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expenses of importing their brides as well as a small fee for my efforts. I’m sure you agree. But you may be wondering how they might regain those funds. There is one last element of my proposal that may convince your most pragmatic of men. The land office is at this time allowing unmarried women to file a claim for the same 160 acres as men, adjoining any parcel of land they choose. In this way, your bachelors could double their holdings at the time of marriage to one of my girls.
Please do think it over, sir, and I will await your response. In the meantime I am
Yours sincerely,
Clara Bixby
     
    “So, ladies,” Clara said. “How long do you think it took him to reply?” She scanned the room as the women glanced at each other, no one bold enough to wager a guess. “How long?” She pointed at a woman in the front row wearing a yellow dress, her inky hair coiled in a snood. “You there—how long do you think it took him to reply?”
    “Two months, ma’am? This town sounds quite remote.” She said this with a little trepidation and looked to her friend for support. The friend shrugged, and the woman in the yellow dress glanced out the sitting room window at the street, as if to confirm that Manhattan was still there and that they were still in it, its teeming population, its noise and food and history offering the security of a place established.
    Clara shook her head. “In fact,” she said, “Mayor Cartwright’s letter took only seven days to reach me. I can only conclude he replied that very day. Since receiving the mayor’s enthusiastic endorsement of my plan, I have received letters from eight men describing the sort of wife they’ve been praying for. And that is why you are here today. If you have the providence to match one of these descriptions, you will begin to correspond with one of the bachelors and, come late spring, travel with me to Destination, Nebraska, where you will begin your new life.”
    A wave of excitement passed through the room, evidenced by the quivering hair arrangements and clasped hands Elsa could see from where she leaned against the wall. The girl in the yellow dress stood and slipped down the side of the room and out the door, leaving an empty chair in the front row. Her friend whimpered and wrung her hands in her lap.
    Clara shrugged. “Anyone else feeling a doubt should take her leave now. This is an opportunity for those who wish to see it that way, but I have no interest in convincing the unwilling. Each of you who leaves makes my job easier.”
    A lone girl in the center of the room stood and called boldly, “Thank you, ma’am,” then worked her way out of the row and closed the door behind her.
    Clara gave the woman a forthright nod of her chin, then motioned to Elsa. “Miss, standing in the shadows, here is a chair for you.” She pointed to the empty seat in the front row. Elsa felt all the eyes in the room turn to her for the second time since the meeting began, and to calm her nerves she picked up the thread of her unending silent conversation with God.
    Lord, what have I done to offend you this evening? Elsa asked. She felt at once his reply, a dry patch spreading in her throat, a cough exploding from her lungs in one short burst. She turned her back on the ladies in the room and put her hands to her mouth in case she should cough again. A moment passed and her throat regained its moisture. All right, Lord, I will listen. Not talk.
    She made her way to the front of the room, where Clara stood patiently, her steady hand still pointing toward the chair. Elsa was suddenly aware of her clothes, the cotton dress, once dove gray, now the color of leaves laid bare after the snow melts. Her hair was wiry in its simple bun and silver around her temples, the colorless strands threading through the yellow blond. Most of all, Elsa was aware of the space she occupied in the narrow aisle between the wall and the last chair in each row. She had to turn her hips slightly to move