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Ualraig
Hannah couldn’t help being struck, at first, how quickly her local postal service was able to deliver these epistles, both to him and to her. Had sending the mail c/o her newspaper something to do with the speed? Given his diction and fluent, fluid style of writing, she had assumed that Ualraig resided somewhere far distant, in some metropolitan city such as Chicago or New York.
Was it possible her would-be suitor lived in a nearby town, a nearby state, with access himself to the convenience of a post office box? Dallas, perhaps. Or just over the border into the Town of Shreveport, Louisiana?
Quickly following upon that thought came another.
Because here was a surprise. Its tone entirely different from his earlier, breezy bits of communication, this letter sounded almost angry. Snappish. How dare she consider altering plans, when he had already (apparently) made his?
Hannah considered that. Surely, at this date, she retained the right to change her mind. Should she take offense at his high-handedness? That in itself was enough to call off the whole shebang, wasn’t it? If this were his attitude pre-matrimony, what would he be like, this overbearing Ualraig, when she had spoken her vows to obey? Or should she feel flattered that he was so determined upon fulfillment of their (as yet unsigned) marital contract?
“Oh, Mimi, I am so torn. So confused,” she confessed to the cat sprawled in utter heaven across the afghan on her knees. “Now I regret even setting these wheels in motion, because I don’t know what to do. Any suggestions?”
Sleepily blinking her great gold eyes, Mimi yawned and stretched out a front paw edged in nails sharp as scimitar blades. No, she had no suggestion. Other than to take a nap.
Her caretaker let out a helpless snort of laughter. “Some advisor you are. Yes, I agree, sleeping on a problem is sometimes the best answer. Except...”
Except that her night would be spent in restless back-and-forths, and poor—if any—sleep, until she had responded to this most recent post.
1871 February 10
Dear Mr. Ualraig,
It is to be hoped that you receive this letter before you set off on your journey to
Turnabout, as you may want to consider making a different decision about our
proposed marriage. Just as I am. I should hate for you to travel so far only to have
your plans go awry at the end. A postponement certainly seems in order. In fact, the
more I learn about you through correspondence, the more I lean toward cancellation entirely. I must thank you for your dedication and wish you all the best for the future.
With appreciation,
Hannah Burton
There. It was done. With a little shiver, she addressed her letter and set it aside for the morrow’s jaunt to the post office. At least, after this final notification, she wouldn’t have to endure the clerk’s usual knowing smirk every time she entered the place and asked for stamps.
Would she ever try this experiment again? Who could say? Once burned, twice shy. And she knew only that she had felt increasingly uncomfortable throughout the duration of her long-distance affair with the elusive Mr. Ualraig. Flushed with fever or blue with chills, headaches, nervousness, innards often in a roil: what was the point of going on? Had her sisters felt similar symptoms during their mail order courtships? Or had they been emotionally able to combat and surmount any sense of inadequacy or anxiety?
No matter. Having put the issue to rest, so could she rest, as well. Somewhat.
Three days later, a telegram was delivered to the newspaper office, only because Hannah happened to be there at the time. The name listed on the message showed to be hers.
“Well, you gonna open it?” demanded Oliver Crane. He had just straightened from stuffing a few more handfuls of kindling into the stove, and was now exhibiting unusual interest in an event from which he should have been excluded.
“Uh. Yes.” The pulpy yellow paper lay on her desk, waiting for attention, like a cobra poised to strike. “When I’m ready.”
Oliver shrugged. “Makes no never-mind to me, Miss Burton. But, you understand, it could be somethin’ important.”
Oh, she’d guess it was probably quite important. And she could also guess from whom it had been sent. This could only be bad news being conveyed, and she dreaded having to read it. Hannah was able to contain her own curiosity until noon, when Mr. Crane, surrendering, left for the usual two-hour dinner, with his newspaperman’s nosiness unappeased.
Even then, she hesitated, prolonging a moment she felt reluctant to broach.
Finally, with trembling fingers, she unfolded the missive.
Do nothing. Go nowhere. On my way.
