Chapter Five Decision Time
A damp May fog clung to the narrow street as Violet returned from the Milliner’s, her cheeks touched with mist and her cloak hem darkened by the wet cobblestones.
The post was waiting on the hall table, stacked neatly by Mrs. Kellam for the tenants to collect.
Among the envelopes lay one in the same bold, slanted hand she now recognized at once.
She took it upstairs before removing her cloak, her fingers tingling—not from the cold, but from something more unsettled.
The oil lamp hissed faintly as she lit it, showing the letter beneath its warm glow. She broke the seal, unfolded the thick paper, and read.
Thomas McBride had answered exactly what she had asked: the shape of his days, the land, the work, the quiet evenings.
She pictured the horses, strong and sure-footed under a wide sky.
She imagined the herd of cattle moving across sunlit grass.
A porch where the air smelled of earth and not of coal smoke.
And, though his words were plain, there was a steadiness in them—a man who began each day with purpose, who knew what needed doing and did it without fuss.
For a moment, she allowed herself to believe the picture exactly as he painted it.
But the doubts returned, small as pinpricks yet sharp enough to notice. His tone was courteous, even warm in places, but there was a formality to it. No jest, no fondness, no glimpse of who he was beyond his work and his land.
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.