Prologue

North End, Boston

September 1, 1880

Anna Fairleigh’s ankles ached from using the treadle all day, but it was her duty as a seamstress to operate the foot-powered sewing machine and complete as many garments as possible. The sharp-eyed floor manager inspected every finished item and put a mark in his ledger. There were hand-crank sewing machines, but none of the one hundred women employed at the factory ever used them—those machines were slower, and slow meant less money at the end of the day.

The warehouse in the squalid garment district in North End, by the Boston city docks, employed immigrants fresh off the boat. Hardly anyone spoke to one another except in broken English. A squeeze of the hand, a soft smile; that was how the women communicated resilience and comfort.

Both Anna’s parents had died while crossing the Atlantic on a boat from Ireland, and the sailors found a scrawny seven-year-old boy holding the hand of a tiny toddler in the hull after docking. She’d been sent straight to the local parish orphanage, a blessing in disguise. She was schooled, clothed, and fed until the nuns decided it was time for her to earn her keep.

Praised for her embroidery and neat stitches, Anna chose to become a seamstress. Although it must be said that her dreams of a better, brighter life had never included working in a dingy, soot-filled long shed on the docks from dawn to dusk. But the money she received at the end of the day made it worthwhile.

She kept her head down in the queue and stared at the floor while hopping from one foot to the other. The owner of the garment factory where she toiled was unconcerned about his workforce having to queue for over an hour in order to receive their daily wages. After a woman told him who she was, he always took his time asking the floor manager to find the name in the ledger and read out her tally of garments for the day.

He would consult his payment sheet at a snail’s pace, do a calculation in his head, and then count out the nickels and dimes onto the table. But that wasn’t the end of it. He would look the woman up and down before slowly pushing the coins across the table to her. The woman had to wait with her head lowered until he gave her permission to take the wages. Eye contact was frowned upon.

Six days a week, a hundred times a day, the procedure was always the same. Until one day, when Anna’s turn to be paid came, and the boring routine changed.

“Your tally is two dollars and fifty cents for the day’s work, girl.”

Anna didn’t say anything. It was the first time the factory owner had ever addressed one of the women directly. The floor manager replied on her behalf.

“Anna Fairleigh is our fastest, neatest seamstress, sir. I trained her myself.”

That was a lie. The only thing the floor manager ever did to train the women was to rap their knuckles with a wooden cane and tell them to sew faster.

She sensed the owner smiling. “Look up, girl. Let me see your face.”

She did as she was told. Anna had no reason to be ashamed of her appearance; she made all her clothes herself. The stiff white blouse and serge skirt were covered by a work smock, hiding her slender frame but not her medium height. As for her thick chestnut-brown hair, she wore it braided and pinned low at the nape of her neck. Hair pins were costly, so a few wisps always hung loose to frame her face.

Anna considered herself to be ordinary; perhaps her clear gray-blue eyes and classic straight nose could have been considered attractive. But vanity wasn’t encouraged at the orphanage, so it had never factored into her life. One blink and she lowered her head again, unwilling to show the boss how uncomfortable she felt by being singled out.

“Would you like to sew white goods, girl?”

She would.

Making white goods—high-quality linens, men’s shirts, and women’s undergarments—was a seamstress’s dream occupation. It paid handsomely, with reported earnings of up to twenty dollars a week, compared to the twelve dollars she earned now.

The factory owner reached for her hand and inspected it. “Clean hands and well-presented. I like that.” He turned to the floor manager. “Bring this woman to my office tomorrow morning.”

Breathless, Anna took her earnings and headed for the exit. With a salary of twenty dollars a week, she could move out of her horrible accommodation and find somewhere nicer to stay. Her heart beat faster, too full of joy to do anything other than smile.

But then, a woman grabbed her by the wrist, making Anna stop short.

“You, Anna, do not go there. Very bad.” The woman, whom she knew only as Marlene, had worked at the garment factory for the longest time but still spoke in a thick Dutch accent. Anna held the woman’s hand gently. It was scarred with thin white scissor cuts like her own.

“Where must I not go, Marlene?”

The woman looked back at the long shed door. “To the office. The big boss, he will force you to do bad things.”

Anna was a clever young woman and needed no other information than what Marlene gave her. For one moment, she was tempted to take the promotion, even if it meant having to offer her cheek for an unwelcome kiss. But she was taught at the orphanage to never let the devil inside the door. One thing always led to another, and who knew where it would end. That fiery spark of independence that burned fiercely in her heart knew that such a compromise would haunt her, and no amount of money could fix it.

She hugged the seamstress, a warm, spontaneous gesture even though it felt like her world was collapsing inside. “Thank you, Marlene. Tell the other girls I bid them farewell. I’d rather be jobless than have that old codger chase me around his office!”

Marlene chuckled and gave her a hug. Anna turned and walked away from her only source of income, forcing herself to keep her head held high.

She was sad to have to start a new job, but she’d never turned away from new beginnings and fresh starts. Maybe it was her Irish spirit, but seeking greener pastures was in her blood.

She stopped at the pastry shop on the way home. There was nothing better to lift her mood than nibbling the delicious buttery pastry of a chicken pie for supper.

“I haven’t got a paper bag for you, miss,” the baker was apologetic, “but I can wrap the pie in newspaper.”

“Fair enough. It will give me something to read tonight.”

The baker chuckled and wished her well. Swinging her small drawstring purse, Anna headed back to her room. She didn’t call it her home because the people who owned the house made it very unwelcoming.

The nuns had placed an advertisement in the Boston Globe when she’d turned twelve. They wanted to find a good Catholic home for the young girl, a cozy establishment from which she could launch herself as a seamstress. Millie and Davy O’Hara were one of the couples who responded to the advertisement. They claimed kinship with Anna, saying that Millie’s mother was a Fairleigh back in the old country, and Anna had been stuck with the selfish pair ever since.

Night had fallen by the time she trudged up the six flights of stairs to the O’Haras’ tenement apartment. She held her breath, moving as quietly as she could—Millie and Davy were belligerent folk who took pleasure in bullying all four of their unfortunate tenants.

Anna was one of the lucky ones. The parish had negotiated reasonable terms for her room and, as outwardly obedient Catholics, the O’Haras were bound to honor it. This didn’t stop Millie and Davy from trying to beg and borrow money from her whenever they crossed paths, but at least the rent was affordable.

After rinsing her face and hands in the washstand bowl, she took the box of matches out of her bag and lit the oil lamp. The golden light rose and spread over the walls and ceiling. Anna sighed as she poured a glass of water from the pewter pitcher to drink with her pie. Going downstairs to heat the stovetop kettle for tea wasn’t worth the grief. Millie always loitered behind her, checking to see that Anna used her own tea and sugar.

A battered old tea caddy sat on the shelf. She checked to make sure the door was closed before taking it down and prying off the lid. Sniffing the black tea leaves, she savored the fragrance for only a moment before reaching for a leather pouch hidden at the bottom, which she took out carefully. This was her life savings, the most precious thing in her world.

“One day… one day, I’ll leave this place far behind.” She didn’t dream of fancy frocks or pretty hats. All Anna wanted was the freedom to make her own choices. She had been told what to do and how to do it ever since she could remember.

Taking the two-dollar notes out of her pocket, she folded them into a neat square and opened the pouch. She would keep the fifty cents and put it toward paying her rent for the week…

But something was wrong.

Anna dropped to her knees next to the oil lamp. The pouch was full of coins, but all the tiny squares of folded dollars were gone. The missing dollars amounted to a fortune in Anna’s eyes. Under the glowing lamplight, she inspected the caddy closely. There was all the proof she needed—large, greasy fingerprints marred its shining surface.

Her temper flared as she stormed downstairs.

“Aunt Millie, someone has been making free with my hard-earned money! I demand you give it back.”

The people who insisted that she address them as “aunt” and “uncle” were seated in the parlor. Millie was wearing a brand new shawl made from Norwich silk. She made no effort to hide it, just as Davy didn’t bother hiding the large bottle of whisky on the Welsh dresser and the empty glass on the table.

“You’re forgetting something, Anna,” Millie was unusually calm for someone who had been caught red-handed. “You’re twenty-five now, and that means your guardianship with the Holy Church has ended.”

Their gall took her breath away. “What’s that got to do with it?”

Davy smirked. “A young lady such as yourself lives under the banner of the Church’s protection until she is thought to be old enough to make her own decisions. You’re free to marry without asking for the priest’s consent now—and that means we’re free to raise your rent as high as we like.”

Millie went on smugly. “You can find another place if you don’t like it. But don’t expect a glowing reference from us.”

Anna felt weak. She couldn’t expect a reference from her job at the garment factory, either. But there was no choice here, either, merely swallowing her frustration and anger and withdrawing.

Never before had she felt so trapped and helpless. After clasping her hands together to say a quick grace, she unwrapped her supper. Her pie was already cold, but it was sustenance.

With nothing better to do while the oil lamp burned bright, she decided to follow through on her promise and read the newspaper. The first thing that caught her eye was an advertisement, in large print:

WE ARE LOOKING FOR THE FINEST CALICO CARGO

Anna felt a stir of excitement. She knew how to sew calico. Perhaps this could be her new job?

Follow your good fortune and take a bride ship to the West Coast! she read.

Ladies, heed our call. The nation’s loneliest and bravest pioneers—cowboys, prospectors, loggers, and ranchers—seek adventurous gentlewomen looking for new opportunities. At this very moment, Mr. Asa Shinn Mercer is organizing an expedition in an effort to supply social companions to service the huge demand for wives in the West. Passage, berth, food, and beverages are free for any eligible bride. Are you ready to establish the schools and sewing circles so sorely needed in wild San Francisco?

The invitation hit her like a wave, and Anna only dimly realized she was holding the half-eaten pie in her hand. She chewed the last piece with thoughts racing as she read the address provided at the bottom of the advertisement. It asked that all interested parties report to an office on the North End docks between the hours of ten a.m. and four p.m. all week, and more information would be provided.

The possibility of leaving it all behind and never having to bear another East Coast winter again made Anna smile to herself. No true Boston gentleman would ever want to marry an orphan with nothing but nimble fingers to recommend her. And if she continued to stay with the O’Haras, the chances were high that she would never save enough to make a comfortable life for herself. In a city of docklands and tenement buildings—and all the nastiness that sort of environment brought with it—sailing away to the opposite side of the continent seemed wonderful.

Wide-open spaces. Fresh air. Sea breezes. Anna longed to experience those things. With her hopes high, she prepared for bed, closed her eyes, and turned the wick knob of the oil lamp until the flame sputtered and went out.

Chapter One

San Francisco

October 25, 1880

The steamship to Colón, Panama, took two weeks, with strong winds speeding them southwest down the Atlantic. The railroad crossing over the isthmus took only a few hours, but Anna found it difficult to walk or sit because she kept feeling as if the floor was tipping under her feet. But she persevered and was rewarded twenty days later, glimpsing the wide bay of San Francisco spreading out in front of the ship’s prow.

All she had left behind in Boston was a letter, which was in safekeeping with the local parish priest. Her female traveling companions were not a mixed bunch. The selection process had been far too rigorous for any bad apples to slip through. While every woman hailed from a modest background, they were exactly what the advertisement had asked for: eligible brides without the means to meet the man of their dreams in New England.

The female passengers were divided into two groups. One group of women had already communicated with a man out west and been invited to become his mail-order bride. The mail-order brides who responded to matrimonial advertisements knew exactly what waited for them at the end of the journey.

Then, there were the women who were generally referred to as “potluckers.” The company was paid to match a New England woman with a West Coast man on his behalf. Those men who were too busy or disinterested to bother with long-distance communication found it easier to pay for the privilege of a match being made for them.

Anna was a potlucker. Back in Boston, the recruitment officer had taken one look at her when she entered the small office and made a mark in his ledger. He asked for her name and details before sending her to the Sisters of Notre Dame with a note. The nun explained to her that she must be checked for parasites and purity before the company could recommend her as a viable candidate.

She knew the nun from her days at the orphanage. “I’m the same as I was when I left here, Sister Magdalene.”

“Headstrong and self-sufficient… but a good girl at heart?” Sister Magdalene’s eyes twinkled.

Anna chuckled. “Yes.”

Once she was approved, the officer took her under his wing. “You’re the perfect mail-order bride for Mr. Nate Smith, landowner and farmer. He wants a practical, open-minded wife who will be at ease in all society, both high and low.”

“If it means I must treat servants and bosses the same, I can do that.”

Fortunately for Anna, the officer must have thought she was joking. “Now, remember, Miss Fairleigh. If the man doesn’t like the look of you once you reach the other side, you will still be paid a living wage for six months and owe nothing on your traveling expenses. It’ll be up to you if you want to come back here or try your potluck in the wild West. The place needs women to civilize it, and the men need taming. Are you up for it?”

“I like those odds, sir.” The officer had left out any mention of how she would get to walk away from the deal if she didn’t like the look of Mr. Smith, but Anna was an optimist and presumed her options were the same. She had kept that positive outlook with her, all the way from packing her trunk, walking on board, and throughout the grueling sea voyage.

And now, close to the end of their odyssey, all the ladies gathered on deck in excited groups. Boston was behind them. The West Coast, and all it had to offer, was in their sights.

Curious, Anna asked one of the women on board about her westward beau.

“I’m far better off than you are, Anna. Milton gave me all the details about his prospects and the size of his land during our correspondence courtship.” She dug in the drawstring purse hanging from her wrist and withdrew a gilt-framed Cabinet Photograph that showed an image of a stiff-looking man who seemed to be staring rigidly at the starboard side of the ship.

Anna noted that his suit and shirt were tailor-made and not churned out in an overworked Boston garment factory, then handed back the frame. “You are blessed, and may you both be very happy.”

The woman thanked her and smiled.

Ellie Pearson, a merry-eyed redhead, joined them at that point. “Look at that view. I see miles and miles of bachelors.” Ellie told Anna that she hadn’t found a husband in Boston because she wasn’t a Catholic. “After all the ship’s biscuit and snoring, Anna, I can taste the freedom. Men won’t be so fussy out here.”

Anna chuckled at Ellie’s accurate description of the journey. Women had been packed into their berths like sardines on a steamship not built for passengers. They were locked into the cabins in the hull every evening to ensure there was no fraternizing with the crew, but that was the last thing on any female passenger’s mind if she was so lucky as to go on deck in the middle of the night.

Whenever it had been Anna’s turn to fetch fresh water from the barrels on deck, she was swept away by the view. The starlight and moon reflected in the inky ocean soothed her soul almost as much as the fresh air. To get a few minutes away from the humid cabin with the rattling snores of other passengers was almost as nice as being served porridge for breakfast—not a daily occurrence, as when they reached the second week of traveling, the kitchen always ran out of oats.

“If I ever taste another bowl of mush made with water and ship’s biscuit, I’ll cock up my toes and die,” Ellie said dramatically. “What is it made out of? Sawdust?”

Another woman then came to stand at the prow with them. “Flour and salt, mostly. Mixed into a paste with water and then baked two times to harden it so it doesn’t mold and spoil. What I wouldn’t do to get a taste of hot, sweet tea.”

Ellie giggled. “I’m hoping that some wealthy buckaroo takes a liking to sweet little me!”

The women quieted down when the ship’s captain came to stand with them at the prow. He was an elderly man with white hair and beard, his face sallow and wrinkled, but he looked kind.

Irrepressible, Ellie piped up. “Where are you from, Captain? Do you know this side of the world well?”

He shook his head. “I’m a Yankee, just like you, Miss. Out west is too wild for me.”

Anna didn’t like the sound of that. “Are you talking about the people or the countryside, sir?”

That got him laughing. “I like to feel the passage of time and count the seasons. This place doesn’t have a proper winter, and that doesn’t sit right with me. So, aye, it’s not the mild weather that’s wild out here, but the folks.”

He shuffled his feet and puffed his pipe while staring at the rugged coastline. “There ain’t much in the way of citified politeness once you leave the city, and the men reflect that. That’s why Mr. Mercer got the idea to start bringing women over. At the end of the day, a man needs the civilizing influence of a woman in his life.”

One of the ladies crossed herself. “That’s why God made Adam and Eve.”

The captain touched the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am. That’s straight out of Genesis. ‘And God said it is not good that a man should be alone; I will make him a helper’.”

Ellie crowed loudly so everyone in the small group could hear her. “I’ve been helping myself for fifteen years in Boston, Captain. I hope the man I’m matched with has more to offer than simply asking for a helping hand!”

Lighthearted laughter rippled through the group, loud enough to drown out what the captain said. But Anna heard him because she was silently watching the ship dock.

“Laugh while you still can, ladies. Life out west is harsh enough for you to cherish every smile when it comes.”

That gave Anna a lot to think about. She could feel the temperate air on her cheeks—the warming sun was just enough to turn the fog into white wisps in the bay. When she looked further, she was struck by the awesome sight of green forests and rolling hills stretching as far as the eye could see. There was a forest of ships’ masts in the bay, too, as they all waited for their turn to anchor by the shoreline.

The tedious rigmarole of docking and disembarking took a while. Anna looked up at the steamship after treading carefully down the gangplank. It had been her home for over a month, but now she was ready to start the next chapter of her life. No matter what, she would never take the ship back east. If her potluck partner didn’t work out, she would get a job as a seamstress instead.

The harbormaster was waiting to greet the group led by the captain. “The calico cargo arrived safely, Mr. Gerber. Every lady is present and correct.”

Anna smiled. He made it sound like a military maneuver. “Aye, thank you, Captain Montague. I’ll take it from here—or at least my wife will.”

Mrs. Gerber addressed the group of women loudly. “Mail-order brides on one side of the room, please. All you others congregate on the other side and wait!”

“She makes us sound like potential mail-order bridesmaids,” Ellie whispered to Anna. “Does she know we were specially selected as the perfect match for one of the company’s paying customers?”

Anna tried to stay positive. “They can’t do all of us in one go, Ellie. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

Her friend huffed, leaned against the wall, and crossed her arms. Anna set her heavy carpet bag on the floor. Her trunk was on a trolley, and there was a neatly printed ticket tied with string to its handle. Only her name was on the ticket, because she had no address yet.

Mrs. Gerber called a woman’s name off her list. “Alicia Meadows, step forward. And Mr. Stanley Denoon, come up and claim your bride.”

Anna felt a lump form in her throat watching the new couple meet for the first time. The woman blushed, and the man looked at his feet while holding his hat over his chest. The first time they looked at one another brought tears to her eyes. But before the moment could be truly appreciated, Mrs. Gerber was telling them to move aside and announcing the next couple.

After thirty matches were made, Ellie started to grumble. “I’ve had about as much of this nonsense as I can take.” A few other ladies left to stare at the walls joined in to complain. It was understandable—they were anxious about the future, and their friends and family were far away.

Anna stepped over to Mrs. Gerber. “Excuse me, ma’am, but the other ladies are tired and hungry. Do you know how long the meeting and greeting couples will be, please?”

The harbormaster’s wife shook her head, clearly preoccupied. “You all have to stay at the boarding house until your men arrive. It’s so you’ll have somewhere to live if the beau doesn’t like his bargain and refuses the selection.”

“And the name of this boarding house?”