Chapter 1
"Genie, you are dawdling!"
The chiding voice came from the front of the gloomy haberdashery store in Manhattan, New York. It belonged to Warszawa Rasputova, wife of the proprietor, Mr. Henry Rasputov, who wasn't there at the moment.
"I'm coming!"
Eighteen-year-old Genie O'Hara sighed. She stood behind the door in the cloakroom and shrugged into a woolen winter coat, which she already knew wasn't thick enough to stave off the bitter cold of the December night that would meet her in a moment. It had snowed last week and the world had turned to white. The trees were powdered now and the pond frozen. The winter wonderland, illuminated by gas-lit streetlamps, looked pretty and gave a Christmassy feel to all who sat in warm rooms and looked at it through solid window panes. That outlook changed, of course, once you had to stand outside for hours on end to hawk matchboxes to passersby on a busy street, which was exactly what Genie had to do tonight. Again.
She looked at her pale hands and groaned. There were no mittens. Mrs. Rasputov wouldn't give her any as she was convinced that Genie would sell more if she appeared poor and needy. In a few minutes her fingers would be blue. And in half an hour her feet in her worn brown shoes would tingle with numbness.
"What is keeping you?"
Mr. Rasputov was a warmhearted man, something that could not be said of his wife. And it was his wife that Genie had to deal with mostly, because Mr. Rasputov was absent so frequently. Always traveling on business.
"I'm coming," Genie said with a pleading tone.
She quickly slung a mottled headscarf made of felt around her head and tied it into a knot under her chin. At least her head wouldn't freeze off. When your hands and feet were cold, it was important that at least your head was warm.
The matchboxes were already in her coat and made its pockets to bulge. She left the cloakroom and went to the front of the store, where Mrs. Rasputov waited by the door and impatiently tapped her foot. The middle-aged woman frowned her hard-lined face at Genie. She reached out and pulled the girl's golden curls out from under the headscarf until they framed her angelic face.
"There," she said and put her knuckles to her hips. "Now make a sad face."
Genie didn't have to work hard at that. She looked at her hostess with eyes like a whipped pup's. Truth be told, she felt like one, too.
Mrs. Rasputov's mouth split in a big grin that revealed rosy gums. All of her teeth were missing except for one lone eyetooth. The homely woman gave a cackling laugh.
Perfect.
The girl now looked like a poor, bedraggled urchin. In this outfit she was surely going to stir up the compassion that lots of people felt around Christmas. Mrs. Rasputov fully intended to cash in on the sentiment of the season.
"There you go," she said. "Now, be mindful that we all have to pull together. Do not rush home right away just because Jack Frost is nipping at your nose a bit. Lately business has not been as good as it could have been. We are counting every penny these days, and I don't want you to come home without bringing at least a dollar tonight as you have disappointed me lately."
Mrs. Rasputov scowled. Her thin mouth moved. She chewed on her gums and looked at Genie with hard gray eyes.
"The cold will work for you," she said. "A lot of people find their heart when they see you shiver. Then they open their purse to you. And they will love you if your hands are blue. Always remember, pain translates into gain, if you do it right."
Genie sighed.
"No need to sigh at me," Mrs. Rasputov said. "Save that for the rich men that will be looking at you." She pulled the store door open. The bell above it chimed. "Out with you now, and apply yourself."
"Yes ma'am." Genie pulled her head in and stepped through the door, which fell shut behind her. An icy wind blew on her face as she turned left and began to walk.
Soft light from the gas lamps atop their posts lit the busy street. The falling snow muffled the noises of the many children rushing by and that of the carriages, whose drivers wore heavy overcoats against the cold. Some wore woolen caps under their top hats, which gave them a funny aspect. But none of them laughed. They all looked grim like hardened criminals, as if they'd just shot the constable and were now calmly making their getaway.
Genie didn't feel like laughing, either, as she walked past frosted windows behind which families sat gathered around the supper table. She traipsed down the block until she arrived on a busy intersection. Her nose was already red and felt like an icicle when she got there. She snuffled. Her stomach growled and the hollow feeling in it reminded her that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.
She also wouldn't eat unless she brought home at least a dollar tonight. Mrs. Rasputov had been clear about that. In her head she heard her voice that said, "And when you stand below a streetlight, face away from it. Then the shadow from your jawbones accents your hollow cheeks in a nice way. People will love it."
Genie cast a longing glance across the street at the German family that was selling roasted chestnuts from behind their little stand. Just now the mom of the bunch stabbed the heap of chestnuts with a small shuffle and filled the load into a pointy paper bag, which she handed to a customer, a gentleman wearing a bowler hat. The gentleman took the bag, handed over some shiny coins, doffed his hat and marched on.
Genie licked her lips as her mouth began to water. Wouldn't it be wonderful to eat a couple of those chestnuts right now? She could smell them all the way to here. When she closed her eyes, she could feel them in her mouth, taste their nippy aroma on her tongue. The only problem was that they weren't really there.
And they'd never get there, if she didn't start selling some of her own merchandise.
With yet another sigh Genie reached into her coat pocket and retrieved two big blue matchboxes, which she held out and shook while shouting, "Matches, fine quality matches! Matches anyone?"
She kept talking loudly to the mob that flowed up and down the sidewalk around her. But nobody paid any attention to her tonight, even though she looked truly adorable. Tonight, everybody seemed to be in a hurry. And blind. They treated her as if she were air. Usually she sold a pack of matches every five to ten minutes and kept the pennies coming in. Sometimes young men lingered and tried to strike up a conversation with her after buying a pack of matches. Not today.
Only a dog came after half an hour and sniffed on her and didn't want to leave her alone.
"Doggie," she said. "You look thin enough, you poor thing. But I don't have anything to feed you. I don't even have anything to feed myself. Better, you go on now and sniff on somebody else."
The dog seemed to get the message, because it soon ambled away.
The frost from the cobblestones crept through the soles of her shoes and up into her legs. Soon, Genie was jumping from one foot onto the other to stave off the numbness that was overtaking her feet.
She'd probably freeze to death tonight.
She looked down. Her white hands had acquired a ghostly blue tinge, as if she were dead already. She blew on them with the steam that came from her mouth, but that helped only for a moment.
Oh, how she wished to stand over by the German folks, where they had a nice fire going. She heard it crackle. But Genie knew that she wasn't allowed to stand near it. Genie had a willowy figure and the German lady was plump. Thus, the German lady didn't want Genie around her husband, whom she accused of having a roving eye. She might have had something there. Truth be told, if the man would have run his stand by himself, Genie would not have wanted to stand next to him and his fire.
They always said that beauty was a blessing. Well, Genie knew better. Sometimes beauty was a curse. Like when you stood on a Manhattan street in December and were cold and hungry and there were chestnuts and a fire across the street.
But what could she do?
She wasn't welcome over there. Too pretty.
After an hour and no sale she got downright desperate. It was late now. The crowd had thinned out considerably. Even the German family acro
ss the street had closed down its roasted-chestnut stand for the night and had gone home. The fire was now doused for the night.
In another half hour the streets wouldn't be safe anymore.
Genie closed her eyes. Two glistening tears rolled down her cheeks, down her neck, and soaked into her scarf.
What am I going to do, she thought. I can't go home with empty hands. She'll send me right back out. I know her, she'll make me sleep on the street if I don't bring home at least thirty cents.
Please, God...
She reached into her scarf and pulled out a locket that she wore around her neck. It had once belonged to her mother, who had gone on to be with the Lord together with the rest of her family in 1865, that dreadful last year of the war between the states.
Genie's thoughts wandered back to her native Georgia. In her memory it was always warm there, the evening air pulsing with the sound of cicadas. Spanish moss on the trees. The light of fireflies that exploded on the grass at night.
Oh, to be back there again. How she wished to be a firefly right now, with some spark of her own.
Dreamily, she thought of the wind that ruffled the leaves in the high trees. She once was a little girl sitting on a swing, racing over the wide and muddy Chattahoochee River near Cumberland, Georgia, the sun in her face.
Her father had been a horse trader and she remembered sitting on tall mounts. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the solid strength of those horses under her.
She longed to ride again.
She remembered the fine laughter of her mother and how proud she was of her older brother, who had jet-black hair and lots of energy and who looked so fiercely at the world around him. Her childhood had been happy one.
But then tragedy struck. Her life fell apart when one day that dreaded General William Tecumseh Sherman and his bluecoats arrived in Cumberland with their torches. They burned down their nice family mansion just because her father wouldn't surrender his horses voluntarily. They raided the stable. Genie remembered running around, fleeing the flames, coughing from the billowing black smoke that suddenly was everywhere. Then the bluecoats moved on, riding off with pounding hooves.
The next thing she knew, Mr. Leary came, all sad-faced, and took her by the hand. The neighbor's three sons were waiting by the graves. They leaned on the shovels still in their hands and studied her. When their father said a short prayer, they took their hats off and stood in silence. Then they left, making room for Genie to mourn by herself.
She had no idea how long she sat there, by the graves of her mother and father and brother, or how long she lived by herself in the ruins of her house, unwilling to leave even when good Mr. Leary invited her to move in with him and his sons. They lived only three miles down the road and there was food and shelter for her.
But she didn't want to leave the graves of her family.
Then one day, a middle-aged man with a Yankee accent drove up in his buggy, Mr. Rasputov from Manhattan, New York, desiring a little water for his horses. The jolly little man was down in Georgia on business he said when they sat by the table under the old Magnolia tree and ate some of Mr. Leary's ham that he and his sons had brought by the evening before. Genie remembered that Mr. Rasputov's luggage seemed to be made of carpet. Very friendly, he had a way with words.
That day, she was in a peculiar mood. When he told her that the land of opportunity was the North and that the future lay in the East, and that she should come with him to work for him and his wife in the great city of New York in the great state of New York, she consented. She packed her meager belongings, sat down on the buckboard and drove off with him.
Mr. Rasputov was nice enough. He never raised his voice or gave her a harsh word. His wife, Warszawa, on the other hand was a completely different person. Not exactly of a stunning appearance, she immediately perceived Genie, who was young and had angelic looks, a dire threat to what marital bliss she had with Mr. Rasputov and began to torment her.
And she was good at it, too.
The oval locket in Genie's hand had grown warm by now. It was made of shiny brass. Her fingers traced the ornamental engravings on it.
Beside a picture of her mother, the locket also housed Genie's other treasure: an ancient gold coin with the picture of a Roman king on it. It was all the money she possessed in the world and Mrs. Rasputov knew nothing about it. Genie had no idea how much the coin was worth. Didn't matter. She didn't intend to sell it. At least not as long as she wasn't completely destitute.
But even if she would have wanted to buy something to eat with it right now: the shops were all closed. She was pretty much alone in the street. Clutching the locket, she closed her eyes again. Two more tears streaked down her cheeks.
"Well," a male voice said. "What do we have here? Why's the young lady weeping?"
Genie opened her eyes. A round-faced gentleman in a black coat stood in front of her. His eyes showed genuine concern. She quickly slipped the locket back into her scarf and wiped her tears away with the heel of her hand.
"I don't mean to impose myself on you," the gentleman said. "But I couldn't help noticing that something's troubling you."
"You're not intruding, sir." Genie reached into her coat pocket and took out a box of her wares. "Do you care for some matches, sir?" She sniffled briefly and added, "You see, I haven't sold any yet today."
"And you're hungry."
Genie's gaze fell to the ground.
"Give me two boxes of your matches," the gentleman said. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a big black wallet. "Here," he said. "I give you fifty cents for both of them."
Genie's eyes grew wide. "But that's way too much, sir," she said as she took the coins. This would buy food for at least three days.
"Never mind." He made a serious face and looked her in the eyes. "It's late, young lady. You should be rushing home to your family now."
Genie's head dropped again. "I don't have a family," she whispered.
"That's most unfortunate," the gentleman said. After a pause he added, "What happened?"
Usually she wouldn't have answered a question like that. But for some reason tonight was different. Genie felt, the man had an air of trustworthiness about him, as if he were a parson or a doctor or an alderman, so she started to talk to him. First haltingly, but then the words just flowed from her. It was good to talk to somebody tonight, even if that somebody was just a kindly stranger.
The gentleman buried his hands in his warm coat pockets and listened patiently. When her river of words had run its course and he had learned about Genie's life in Georgia, the warmth of the South, and how her family died, and about the harsh life with Mrs. Rasputov and Genie's constant hunger, he rubbed his chin for a while and said, "Well, little Miss O'Hara, I may just have the solution to your plight." He inhaled sharply. "Have you ever considered marriage?"
Genie stared at him with wide eyes. No, she hadn't. There was nobody in her life that she could possibly have given her heart to. Her life consisted of work and not much else. Mrs. Rasputov saw to that.
Besides, what a question?
What was this gentleman getting at?
When he saw her puzzlement, he held his palms out defensively and shook his head. "I didn't mean to upset you. That was not my intent at all. I am not proposing marriage to you here tonight." He chuckled. "I also happen to be already happily married.
"What I meant was something different.
"I happen to know that there are men out West, good men, farmers and ranchers and such, men with some means that are desperately looking for wives, who can't find any. Now, an industrious young lady like you, who loves wide open spaces and is not too keen on city life, why, you're downright predestined to become a prairie bride for one of them." There was enthusiasm in the man's voice. He spoke as if he knew what he was talking about.
"Not to question you, sir," Genie said rather feebly, "but how did you get to know those men out west who are desiring wives?" The idea of becom
ing a prairie bride was new and alien to her. She'd never thought of anything like that.
The man smiled. "Of course. How should you know? You see, my sister was once what they call a mail order bride. Her name is Wilhelmina Bartleby. She married a young rancher in the Kansas Territory, married him sight unseen —"
"Sight unseen?" Genie said. Unbelief swung in her voice.
"Yes! And from what she tells, she was very happy with him."
"Why was?" Genie said.
The man made a somber face. "After becoming a wealthy cattle baron, her husband died."
"From an Indian attack?" Genie asked, imagining that even though this was the year 1869, so far out west the Indians were surely still very much on the warpath.
"No," the man said. "He had an accident."
"I'm sorry," Genie said.
"Well, Mina, as we called her, left the Kansas Territory and came back to here, where she was born and raised, after he died. She's a wealthy widow now and lives in a brownstone down the street. Now, she knows pretty much everybody in Kansas and Missouri. And in Illinois, too. And since her own experience with a man from the West was such a favorable one, she's now an inveterate matchmaker. She runs a mail order bride agency and you really should go and see her." After a pause he added, "What do you have to lose?"
He reached into his coat, rummaged around in its breast pocket and finally retrieved a pencil.
"May I have another one of your matchboxes?" he said.
Genie hastily retrieved one from her pocket and handed it to him.
He turned toward the streetlight so he could see better and began to write on the matchbox. When he was done, he handed it back to her as he put the pencil back in his coat.
"Here," he said. "I wrote down my sister's address for you. As I said, it's not far from here." He reached for the wallet in his pants again and took out a shiny fifty cent piece, which he handed Genie. "I understand of course that you can no longer sell this box of matches that I just scribbled on. So I buy it for you. It's yours now, address, matches and all."
He looked at her hands.
"If you want to, you can light a match right now and warm your hands," he said, only half jokingly.
Genie slid his coin into her pocket and said, "Thank you, sir..."
The man tipped his hat to her and left her without another word.
As she watched him walk away, a thousand questions exploded in Genie's mind. She lifted her hand, poised to call after him, but then didn't. The man walked around the corner and then he was gone.
Genie looked at the matchbox in her hand. She read the address that he had written down for her.
Then she realized that he never even told her his name. She ran after him to the corner. But when she reached it and looked down the street, the street was empty but for a lonely dog sniffing at a lamp post.
Where had he gone?
Had she only dreamed him up?
No. She felt the corners of the matchbox dig into her palm. He'd been real.
Or maybe he was an angel?
Then she remembered that angels don't have sisters and an angel surely wouldn't lie to her about his familial affiliations.
When Genie came home that night, she was in a good mood. She was humming to herself and a smile played around her mouth.
Mrs. Rasputov looked at her suspiciously. An eyebrow went up when Genie produced a whole dollar in coins from her pocket and put it on the table.
Forced to praise her, her hostess mixed some acid in and said, "But don't rest on your laurels now. You still cost more in food and lodging than you bring in every day. It was about time you applied yourself."
What she said wasn't true and Genie discounted it. It was just the usual blah designed to make her feel indebted and thankful for the "largesse" she received at the Rasputovs' hands.
When she still got only an apple, a piece of dry bread and a pitcher of water for supper, Genie decided to visit the window Wilhelmina Bartleby the very next day. Instead of selling matches in the street, she'd go and talk to the lady about becoming a prairie bride.
A prairie bride...
She cast Mrs. Rasputov a sideways glance.
All things considered, she had nothing to lose.
That night, when she lay on the straw sack in her attic room and listened to the wind howl around the gable, Genie imagined herself sitting high on a white horse racing across the prairie. She rode without a saddle, sitting on just a brown blanket like she heard the Indians did. The horse was incredibly fast. She sat doubled-over. Her fingers dug into the horse's mane. Her long hair was flowing in the wind. The earth below her shook from the thumping of the hooves.
She smiled. This was wonderful.
The prairie soon turned into fields of golden wheat that swayed in the wind. When she arrived by a nice white farmhouse with a front yard and a picket fence around it, the horse came to a halt, shivering, panting, lathered with sweat. Genie sat, anxiously waiting for the front door to open. Just when it did and the lanky figure of a prospective husband appeared in the frame, she fell asleep.