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The Misfit Bride

By Peggy Trotter

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Chapter One

It was exhausting being a mannequin head. And painful to boot.
Cora Taggart’s bent back ached, her chin digging into the wirework dressmaker’s form. Adjusting her bonnet, she glanced back. Bolts of cloth spewed from various cubbyholes. Why hadn’t she crouched behind those shelves? Poor choice slipping through the curtain into the window display. Yet there’d been no time to search for a better spot. She froze, unblinking, as two ladies breezed past the window.
“Ill-bred little thing.” Widow woman Pearl Dixon’s voice drifted from the counter. And then a sniff. “Only not little. Overly tallish is more the truth. Miss Too-Tall Taggart nearly steps on most of the men folk.”

Cora clenched. Too-Tall Taggart. Holy tarnation, she hated that moniker.
“Och, Pearl, ’tis not kind what ye say. What a bonny lass she is,” Miss McGarlee’s Irish Quaker voice interrupted. Oh, the spunk of the woman defending her touched Cora’s heart. “Crocheted the scarf in ma window with its fancy stitch, she did.”
Cora’s gaze shifted to the wooden milliner’s head below her. That very scarf lay nestled around the dummy’s neck. The mental image of the ginger-haired spinster gesturing toward the window forced a whispered plea. Please don’t let them draw the curtain aside.
Parting with the soft yellow scarf had wrenched her heart a bit. Being nineteen, she had to earn some sort of wage. And there weren’t many opportunities in New Albany, Indiana, to do so. In these modern times of 1853, earning her own spending money proved difficult. But the scarf would bring a good price.
She sucked in a deep lungful of air tinged with fresh linen and something like the underside of her four-poster bed. Her throat tickled, and she struggled not to cough. Thankfully, no footsteps approached. Perhaps she’d avoided disaster.
The widow snorted. “Bonny? Cheeky is what I’ve overheard, walking around muttering to herself.”
Cheeky? The muttering, maybe, but cheeky?
Eyeing more passing shoppers, Cora stilled. Once safe, she mouthed a verse in silent cadence. “Love your neighbor as yourself. Love your neighbor as yourself.” She let her eyes slide closed and then whispered an addendum, “Even when you want to poke them with a finely sharpened stick.”
Best to distract her thoughts to avoid thinking about finding a poking device right quick. She stroked the sleeve of the full, rose dress hanging below her chin. Cotton batiste. Nice, light textile. She adored sewing with it—
“Gyrating with—what’s it called, Elizabeth? The newfangled calisthenics only fit for men?”
“Baseball, I be—”
“That’s it. Baseball. Rumors say she wears men’s britches and runs rough and tumble with those brothers and nephews of hers. What suitor could tolerate that? Miss Too-Tall Taggart is nothing but a misfit.”
Cora scratched her shin with the toe of her boot. So much for distraction. Glory hallelujah. Widow woman Dixon done picked her clean as a discarded Thanksgiving turkey carcass tossed in the chicken pen. Doggone baseball, anyhow. Why’d it have to be so entertaining?
And wearing britches? How Cora wished it were true. If she could convince her mother to allow pants instead of this confounded skirt, her base-stealing count might surpass her brother Miles’s.
It’d be easier to quit playing if she weren’t so adept at the modernized sport. And thanks to Levi’s letters from New York, she knew all the rules. Good thing the widow had no knowledge of her treasured homemade leather glove and lemon peel baseball stuffed in her bottom dresser drawer. That wouldn’t help her cause at all.
Miss McGarlee’s voice cut in. “Misfit? I think not. No, indeed. And if the lass doesn’t marry, what harm is done? There’s worse ways to go through life, and I’m telling ye from a voice of experience. I’ve never regretted not marrying—”
“Look over there.” The widow gasped. “Earl Jamison’s just sauntered into Spizy’s Tobaccy. And those amber colored bottles aren’t filled with lemonade. Oh, Elizabeth, he’ll soon be liquored up. When his mother finds out how he’s spending his time, he’ll lament ever setting foot in that sin-hole. Come along. We must be going. You understand, Maura? Let me know when you get some new parasols.”
Scuffles indicated a hasty exit. Through the glass pane, Cora’s eyes trailed the hefty widow dressed in a cape of Black Death. Petite and equally meek Elizabeth Rodgers, the bank president’s wife, scurried in hot pursuit. They knifed toward Jamison’s Coffee Shop.
Cora, now freed, massaged the back of her neck. She swiped the curtain aside and meandered to the counter. Miss McGarlee glared at the doorway, her face red, plump cheeks swollen. Her tiny fists poked deep into her ample waist.
“Ye will answer. Indeed ye will.” The older woman shook a fist at the closed door, spun, and yelped. “Dear child, ye near killed me dead where I stand. Have ye been here long?”
“Long enough.”
The proprietor’s face fell, darkening the flush across her cheeks. “Och, ’tis such a mess.”
The short woman dropped her gaze and repositioned the sawdust pincushion, the measuring tape, and the heavy scissors in much the same way a carnival hawker would swipe half walnut shells in a game of chance. Finally, the woman looked up. “Ye know how Pearl is. ’Twould never occur to her that a person’s life is none o’ her business.”
The grin returned to the shopkeeper’s face. She snorted, the Irish outweighing her Quaker side. “Old spinster, indeed. Lassie, I won’t speculate on it another moment. But I will rehang the doorbell. Ye come to see the new cloth?”
“Yep.” Cora set out after Miss McGarlee. She wound around another mannequin, fully dressed in a practical, brown Sunday dress with matching bonnet and reticule.
“Aye, let’s see now. I wrote down the word.” Her hand shuffled into a hidden pocket. “So odd ya’ know. Azure. Some Frenched-up sort o’ word. Might be ay-sure, or o-shore.”
Cora tamped down a giggle. The seamstress constantly combined words into new ones. Thinking of this tugged her mind from the lash of the widow’s words.
“Some queen’s wearing it somewheres out there.” The woman stopped beside a table and pulled a stunning blue bolt of cloth from under the sign of “newly arrived.”
Incredible. The bluest of blue, with a hint of yellow. So bright it took Cora’s breath.
“The ole shyster tried to foist ten bolts of ay-sher silk on me. ’Twould kill me right off, ye know, to pay for such finery. I wrangled him back to a couple bolts of polished cotton. Och, much more affordable to the common ladies.”
Cora locked her loosened jaw as she fingered the shiny material. With the amount of shine on the fabric, who needed silk?
“Then that snake-salesman done accused me of putting curtains on the local ladies. Pshaw. He don’t know how fine a seamstress you are, Miss Cora. Why, you could take a chewed-up wool sock and make a fine wedding dress. Even the widow knows that.”
Miss McGarlee whipped the textile bolt from her and tottered back to the counter. Cora trailed the older woman’s busy body back through the store. The proprietor chattered while spreading the material across the low table, measuring with quick, experienced hands.
Then she frowned. “What I’m a-thinking? Ye ought to take the whole bolt. I need more than one dress from this ay-zher. Once the ladies of New Albany get an eyeballful of yer creation, Lass, the rush will be on. Even them fancy ladies from downtown will stick their eyeballs in here. My shop will never have seen the like.”
A laugh burst from Cora. A store full of eyeballs?
“And pay no mind to the widow.” The red-head winked as she rewound the bolt and topped it with delicate white buttons and matching thread. “Yer the best catch in Indiana.”
Sure, if Cora followed Jack up the beanstalk. Oh, her kingdom for some magic beans. Surely she’d be petite compared to a giant. Cora grasped the wrapped bundle from Miss McGarlee, forcing the silly notion away. “Yes, Ma’am. And I need a couple hanks of cotton yarn. I need to make Mama some more wash rags.”
“Surely.” She added the yarn to Cora’s pile. “Don’t even bother to pay. I’ll take it out of your share when I sell that scarf. And make a few extree warsh rags, and I’ll display them here. They sell fast.”
Cora nodded and stuffed the yarn into the back of the package.
“One last thing. I fixed up some hard candies for that nephew of yours.” Miss McGarlee pressed a small brown-wrapped bundle into Cora’s free hand. “Don’t them lads get into all sorta trouble? The good Lord done preserved him from the cows crushing him. Coulda done split his gourd instead o’ his leg. He’s a hero, ’tis what he is. Plain and simple.”
A shiver danced down Cora’s spine. The widow’s words paled in comparison to her nephew’s recent close encounter with death. “Thanks, Miss McGarlee. Jimmie will enjoy a little treat.”
“You betcha. Now don’t ye dwell on the widow’s prediction, my lass. ’Twill come out in the wash.”
Unless she happened to be a wet wool sweater shrinking in the hot sun, Cora doubted it. How she wished a good swish in hot water would shrink her six inches. Or maybe eight? With an inward sigh Cora nodded and headed for the door before she blurted her true feelings.
Fresh spring air greeted her through the soundless door, and she let out a low groan. Heaker Thomas, bearded blacksmith, paused on the wooden walkway and nodded a greeting. His big hand yanked the hat from his slightly balding head. Most women thought Mr. Thomas had a full head of hair. If only they had her point of view.
His weathered face remained solemn, but his eyes sparked with interest. “Howdy.”
Cora bobbed a short nod, heat churning up her neck. Father had cornered Mr. Thomas last Sunday, and from the way they’d kept glancing her way, she feared they discussed some sort of courtship possibility. The man was nearly her father’s age and had five children. Though it was a pure shame he’d lost his wife last year, Cora had no interest in becoming the next Mrs. Thomas.
Her heart sank. Plumb pathetic that the only man who’d ever expressed an interest in marrying her was twice her age. She scampered past him, feeling the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck.
The early spring wind whipped at Cora’s skirt as she scurried to the next block near the physician’s office. Hungering to be out of Heaker Thomas’s eyesight, she cut into Kinderbrook’s Stationery and Books. She might as well check for mail at the back counter. Between the widow and Mrs. Thomas, she could use a letter to brighten the day.
Harvey’s pot-bellied stove poured out heat even though the temperature approached fifty. But there would be no complaint from her. Mama claimed Cora had the circulation of a ninety-year old anyway. She was constantly freezing near all the time. Or nearly, as her sister would be quick to correct.
Cora inhaled the distinct smell of paper mixed with burning wood as she settled against the counter. “Good morning, Mr. Harvey.”
“Fine day indeed, Miss Cora. I mean, Miss Taggart.” He shook his head, a topless brimmed hat revealing a sizeable bald spot. “You young ones grow up too fast.”
Grow…up. Fee fie fo fum. That was an understatement. She glanced around the neat shop to keep from thinking of her height once more. Or her courting woes.
She didn’t bother to alter Mr. Harvey’s name. Mr. Kinderbrook didn’t ring right in her head. There again, her reluctance to formalize his address made her feel like an old spinster set in her ways. Sigh…the word spinster seemed to be chasing her today. “Any mail for the Taggart family?”
“Must be your lucky day. Two for you. One, a right fancy envelope. President Pierce must need a vest and coat for his new term in office.” He winked, drew a bundle tied with string from a small compartment, and handed it to her.
“I’ll have to disappoint him. I specialize in women’s attire.” Her sister-in-law’s neat script graced the first envelope. Too early to have become an aunt once more, so she shuffled it beneath the other. Her name and address beamed in showy calligraphy on the fine-grained stationery. “Who in the Sam Hill?”
Cora popped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening. Papa hated that phrase.
Mr. Harvey’s brow rose. “Cora, Cora. You’re a pistol.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Harvey. Really. Don’t tell Papa.”
He shrugged, twitching the broom-straw mustache. “You’re secret’s safe with me.”
Cora nearly leaped to the door, biting her lips to keep any more improper phrases from tumbling out. Perhaps the widow had pegged her correctly as ill-bred.
She strode down the sidewalk, eyeing the surroundings for signs of the blacksmith. With the coast clear, her attention strayed to the envelope in her hand. Propriety demanded Mama and Papa read the letter first. Yet…where had it come from? Her finger swept over the fancy cursive. Never had her name been written with such an elaborate flourish.
At the end of the wooden walkway she paused. She should cross the dirt alleyway, mount the next set of steps, and continue to the physician’s office. Instead, she skipped right, down the alleyway between the brick buildings.
Several horses, hips limp with relaxation, stood tethered to iron rings. Perfect. She scurried behind the last animal, a pony with attention-grabbing white blotches on red. It raised its head as she tucked behind him against the wall. The bricks, warmed by the sunshine, seemed to welcome her. She hunkered down in an awkward ball, balancing the larger package in her lap. The Pinto, one blue eye circled in white, nickered and reached out his muzzle.
“You’re friendly.” She patted his forelock. Might he be friendly enough to lend a hand? Or—in this case, a back?
She stood and with a quick glance over the animals’ backs, she slid her extra envelope into the open saddle bag, and rested her big package on the horse’s saddle. Then she returned to her dirty seat against the building. With shaky fingers, she lifted the flap of the elegant missive in her hand.
Out fell a sheet of expensive linen with gold heading. Glenridge Estates, Lucas Place, Sixteen Hundred Locust and Thirteenth Street, St. Louis, Missouri. The spotted pony repositioned his legs, jostling the fabric package. Yet, it stabilized, so Cora’s eyes shifted back to the greeting. Seeing her name sent her heart jittering along
her ribcage.

Greetings and salutations, dear niece, Cora Hope,
I pray this fresh season of spring has greeted you in good health. We have passed some time without communication, and I wish to remedy this very soon.
Your Uncle Calvin, your cousin Odette, and I invite you to visit us the beginning of May. It is our hope that you might stay for an extended period, perhaps even pass the entire summer in our company. Once a date is decided upon, we shall be able to accommodate you with an appropriate chaperone. Should you so desire to make this trip, please advise us as soon as you are able.
Cordially,
Josephine V. Glenridge, (Aunt Josephine

“Ahem.”
Cora ripped the page from her nose and scrambled to stand. A shadow blocked the sun and two large hands gripped her elbows. In one smooth motion, she was on her feet. She brought her gaze up.
 
Up? There she encountered the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Male. Just above eye level.
The air whooshed from her lungs. Dear heavens, had she really been sprawled in the dirt like some child at a game of marbles? Her face broiled. And it had nothing to do with the eager spring sun.
The feisty piebald shook, sending her brown parcel tumbling. The tall man shot out a hand, nabbed it, and turned to her with an elevated brow. “Yours, I presume?”
“Oh…my. Thank you.” Excellent. A coherent, proper answer. A little breathy, but at least not some slangish minced oath exploding from her lips.
“My pleasure.” He tipped his hat.
Jet black hair curled beneath the brim. Even if he’d been hatless, she couldn’t have gazed upon the top of his head. He had a few inches on her. And dash it, a bit more handsome than Mr. Thomas. Younger, too. Now, here was a man who’d make a right fine suitor.
An indention dipped his left cheek as he pulled the other letter from the saddle bag. “I don’t believe the postmaster left this for me.”
Mortified, she stiffened into her full five-eleven height. “I apologize for using your horse as my correspondence desk.”
A myriad of emotions raced across his features, but then his face flattened into obscurity. She couldn’t help but admire the clash of his startling eye color against his sun-browned skin and dark hair. Yes, handsome. And tall. Very…tall. Hmmm. Lovely. His eyes narrowed. With a small gasp, she pulled back, yanking the package from his hands. She’d been gawking. At…him.
“Possum grease…oh. Pardon me. I need to go.” She scurried from her warm spot against the bricks, gritting her teeth, both from the slip of the tongue and the dirt that most likely covered her backside.
“Don’t forget this.”
He held out the letter from the saddle bag. Her fair skin glowed hot as Mr. Harvey’s pot-bellied stove. She imitated the widow’s sniff to disperse her embarrassment. “Assuredly. Apologies again.”
She snatched it and darted away. His laughter chased her. Cora’s bones burned. As if she weren’t humiliated enough from first, being caught squatting in the dirt and second, gawking at him like a four-year-old boy gapes at a new puppy. Now, he had the nerve to laugh at her mussed skirt.
Yet, it was hard to decipher if she were angrier at him or herself. What lady huddled behind horses in an alley? Simply more fodder for Widow Dixon’s list of reasons why she would never catch the eye of a handsome young suitor. Or…a fetching blue-eyed cowboy.
She swiped her rear free of dust. What did it matter what he thought? The fact remained, such a man would never be interested in her. Too-Tall Taggart. Baseball playing, sit in the dirt Cora Hope Taggart.
And that was the whole rub. She was a misfit, destined to be joined to a man twice her age, and he, only interested for the sake of his children. Heaker Thomas was her one and only choice.
Yet, was a list of one a real choice? Or a lifetime sentence?
 

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