Page 7 of Mail-Order Viscountess

Mr. Harwell shifted, and his wife stirred but didn’t wake. He’d proven himself a decent traveling companion despite his obvious wealth—quiet, unassuming, and patient with his wife’s enthusiasm for every landmark they passed. He caught Kate’s eye now and offered a small, friendly nod.

Kate returned the gesture and looked back out the window. The buildings grew denser as the stage rolled deeper into Butte. More substantial too—brick and stone replacing the rough lumber of the outskirts. Signs advertised everything from mining equipment to French millinery, though she doubted the millinery was actually French.

Still. The variety meant opportunity. The wealth pouring out of these mountains had to go somewhere.

Her hand moved to the pocket where she’d tucked Audrey Hartwell’s calling card, just to confirm its presence. The cardstock was thick and expensive beneath her fingertips. Real. Not a dream conjured by exhaustion and desperation.

She had a commission. A real one, from a woman who could afford to pay well and whose recommendation could open doors throughout Butte’s social circles. The kind of opportunity she’d hardly dared imagine when they’d left South Carolina. The kind of opportunity her stepmother had made clear was never meant for women like her.

Lord willing, Clara would be well settled with her new husband—a God-fearing rancher, if he turned out to be as he advertised. And Kate could live in Walnut Springs and build her own business as a seamstress. She’d only need to travel to Butte once a month or so for fittings and deliveries and such. She could manage that.

The stage lurched again, and her stomach protested. When had she last eaten? That morning’s dried beef and biscuits, probably. Her mouth tasted like dust and something foul.

“I hope we’ll have time to stop at the hotel first.” Clara’s voice sounded bright despite the exhaustion that showed in the shadows beneath her eyes. “We could freshen up. And maybe take a bath?”

Washing sounded like heaven. Kate’s skin itched beneath layers of travel grime, and her hair stiffened with dust. How many days since she’d been properly clean? She’d lost count somewhere between when they’d been forced off the wrecked steamboat on the barren prairie and here.

But would Mr. Balfour be waiting for the stage? The last wire she’d been able to send had been from Fort Benton, eleven long days ago. She’d communicated the schedule the stage line posted, which had her and Clara arriving yesterday. Had he come to meet the stage then? Was he disappointed when the rickety contraption never rolled into town?

When she sent him their arrival date, she’d not realized how challenging this last stretch of the journey would be—and how much better she and her sister would feel after a few minutes’ respite before meeting the man Clara would marry.

The stage slowed, and buildings pressed closer on either side. Men crowded the wooden sidewalks—miners mostly, from the look of them. Rough clothing and thickly bearded faces. A few glanced at the stage as it passed, but most ignored it.

Just another stage. Just another day in Butte.

Except it wasn’t just another day for her and Clara. This was a new beginning for them both.

The stage rolled to a stop, and the driver’s voice carried from above. “Butte! End of the line!”

Mrs. Hartwell stirred, blinking awake with the grace of someone who’d merely been resting her eyes rather than sleeping through the last hour of travel. “Oh, are we here already?”

Her husband smiled and patted her hand. “Indeed we are, my dear.”

The driver appeared at the door, yanking it open with a force that sent cold air rushing into the cramped interior. Kate’s lungs seized at the shock of it—sharp and clean after hours of breathing stale air thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and leather.

“Watch your step, ladies.” The driver offered his hand, his lined face creasing into something that might have been meant as a smile. “Ground’s a bit icy.”

Clara went first, gathering her skirts with the natural grace she’d somehow maintained despite these three months of torture. Kate followed, accepting the driver’s callused hand and stepping down onto⁠—

Her boot hit the frozen ground, and her foot nearly went out from under her. She caught herself on the stage’s doorframe, her fingers screaming protest at the sudden grip. Every joint in her body felt rusted shut.

“Steady there.” The driver’s hand gripped her elbow. She would have shaken him off but didn’t trust her legs yet.

The street stretched before her, wider than she’d expected. Buildings rose on either side, most two stories tall with painted signs advertising wares she couldn’t quite make out through the film of exhaustion coating her vision. Men moved along the wooden sidewalks, their voices a low rumble beneath the sharper sounds of hammering somewhere in the distance and the creak of wagon wheels.

So many people. After weeks of empty prairie, the sheer mass of it all made her head spin.

“Kate?” Clara touched her arm, concern flicking across her face. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” The word came out too sharp. She worked for a smile. “Just finding my legs.”

The Hartwells had already descended, Mr. Hartwell directing a porter about their luggage, clearly a man accustomed to being obeyed.

Mrs. Hartwell turned back to them, her face bright despite the journey. “Katherine. Now, you have my card, yes? You must come call on me once you’re settled. We’ll discuss the designs for the winter gowns, and I can introduce you to some friends who are simply dying for a skilled dressmaker.”

“Of course.” Kate forced another smile through her stiff face. “Thank you again, Mrs. Hartwell. For everything.”

“Audrey, please.” The woman squeezed Kate’s hand, and the gesture felt genuine. “I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.”