Good Girl

Sophie Green was a widow.  But thankfully, no one called her 'Widow Green.'  Thomas had died three years earlier after a sickness that was never identified.  He'd set up a shop that through more work than she'd thought two people capable of, had begun to become successful.  They'd been in business for only a year when he'd taken ill.  As the sickness lingered on, Sophie gradually took on all of the tasks until less than four months later, he had died.  She was twenty-five now.  Thomas had been ten years her senior.  She hadn't minded that a bit as she said her vows.  Some women married for love, some for money.  Sophie had been lucky enough to have both, if only for a short time.  Oh, the adventures they had! 

 As they traveled further and further west people became scarce and Sophie had worried.  She questioned the wisdom of setting up shop in the middle of nowhere.  But Thomas had laughed, a great booming deep laugh.  The farther west the better, he said.  People would continue to push west.  And they would be there with the goods when the people arrived, with little or no competition.  And as they traveled, Sophie noticed the prices go higher.  The plan had been quite a success.  After just a few months they had regular customers and more settlers came all the time.  Some stayed and some didn't but the population continued to grow. 

 Twenty-five was rather young to be a widow; she mused as she swept the shop floor.  The closing tasks were so familiar she did them by rote becoming lost entirely in her thoughts.  A widow, after all should look like a widow.  At least a few small wrinkles, a few gray hairs.  But then, she was not the only woman to lose a husband after just a few happy years. 

Upon completing the usual tasks she adjourned to the small living quarters in the back of the shop and sat down with her book and a cup of tea.  Tea that had now grown cold, as she'd been drinking the same cup for hours.  She opened the door to the store where the stove was still hot and jumped at a knock.

 Cautiously moving the curtain just a bit, she looked out to see a man standing at the door.  She’d never seen him before.  More than likely a new settler in desperate need of something.  She opened the door.

 “Can I help you?”

 “I need to speak with the proprietor.  Sorry for the late hour but I’m just passing through, be gone before you open.  Is he in?”

 Sophie sighed.  She tired of stating the same facts to each new customer.  “He passed away, some time ago.  I now run the shop.  Can I help you?”

 “So sorry.”  He thrust forth a paper.  “Just wanted to put this up in yer window.”

 Sophie took the paper and quickly skimmed it.  Contact information for men interested in marrying good, honest, hard-working, healthy women.  She thoughtfully stared at the paper.  On the one hand, she thought it a terrible thing, this crass merchandising of human life.  On the other hand, it made sense.  There were so few women that she wondered how the population would grow at all, save for the constant stream of men.  If the west was ever to become strong and flourish, women would be needed to make homes and raise families here. 

“Just why would a woman come out here to marry a stranger?”

 “Mainly out of need, ma’m.  Some terrible situations out there and this be a solution for some.”

 “How do you make the match, if I may ask?”

 “Well, usually those of the same age, if that can be arranged.”  She waited for him to continue but in a moment she realized that he had entirely summed up the art of arranging love, or at least marriage, by identifying the year two people happened to be born.

Sophie just stared.  She held her tongue and considered.  “Very well, sir, I will post this in the window.”  She need not offend the stranger who was leaving in a few hours time.  He bid her goodnight as she put the paper on the counter.