Chicago, Illinois – June 14, 1878
B lythe Greenly swiftly exited the main Chicago Post Office that had been built since the great fire and walked toward Lake Park. A breeze stiff enough to riffle the fabric of her clothing blew off the water of Lake Michigan. She clamped her other hand over her straw hat with its brim that sometimes acted as a sail even though it was not overly large. She clutched her reticule next to her body. Inside held her latest letter from the sergeant stationed at Fort Fred Steele in Wyoming.
As a wave of light-headedness struck, Blythe stepped next to a building and leaned against it. She closed her eyes and took measured breaths as she waited for it to pass. I must walk slower. Even though the worst of the nausea that seemed more intense in the morning hours had eased, Blythe realized there had been many changes in her body, even if no one yet mentioned they noticed the changes. She had lost weight over the past two months—small wonder, since she no longer felt as hungry as she used to. Although thinner overall, her bosom had grown fuller. She did her best to hide it all behind a full-length apron she now wore at her job as a maid, especially when the younger Mr. Stapleton was home. She squeezed her eyes shut. I never want Wendell Stapleton, Junior to look at me again.
Blythe pushed off of the wall and resumed her walk at a slower pace toward the park. Once she completed her duties for the afternoon, she had volunteered to collect Mrs. Stapleton’s mail, which gave her the opportunity to pick up her own. Hopefully, nothing would be said if she stopped at the park for a few minutes and read her letter.
Upon finding an out-of-the-way spot of shade under a tree, Blythe sat on the grass and pulled out her letter. She pressed her eyelids shut as she began to open it. Please let him have successfully lined up the laundress job for me. Please let there be tickets and travel money in here. I must be able to get away before I’m showing enough that Mrs. Stapleton turns me out with nothing but my weekly wages and the little bit I have saved. Once she opened the envelope, Blythe’s shoulders drooped and she lowered her head. A letter, but no tickets or money.
Blythe slowly raised the page and turned it toward the light. She read well, but Sgt. Peter McGilvey’s handwriting was such that his letters ran together. She quite often struggled to decipher which of two or three possible choices he intended to pen. Her lips moved as she read and reread before dropping her hands in her lap. She turned her head aside to gaze at the water of Lake Michigan, now blue due to the reflection of the sky.
The sergeant still wanted to marry her. Although the laundress position remained open, the last he checked with his commanding officer, final approval for her had not been granted. He would let her know as soon as he knew. Once she arrived, he would make arrangements with a military chaplain, if there was one in the area at the time. If not, he would meet her in Rawlins, thirteen miles from the fort where the probate judge could marry them. Before then, he would make sure a dwelling on Soap Suds Row—the area where the laundresses worked and lived—was fixed up and ready for her—for them. In an earlier letter, Peter explained that enlisted men must receive permission to marry, which seldom happened. Even non-commissioned officers, like himself, were not entitled to military married housing. The only way they could live with a wife at the fort was if the Army hired her as a laundress, and they lived in her quarters.
Biting her lip, Blythe raised her gaze to the sky. She wished he could be more specific. I wish I had other options besides Sgt. McGilvey.
She had picked up the matrimonial advertisement sheet shortly after the first time Wendell, Jr. cornered her. She shuddered as she recalled that night. She had not wanted any personal relationship with him. I spoke as clearly as I knew how. Why could he have not left me alone? In spite of the pretty words he used to persuade her otherwise, in the end, he forced her. After several days of working through the initial horror of the assault, she knew she needed to leave Chicago. By the way his eyes followed her as she went about her duties cleaning the upstairs bedrooms, she sensed the strong possibility that he would attack her again.
Blythe started by writing to three men. In addition to the sergeant, one owned a farm in Missouri and the other a livery in Montana. She told all three men that she was a recent widow with no children. She was not a widow but knew she needed an explanation for why she was no longer a maiden. At the time, the part about there being no children was the truth. If she ended up expecting a child, society considered a widow in the family way far more acceptable than a single woman who had been raped.
The difficulty arose when she began to suspect she might be with child. She spent the first month and a half hoping she was mistaken. Once she could no longer deny the truth—at least, to herself, she then debated what to tell the men with whom she corresponded.
Unfortunately, the two men other than the sergeant, once they learned she carried a child, backed out. To them, it was one thing to marry a widow; it was another to take on another man’s child.
For that reason, Blythe said nothing to the sergeant. Originally, he had not been her first choice. Now he was her last hope. She closed her eyes and sighed in resignation. If he had sent for her, even a few weeks earlier, he would have had more time to get used to the idea. Now, she could only pray he would not be too angry when she arrived and confessed to him their family would soon expand to three.
Blythe rose to her feet. With both hands stroking her sides from her ribcage to her hips, she smoothed the fabric of her gown. I’ll need to let these seams out within the month. With determined footsteps, she began her return trek to her employers’ home. If Sgt. McGilvey does not send for me soon, and Mrs. Stapleton lets me go, who will take me in? She began to mentally explore her options.