of the traveling seamstress had those who could afford to employ her very excited, because the store was full of ladies.

Watching them confidently fingering the bolts of fabric, May held back by the door. She hadn’t the first clue how to sew so much as a button on her shirt. When one fell off, she placed it on the shelf with the salt jar and the drippings jar, in the vain hope of finding time to do something about it at some future point when she finally bought a needle and thread.

Another thing she had no clue about was how to calm her nerves around women. If they were older ladies, she felt they were looking down on her, censuring her for dressing in men’s clothes. If they were young and pretty, she blushed like a teenage boy. Just the sight of so many women clustered around the fabric shelves made her heart thud. If they only knew how their presence alarmed her.

Men she could deal with on their own terms, even if some of them were crude. They needed a hay rake and so did she. They needed seed wheat and so did she. But what the heck did women want? What they wanted today was dress goods, and she must go among them feeling like a bull in a china shop.

There you are, Miss Jakobsson, Mrs. Bullock called out. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Now, let’s find you a nice, hardwearing wool fabric. Black, I think. Black suits any occasion. Funerals, weddings, and church socials. She stroked the bolts of fabric as she spoke.

Hands stuffed into her pockets, head down, May followed the woman along the shelves, looking at the toes of her scuffed boots more than at the bolts of wools and cottons and silks. A quick glance around proved the other ladies were suddenly much more interested in watching her and Mrs. Bullock than in choosing their own cloth.

Mrs. Bullock scanned the store, eyebrows arched. Don’t you all have something better to do? In a bustle of sudden activity, the women focused their attention on the shelves once more.

Relieved, but desperate to get out of there, May asked, Have you decided, ma’am? I need to get back to my fields.

Six yards of the black wool. Mrs. Bullock dragged a heavy bolt off the shelf. This one is light weight so you won’t be too hot wearing it in summer. I don’t suppose you’d buy two dresses. One for summer and one for winter. A pretty floral pattern might be nice on you.

May shook her head vigorously. No, ma’am. I don’t know how much wear I’ll get out of one dress, let alone two. It’s a lot of money and I’ll need to rent one of those harvesting machines come fall. She took the bolt of wool from the woman and carried it over to the counter where she waited, shuffling about on the spot, dying to get out of there.

Miss Jakobsson. Mrs. Harkness nodded at her. Do you want the black wool?

No, she didn’t, but what choice did she have? She didn’t have to answer either, because Mrs.