July 2, 1885 (Imogen)

My dearest Elizabeth, 

No doubt you will be surprised to see a letter from me that has been sent from some tiny desert outpost (I do not know which, yet, because it depends upon when I finish writing and when one of our stops will yield a post office that I can reach between the mad rush to gather sustenance or find a reputable place to sleep). 

Before explaining my unprecedented voyage cross-country, however, let me begin, well, at the beginning. You see, this all started a week and a half ago when Grandmother summoned me from my self-imposed exile at Timber Lake to her grand palais in Newport. Forgive me, I mean her cottage. I was less than ecstatic at the summons—at the time, I assumed that it meant she had not given up in despair when I passed my thirtieth birthday last winter, and that she had found some new potential victim to thrust me upon.  

One does not disobey Grandmother, however, so I summarily answered her missive, and two days later warily entered the marble halls of Ebenthwaite (where she invented that name I will never know), seeing none but the usual activity—servants doing their duties, looking harried as always, and a few of my relatives milling about. Interestingly, Aunt Clara was there—Grandmother has never, as I may have mentioned, had a high opinion of Aunt Clara. I greeted the family members but they all directed me to Grandmother, so with some trepidation I climbed the stairs and entered her chambers. 

“It took you long enough to get here, Imogen,” was her greeting, acerbic as usual. She lifted her pale cheek for me to kiss. 

“Forgive me, Grandmother,” I replied, having long since decided that meekness is the best approach with the matriarch of our clan. “I was detained by the weather.” Indeed, we’d had an unusual bout of storms this summer, some perpetual rainstorms and travel had been difficult. 

She waved it away irritably. “I’ve had an interesting communication from the West,” she said immediately, and waved me toward a chair. 

I nodded, not knowing what she meant me to make of this news. 

“It seems that your Uncle Bertie did not die in the War, after all, but ran off to the Western territories and built up a bit of a fortune for himself.” From the way she pursed her lips, I gathered that this fortune may not have been gained by reputable means. 

Oh—I suppose you don’t know who Uncle Bertie is. He’s somewhat legendary in the family. The youngest of the six children, he was always a bit of a headstrong lad, apparently, and when he was fourteen he ran off to join the Army, right at the beginning of the War. He was never heard from again, and was on the lists of “missing, presumed dead.” There has always been a little bit of speculation on what might happen should he return—apparently he and Grandmother frequently butted heads, but he was the apple of Grandpapa’s eye. 

“So we have found Uncle Bertie?” I asked, when it became apparent that she was waiting for a response from me. 

“Found and lost, I’m afraid,” she said, looking displeased. “I have heard from a lawyer in Arizona Territory that his—progeny—is left orphaned and in need of family. Bertie apparently left no word of what was to happen to them in the event of his death. Typical of him.” 

“Ah,” I said, rather stupidly, trying to take it in. Then, “progeny?” 

“The communication was unclear. They seem to assume that we will dispatch someone at once to take the child back here.” She frowned. “And that we shall. I should like you to go at once, with your Aunt Clara.” 

“I?” I said, startled into questioning one of Grandmother’s pronouncements. “With Aunt Clara?” 

“She’s hardly capable of dealing with the details herself,” Grandmother replied, “and while you are of an age where you need minimal supervision,” (This with a glare to remind me that I had failed at the all-important task of finding a husband.) “I hardly think it proper that you would travel into the wild alone.” 

I swallowed. This unlikely situation was already beginning to present itself to my imagination. Aunt Clara as a chaperone—while her age was right, in all reality it would be me supervising her rather than vice-versa. And where was I to travel? 

“I’ve sent William to book your tickets on the next train out of here,” Grandmother said to me, “And your closet here should yield appropriate traveling apparel.” 

My interview was over—Grandmother returned to her letter-writing and I left her apartment with rather more questions than I had entered it. 

“Did she tell you?” Aunt Clara accosted me breathlessly when I was well clear of Grandmother’s rooms. Her round blue eyes grew rounder, and her plump little mouth trembled as though she was on the verge of tears. Aunt Clara is always on the verge of tears, if she is not in them. She married my Uncle Henry while he was on leave during the War, and when he died a month later donned full mourning and hasn’t left her comfortable crape ever since. She couldn’t possibly have known him well enough to enter into lifelong mourning, but I’ve always suspected that the romance of being a war-widow enchants her muzzy little brain. I’m sorry—that was unkind of me. Anyhow, Grandmother insults her at every given opportunity—to her face, often!—and she merely wells up into tears (but she does that if one is gentle with her, as well).  

“Yes,” I replied, trying not to snap at her. Though she is somewhat dim, she means well—in her way. “I hear that you and I are to head West immediately, to pick up a child of long-lost Uncle Bertie. Do we know where in the West we are going?” 

Tears spilled over her cheeks. “I . . . I don’t know,” she said helplessly, pulling out a black-trimmed handkerchief. 

I sighed. “Never mind, Auntie. I’ll talk to William.” William is Grandmother’s butler, and a more capable man you could never find.  

In the midst of packing what sensible travel clothes I could—stout wool in plain dark colors—I managed to get word to William that I needed details. An attorney had contacted Grandmother via telegram, and the situation was rather delicate—apparently there are not many reputable people in this place called Tombstone where the child is now staying, and we needed to proceed to remove this previously unknown member of our family into our care. I suppose that I should be flattered that Grandmother thinks I have enough sense to take care of Aunt Clara as well as whatever child could have resulted from this long-lost uncle of mine. However, all I can see is that it takes my presence out of her sight and out of her mind. 

So we have sped off into the Wild West—and a hot and dusty trip it is proving to be! Between the smoke of the locomotive and the dust of the journey and the heat that seems to increase with every mile we go west, I have that disgusting sticky feeling that one gets with long days of travel. The hotels we have discovered on the way (due to the late-notice arrangements for travel, we were unable to book Pullman cars on the way there, though I have higher hopes for the way back) have been increasingly disreputable. Additionally, the ubiquitous uncouth men leer at both me and Aunt Clara (widow’s weeds and all), whilst spitting into the equally ubiquitous brass spittoons that sprouted everywhere around the time that we crossed the Mississippi. I’ve had to give more than one of them the evil eye in order to discourage their approach. As it is, they smile and doff their hats in an odd mockery of the gentlemen they most certainly are not, and make snide remarks to one another about us. (Or so I would imagine from the snickers and glances.) 

For all that, I’ll have to admit that I’m enjoying the adventure! I have no idea of what lies ahead, and I’ve taken to moving a chair in front of the door at night, in case any of these ruffians gets ideas, but tomorrow I should encounter my hitherto unknown cousin, and take this Western child back to the bosom of our stuffy Eastern family! It’s quite intriguing, all things considered. 

Ah well, the light is growing dim and I should try to sleep for the rest of the journey and our meeting tomorrow. I hope that this Mr. Simms (the lawyer who contacted Grandmother) isn’t quite as hairy and coarse as the bulk of the men who prowl around these towns, but I don’t hold out much hope that it is so. 

So, until later, I am 

Sincerely yours, 

Imogen