Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) by Debra Holland Page A

of a bedroom. “Are you hungry, Miss Dickinson? I could bring you something to eat.”
    “No, thank you. My stomach’s too nervous for me to eat a bite.”
    “I remember the feeling,” Mrs. Flanigan murmured. The small room held only a four-poster bed, washstand and chest of drawers, with clothing hanging on pegs along the wall. A bouquet of white roses and chrysanthemums in a glass Mason jar on the washstand sat next to a pitcher and ewer. A matching satin ribbon tied the stems together. The sweet fragrance of roses wafted their way.
    Mrs. Norton picked up the pitcher. “I’ll be right back with hot water. I put some on to boil as soon as I heard the train whistle.” She left the room.
    Mrs. Flanigan reached up to pull two long pins, with fat crystal beads on the end, from her blue hat, and lifted it off to toss on the bed. She dropped the hatpins there as well. With a sigh, she massaged two places on her scalp. “Thank goodness. They were jabbing me so.”
    Without the hat, Grace could see Mrs. Flanigan’s blonde hair had a reddish tint. She took off her own hat, wishing she could discard her corset as well. Her practical black one also had ribbons attached under the brim that she could use to tie if a breeze kicked up. But for her journey, she’d tucked them up underneath the crown. She’d chosen hatpins instead because, if need be, she could use them to defend herself against unwanted attentions,
    Mrs. Norton returned with the pitcher of hot water and placed it on the washstand. She gestured toward the bouquet. “Mrs. Flanigan made this for you and dropped it off earlier. So pretty, wouldn’t you agree?”
    Grace couldn’t believe how these ladies had welcomed her, and she hoped they’d become friends.
    “White roses—the bride’s flower,” Mrs. Norton said with a lilt in her voice. “For unity, purity, and a love stronger than death.” She touched the edge of a blossom. “And, in addition, you have chrysanthemums for fidelity, optimism, joy, and long life, with the color white standing for truth and loyal love.”
    As if caught in a spell, Grace stared at the flowers, a lump forming in her throat, the words echoing in her mind…. Joy, truth, fidelity, a love stronger than death.
    Mrs. Flanigan chuckled. “Mrs. Norton, you make the bouquet sound so poetic. I’m afraid I can’t take credit for such a romantic arrangement. I chose the only white flowers still blooming in my garden.”
    Such a thoughtful gesture of friendship. Grace swallowed enough to speak. “They’re beautiful. I shall press some between the pages of a book…in fact, I’ll use Emily’s poetry to preserve them.” Will there come a time when I’ll feel truly sentimental about having wed Mr. Frey Foster?
    Mrs. Flanigan nodded in apparent approval. “I did the same with a few roses from my bouquet.”
    Grace opened her portmanteau and lifted the smooth cedar box onto the bed. She removed the cover to reveal the heirloom bridal gown. She took out the bodice and laid it on the bed, straightening the lace at the square neckline.
    Mrs. Norton touched a reverent finger to the skirt, which Grace had left in the box.
    To think I was so happy when I altered that skirt.
    Mrs. Flanigan leaned over the bed for a closer look. “Miss Dickinson, this is so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it old?”
    “Very. Dates back to colonial times. All the brides in my family have worn this and have experienced happy marriages. I know white or cream is the preferred style for bridal gowns, but I couldn’t bear to wear anything but this.” Even if I’m marrying a man I don’t love.
    Mrs. Norton shook her head. “Of course you wouldn’t want any other dress.”
    Mrs. Flanigan held up the bodice to Grace’s chest. “And the color will become you better than white or cream.”
    Mrs. Norton glanced at Mrs. Flanigan, a happy smile crinkling the wrinkles on her face. “And to continue a time-honored tradition for my mail-order