Would he be kind? Was fairness the same as kindness?
And what if she arrived only to find herself a stranger in a place that would not bend to meet her halfway?
?
That evening, she took her tea alone by the window, watching the last light fade over rooftops still wet from an afternoon shower. Boston in spring had its own beauty—lilacs spilling fragrance into the streets, new leaves trembling in the lamplight, the harbor fog drifting over the Common—but it was a beauty she had known all her life. It no longer stirred her in the same way.
The thought of Texas, raw and sun-washed, made her chest tighten with something she could not name.
Perhaps it was freedom.
Perhaps it was foolishness.
Perhaps both.
She slept little that night. By morning, her mind had reached its conclusion, not from certainty, but from the weariness of turning the same questions over and over. She would go.
She told herself she was young enough to start anew, strong enough to work, sensible enough to make the best of what she found. And somewhere deep beneath all that reasoning was a quieter thought:Perhaps this man, this place, will hold the answer to who I am.
At her desk, she began her reply.
Mr. McBride,
I have read your letter with interest and believe I can picture the life you have described. I am prepared to accept your offer, trusting in your word and in my own ability to adapt to the demands of the country. If it is still your wish, I will make arrangements to leave Boston as soon as passage can be secured.
Respectfully,
Violet Carter
She signed it, sanded the ink, and sealed the envelope before she could change her mind. The paper felt heavier than it should as she carried it downstairs to leave for the post.
?
That evening, she told Mrs. Kellam everything over supper.
“My word, Texas,” the older woman said, shaking her head. “It’s a long road, Violet. But you’ve always had more gumption than the rest of the girls I’ve seen pass through here. Just be sure you write me once you’re there, so I know you’ve arrived safe.”
“I will,” Violet promised.
?
A month later, as she packed her few dresses into a trunk that still smelled faintly of lavender from her mother’s linen cupboard, she felt that mingled pull of excitement and apprehension. She touched the birthmark behind her ear once more, as if it might guide her.
Three or four weeks from now, the streets of Boston would be far behind her, and a man she had never met would be waiting.
For better or worse, her life was about to change.
Chapter Six: Across the Long Miles
The morning Violet left Boston, the city lay bright beneath a soft haze, the harbor bells carrying clear across the water. Her trunk had been strapped onto the hackney carriage before the sun fully cleared the rooftops, and Mrs. Kellam pressed a small paper parcel into her hands at the station—biscuits and candied ginger for the road.
“You keep your wits about you,” the older woman said, fussing at the ribbon on Violet’s bonnet. “And write as soon as you can.”
Violet promised she would, though she knew her letter home would take weeks to arrive. The thought made her swallow hard. This was not just a change of address; it was a change of world.
?
The first leg took her by train, iron wheels clattering over the rails, smoke drifting past the windows in great black plumes. In the press of passengers—farmers in rough coats, ladies in traveling bonnets, soldiers in uniform—she kept her gloved hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed on the changing scenery. Boston’s brick faded to farmland, and then farmland to woods, the trees heavy with new green and the fields bright with early summer growth.
