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  A NIECE FOR CHRISTMAS

  SPINSTER MAIL-ORDER BRIDES

  (BOOK 9)

  By

  Margaret Tanner

  A NIECE FOR CHRISTMAS

  Copyright © 2019 Margaret Tanner

  Thank you for purchasing this book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author and publisher. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoy this book, then please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy.

  This story is a work of fiction, and to enhance the story, some literary license has been taken regarding setting. All characters are a figment of the author’s imagination.

  Acknowledgements: Many thanks to my author friends, Susan Horsnell and Cheryl Wright, for all their help and support.

  Cover Artist: Virginia McKevitt

  BLURB:

  Three weeks before their wedding, Clementine’s betrothed casts her aside in favor of a younger woman.

  Humiliated and without a job, Clementine (Clemmie) becomes so desperate to start afresh she agrees to become a Mail-Order Bride.

  Rancher, Ethan Douglas didn’t write to this woman who claims he did. To fend off the unwanted advances of another woman, he agrees to a marriage in name only with Clemmie.

  He has the perfect job lined up for her. If only he could find out who wrote the letters he and Clemmie had supposedly exchanged. And why?

  Chapter One

  1870’s New Orleans

  “Three weeks before the wedding! How could you do this to me, Harold?”

  Clementine (Clemmie) Trotman wrung her hands as she paced the floor.

  “I couldn’t help it. I fell in love with Ivy.”

  After ten years of courtship why hadn’t she noticed what a weak chin he had? The pained expression on his face infuriated her. As if it was her fault he had fallen for a woman almost young enough to be his daughter.

  “What about me? The church is booked. The wedding luncheon at the hotel has been paid for. I’ll have to go and cancel it. The dressmaker. Everything.” She glared at him. “All that money wasted.”

  “It’s not wasted. Ivy and I can use everything for our wedding.”

  “What!” Clementine couldn’t believe she was hearing right. This was a nightmare. She all but collapsed on to one of the chairs in the private sitting room of Glover’s Emporium for Refined Ladies.

  Bad enough that he should break off their betrothal so close to their wedding day, but to calmly announce the wedding could go on as planned except with a different bride. This was even more humiliating.

  “Ten years I’ve waited for you to marry me, and this, this little gold digger marches in and….”

  “Be careful what you say about Ivy.” His cold haughtiness had her boiling with rage. “Keep on like this and you won’t have a job.”

  “You think I’d work for you after this?”

  “Why not? I want you to train Ivy. She can be your assistant.”

  “For how long?” she inwardly whispered. Did he think she was a complete idiot? Show her rival how to run the store then he would get rid of her. Ivy wouldn’t play second fiddle to any woman, least of all her. She wanted it all. My betrothed and my job.

  “Well, if that’s your attitude. Get out and don’t come back.”

  “I want my wages.” She stared him down until he walked over to the wall safe. While his back was turned she tried to compose herself.

  She would have to walk the gauntlet of pitying co-workers. Inwardly she cringed yet wouldn’t show it. Pride was all she had left now.

  Harold handed her forty dollars. “It’s not enough.”

  “Too bad, it’s all you’re getting.

  She snatched the money out of his hand before he changed his mind. He would have to cut her finger off to get the betrothal ring. The moment she left here she would go to the pawnshop and get rid of it.

  She marched out of the office with Harold a step behind her.

  “Miss Trotman is no longer employed here,” he announced in a booming voice.

  A couple of stifled gasps from customers and the girls working there was the only reaction. Not one person wished her luck. She guessed the workers were too frightened of losing their jobs to say anything and she couldn’t blame them. Having felt Harold’s wrath and the ruthless way he had tossed her aside, she wouldn’t want anyone else to suffer the same fate.

  The customers were another matter entirely. Mrs. Smythe-Jones gave a dismissive sniff. You ungrateful woman, after all I’ve done for you. She would have to be the fussiest, easiest offended customer Glover’s ever had. I always bent over backward to cater to her every whim. The whining and petulance, she had dealt with all of it by offering sympathy, soothing words and cups of tea, even as she inwardly seethed. A rich woman like her, who had never done a day’s work in her life, had nothing to complain about and yet she constantly did.

  Clemmie turned around as she reached the door and spied Ivy who wore the smug, self-satisfied expression of a cat who had licked up all the cream, staring at her. Elsa and Jane, who were to have been her bridesmaids, lowered their heads as if they couldn’t look her in the eye. She glimpsed a flash of was it sadness or guilt?

  She was trembling so badly now she stumbled to a small café around the corner and slumped on one of the bench seats.

  Queenie, the elderly owner, shuffled up to her. “My dear, what is wrong?

  Tears filled her eyes. “Harold has broken our betrothal.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Clemmie sniffed and patted her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  “I’ll get you a pot of tea and we can have a chat, it’s not busy at the moment. Maybe I can help.”

  The old lady couldn’t help except lend a sympathetic ear. Other than Jane and Elsa, she really didn’t have any friends now. Harold’s friends certainly wouldn’t want anything to do with her, Ivy would see to that.

  For the past ten years since her father had died, Harold had maneuvered and manipulated her to do his will, and foolishly she had allowed it to happen.

  Within a short time Queenie brought over the tea, accompanied by matching cups, saucers and plates, white with gold trim. The teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl all matched.

  “Would you like a jam tart to eat with it, my dear?”

  “No thanks, I couldn’t eat anything. The tea will be a lifesaver, though.”

  Once the tea was poured, Queenie said. “Now, tell me what’s wrong?”

  She told her the whole sorry story and watched shock, disbelief then anger pass across the motherly woman’s face.

  “My dear.” She held Clemmie’s trembling hand. “I can’t believe a decent man would act in such a despicable manner. It’s criminal.” She shook her head. “Three weeks before the wedding then having the audacity to use everything you booked. That man is evil.”

  Clemmie sniffed.

  “In a little while you’ll look back on this and think what a lucky escape you had.”

  “I’ll never trust another man again as long as I live.”

  “There are decent men around who will treat you with the love and respect you deserve. One day you’ll find him.”

  “I don’t want to find a man.” She took an angry gulp of tea. “Ever.”

  “You say that now, but in time the pain and betrayal will ease.”

  “You sound like you know what it is like.”

  “I do. My man didn’t leave me for someone else. He died.”

  “I’m so sorry.” They gripped each other’s hand.

  “Don’t do what I did. I mourned and grieved for my love, rebuffed any
attempt by other men to melt my heart and look at me now. An elderly spinster with no man and no children.” Sadness darkened her eyes. “Don’t let that happen to you.”

  “I’m twenty eight years old. Ten years I wasted on Harold.” Tears filled her eyes and she angrily swiped them away.

  “It isn’t too late for you.”

  “Even if I wanted to, where would I meet a man who wanted to marry a woman my age?”

  “You’ll find someone, church maybe.”

  “How can I attend my church now, knowing another woman, Ivy, is being married there in my place? The humiliation of it all. I couldn’t do it. Won’t do it.”

  “Well, brothers of friends, maybe?”

  “I don’t have any friends except Harold’s, and they won’t want anything to do with me now. The two friends from the shop who were to be my bridesmaids, are going to be bridesmaids for Ivy.”

  “What!”

  “Harold probably threatened to not pay for the dressmaker, I’m thinking, and they couldn’t afford to pay themselves.” That thought jumping into her mind made her feel slightly better. It still hurt, though.

  Ivy and Harold had taken everything from her.

  “He fired me when I said I wouldn’t show Ivy the job.”

  “My dear, I don’t know what to say.”

  “I have to leave here. If I don’t have a job, I can’t pay my rent at the lodging house.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t offer you accommodation as I live in one room at the back of the café.”

  “I know, I’m grateful you were prepared to listen to me. I do feel a little better.” She flicked a wayward tendril of hair off her cheek.

  Queenie snapped her fingers, causing Clemmie to start. “A Mail Order Bride.”

  She couldn’t believe she was hearing right.

  “There’s a Marriage Bureau in Etienne Street.”

  “No, I couldn’t. A Mail Order Bride, I wouldn’t humiliate myself like that.”

  “You said you already feel humiliated, my dear. Who would know? These places are discrete.”

  “I couldn’t.” She wrung her hands. “I hate men now.”

  “Well, at that bureau you might find a man needing a wife for different reasons than the usual.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe to gain an inheritance, for business purposes, there are probably dozens of reasons.”

  “Oh, Queenie, I don’t know.”

  “Think about it. Don’t end up like me.”

  After her conversation with Queenie, she trudged back to the lodging house. She had never felt so despondent in her life before. Dare she contemplate becoming a Mail Order Bride? What other options did she have?

  Show a bit of backbone Clementine. You have worked in the clothing industry for years. Half the clothes on display at Glover’s Emporium, one of the most exclusive women’s under garment shops in New Orleans had been designed by her. Pretty lace and silk nightgowns, some with plaited ribbon embellishments along either side were all her idea, as were the specially designed corsets with no whalebone in them. The exquisite Tambour lace camisoles had been specially designed by her for a bride’s trousseau.

  Why couldn’t she get employment in some of the smaller establishments? They mightn’t sell the same wares as Glover’s, but on occasion, she had designed and made bonnets for a few select clients.

  Chapter Two

  The double-storied stone house where Clemmie lodged, boasted a pretty front garden. It had once been a grand home and still showed signs of past glory. The ornate columns holding up the large porch and a fountain in the form of a cherub pouring water out of an urn, looked a little sad now. What must the place have been like in its glory days?

  She opened the ornate front door with the lion head knocker and stepped inside. Facing her was the grand staircase, which would have done any mansion proud.

  Madam DuLac, dressed in her habitual black taffeta gown, was a hawk-nosed woman with ebony eyes. Harold had once sneered about her being part Creole.

  “Oh, Miss Trotman. I understand you will be leaving here soon.”

  “Leaving? No.” Her heart suddenly turned to stone.

  “Mr. Glover said you were no longer employed at the emporium and wouldn’t be able to afford to stay here.” She gave a slight sniff.

  “It’s true, I am no longer in Mr. Glover’s employed, although I can still afford to stay here.” For a short while at least. “I do have savings and I’ll be taking up another position soon.”

  Stay calm she told herself. After everything else he took from her, Harold was trying to snatch the roof from over her head as well.

  “He’s made arrangements for another young lady from the emporium to move in at the end of the month.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  “Yes, he can. You may not be aware of it, but he owns half of this establishment.”

  Clemmie was reeling with the shock. She pushed her knees together to stop them giving way under her. She had less than three weeks to find somewhere else to live and a job. Her situation was growing worse by the minute. Harold not only wanted her out of his life, but obviously out of New Orleans in case she caused trouble for him and his beloved Ivy.

  “Thank you for letting me know, Madame DuLac. Tomorrow I will look for somewhere else to stay.” She forced a smile and walked slowly, hopefully regally up the stairs. If she lived to be a hundred she didn’t know how she accomplished such a feat, when all she wanted to do was run away and hide in her room.

  Once she got to her door, she fumbled with the key because her hands trembled so much. Her head felt like it was filled with a band of drummers. Once inside the room she had lived in for the past six years, she threw herself down on the bed and wept. In her worst nightmare she would never have believed something like this would happen.

  How many times had she thought their courtship strange? They had never exchanged more than the odd kiss or two. Harold had never made any move to ask her for more than that. Mistakenly, she had believed it meant he respected her. It was suddenly becoming clear, he didn’t even like her over much.

  It suddenly hit her with a killing intensity. All her drawings and design ideas were in his safe. How many times had he taken credit for her work? He had used her. Taken all the skills she had learned from her mother, who had been a dressmaker in a prestigious fashion house in Paris. He had built up his name, business and wealth at her expense. Now he no longer needed her, he had replaced her with pretty little Ivy La Belle, whose beauty would enhance his stature in the business and social circles of New Orleans.

  How could she have been so blind? So foolish. She wept until there were no tears left to shed.

  ****

  Next morning Clemmie had breakfast in the downstairs communal dining room, sitting alone at a small corner table. Ten young women lived here. As this was an establishment for genteel women, no males were allowed. For those women who were courting, there was a special sitting room downstairs where they could meet their beaus, under the eagle eye of Madame DuLac’s widowed sister, Madame St.Pierre.

  After breakfast, she set off feeling confident she would quickly obtain a position. After two hours, she realized the extent of Harold’s treachery. No-one would give her a job. Apparently word had spread around that she had been dismissed for stealing some of the Glover’s exclusive design patterns and selling them on the black market.

  There was no option. Humiliated, her reputation in tatters, she had to leave New Orleans before Harold did something even more drastic. Like having her murdered.

  Fear knifed into her until she almost doubled over with the pain.

  Harold was not only unprincipled, dishonorable and manipulative. He was evil. How had she not seen it? How blind could a woman be? She had heard whispers about him seducing some of the women who sewed garments in their factory near Toulouse Street. She had dismissed it as scurrilous gossip spread by jealous competitors. Now she believed it was true.

&n
bsp; She stumbled into a small café and slumped at a table. A young woman came up to her and handed over a menu.

  “Just coffee please.” If she ate anything she would be violently ill. Where could she go? Houston maybe? Her family had once lived there for a short time when she was a child. It was the only place she could think of.

  What could she do there? Working in the clothing industry was all she knew. Would Harold’s evil tentacles stretch that far? New York maybe?

  When her coffee arrived the aromatic flavor infused her nostrils. She had always enjoyed sweet black coffee. Her hand shook so much she could barely hold the cup as she sipped.

  “Mail Order Bride.” The words rang inside her head. Marriage. It would mean a name change, a new place to live. She would have her husband’s protection. He would keep her safe from Harold’s evil. Dare she do it?

  A live-in housekeeping position maybe? She could keep house as she had done it for Pa after Mama died when she was thirteen. It was only after her father passed that she had fallen into Harold’s clutches. How she rued the day she started working for him.

  Stop it Clementine Sandrine Trotman. Look forward, not back. Your time in New Orleans is finished. Get out while you can.

  The coffee revived her enough to find Etienne Street and the Vernon Matrimonial Bureau, which was a small narrow shop squashed between a barber and a bookshop. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold.

  A matronly woman sat behind an antique desk. The floor was carpeted, the curtains over the windows were lace yet thick enough to block out people passing by. Tasteful and discrete was her first impression.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, a friend recommended I come here. Um, my betrothed found another woman and I find myself in need of a husband, but not here. I just feel too humiliated.”

  “I understand, my dear. What’s your name?”

  “Clementine Trotman.”

  “I’m Mrs. Vernon. Have you any idea of what kind of man you’re looking for?”