Disclaimer: no, I do not own any of these characters, but I'd be very willing to give them a good home.
A/N: this is full of historical inaccuracies, was not researched to within an inch of its life, and is basically a total work of fiction. I have no idea if this is how things happened in Canada - just thought that I ought to point that out - but I am very aware how Brits think.
A/N2: you can blame a flippant remark I made, and cookie-moi, for this one.
A/N3: in case any of you have been wondering where I've been lately, this is the thing that's been preoccupying me when I've had the energy to write.
The Mail Order Bride
.
There was a strange "putt, putt, putt" sound as John Smith stood looking out across the water from the quay of the small trading port, towards a vessel called the Princess Victoria. Rather a grand name for such a small insignificant ferry, he thought as his eyes followed its laboured progress. No doubt it had been named in honour of the young heir to the British throne and would be dated once she became queen.
None of that worried John as he took a well-earned breather from unloading his wares, took off his hat to wipe his brow, and considered how full his pockets would soon be thanks to the trading post and port that transported goods to far flung places around the British Empire. Hopefully the incoming ferry would cause him to become prosperous.
Turning slowly, the Princess Victoria glided ungracefully towards the quay. It was a beautifully sunny day, with the sun glistening off the river water, but the throng of people gathering closer to the dock made him uneasy. It had been quite a while since he had taken the opportunity to leave his remote home and just contemplate the hustle and bustle of the small port.
It seemed weird that once upon a time he would have considered such a thriving place to be a quiet backwater, compared to his hometown of London; but his life had changed a great deal since then. In the meantime he had married. That wasn't the only noteworthy thing he had done. After serving in the army in different parts of the empire, he had emigrated to Canada, learned a new trade, and then sadly been widowed a year later, having lost his wife along with their young children. All of that had seemed to have happened within the blink of an eye. But he thought of them; each and every day.
Never mind. He was alone now and could cope with that. Except for when he needed money, of course; hence his trip into the nearest large port to his home in order to sell the pelts he had collected. No doubt the ferry that was edging closer and closer would later take his goods and enable their reaching parts of the world he would never see. Not now, anyway. At one time his wanderlust had led him to many a foreign field, but he had lost the taste for it once he had landed on this part of the Atlantic coastline.
Shouts rang out as some dockworkers requested ropes to guide the ferry into position, and the passengers could be seen milling about on the deck; eager to disembark. Nothing or no one in particular caught his attention until the bonnet of one woman slipped, revealing a shock of ginger hair that had previously been hidden. John immediately straightened his body to stand taller, bringing his hand out of his overcoat pocket to adjust his worn frock coat and hat as he did so; intrigued by her frantic efforts to gain control of erroneous wisps of hair that thrashed about around her face.
In one gloved hand she held an ancient portmanteau, whilst she used the other hand to prod, tuck, and jab at the errant strands of her hair. She was distracted enough by her task of correcting the position of her bonnet to not concentrate properly on her footing upon the deck, her long skirts swirling dangerously around her ankles, and before he was even aware it was happening, John had surged forward to assist her onto the gangplank. With a flair of gentlemanliness he had thought long gone within himself, he held out a hand to steady her floundering body, and to his delight, she accepted the offer without any hesitation.
"Thank you, kind sir," she politely said in an extremely familiar accent as she stepped off the gangplank and onto solid ground; and he found himself being washed by her beaming graceful smile.
"You're welcome, my lady," he replied, tipping his hat; hoping to gain further favour. But alas she averted her gaze and trained her eyes on the nearby townsfolk instead.
"Could you tell me where the post office can be found, please?" she then politely requested.
He waited until she turned a pleasant smile in his direction before he supplied the information she wanted. "It's over there, third building on the left," he answered.
To his dismay, she absently rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, as though she were getting rid of some grime found there. Then she flashed him another polite smile that reached her clear blue eyes as he felt himself being sucked into their glory.
She, in turn, wondered why this dirt-laden man was looking at her so intently from beneath the wide brim of his hat. His huge brown eyes and bushy beard reminded her of a thin friendly hedgehog as she regarded him up-close. Why was he acting like a drunken slug? It wasn't as though she must have sounded strange to him, because he evidently came from London too. Unless that was the reason for his scrutiny, and he was suffering from a form of homesickness. It was possible, she noted to herself. And there was a pleading quality to his large expressive brown eyes that also spoke of longing of a different kind as he continued to gaze at her. Was he what they called 'a trapper'? He certainly didn't look like a craftsman she had ever seen before, and there was an unfamiliar faint odour that clung to him. "I am grateful for your information," she told him. "Thank you." Giving him another nod, she then picked up a dark brown battered suitcase from a choice of four such items placed nearby on the quayside and stepped towards the building he had pointed out.
Now left alone as she strode away, John silently followed her progress with his eyes; halting only when one of the dock men accidentally bumped into him.
"You going to stand there all day, Doc?" the man asked him.
"No, Jim. I erm…," John stammered, brought out of his wandering thoughts of soft skin and sun-kissed freckles. "I was just…"
The man smiled knowingly and watched him look towards the woman's back. "She's a pretty one; and no ring on her finger. Too good for the likes of you."
John glared at him. Why did these people always presume he was nothing and came from nowhere? "Perhaps I'm too good for her," he proposed.
"Yeah," the man pretended to agree; laughing as he did so. "She wouldn't be interested."
As the man walked away, John very reluctantly conceded that there was some truth in Jim's words despite the temptation to start a mental list of all his good qualities; and then went about his business whilst keeping a careful eye out for any other women to disembark and distract his thoughts.
~o0o~
Picking up the bottom hem of her long skirts, the woman confidently walked passed the small painted wooden sign that proclaimed this trading place to be Galliport, along what must be the high street and stepped up onto the walkway that led into the mail office. From behind the counter within she was greeted by the clerk, who blinked at her with the aid of a pair of squat round spectacles.
"Good morning, madam. How may I be of assistance?" he welcomed her in.
"Good morning, sir," she replied, placing her hands upon the countertop before him as though she wanted to grab his attention. "I believe you may have a message for me. My instructions were to come and ask once I arrived in this port."
"Maybe," he slowly agreed, and moved in front of a drawer, pulling it out to reveal a stack of papers. "What's the name?"
"Miss Noble. Miss Donna Noble," she answered.
His fingers began to expertly shift through the drawer contents. "And who provided your instructions?" he queried as he did so.
"The Harkness Agency," she supplied, lifting her chin up in defiance; daring him to make light of her situation.
"Oh," he drawled, recognising the name and nature of her business. Within seconds he found the necessary envelope. "There you go, Miss Noble. Good luck and have yourself a fine day."
It was with some trepidation that she took the offered envelope from his fingers; pausing momentarily to wave it in front of her face as though it would dissipate some of the heat that collected there. "Thank you, sir." Feeling his interested gaze on her, she turned and opened the envelope; quickly reading the contents.
"Well?" he asked. "Who's the lucky man?"
She had no intention of revealing the contents of the letter, but this man might have the necessary information that would help guide the rest of her life. "I need to find a Mr Smith. Mr John Smith, to be precise."
"What, Doc?" the man gasped out in recognition. "We call him 'the Doctor' round these parts," he then explained.
"So I'd gathered," she tetchily responded. The nervous disposition of the situation was obviously getting to her, she realised, so she tried to rein in any further tart response. Her future would be spent with a man who had a practical-based nickname, but it might exist for other reasons. "Is he a real doctor?"
To her annoyance the clerk laughed. "No, he ain't no real doctor. Merely sounds like one at times and he takes out the odd bad tooth when he comes into town."
"I see," she acknowledged. "I would be grateful, my good man, if you could point me in this Doctor's direction, please?"
"Certainly, ma'am." The clerk then trod purposefully over to the main door and peered out towards the water. "You'll find him standing by the dock."
"By the ferry?" she blurted out in annoyance. "I've just come from there."
"Then you'll be able to find it without any trouble at all," the clerk commented as pleasantly as he could. He then took pity on her standing so forlornly in his store, and added, "Doc is the one in the duster by the quay."
"What's a duster?" she started to ask, but the question remained unasked when she saw her earlier rescuer again. "That man standing there with the face full of hair, is he Mr John Smith?" she sought to confirm, pointing at the man in question.
"Yes ma'am," the clerk confirmed. "Indeed he is. He's a might weird, but friendly enough. Can almost talk your ear off if you're not careful, once he gets going."
"How wizard," she muttered to herself. Straightening her clothing, she garnered all her courage before thanking the clerk once more and stepped out into the street; aiming towards the man she now knew to be John Smith.
~o0o~
Striding now with purpose, Donna noted that he quickly looked up from his task, doing whatever it was he had been doing to something in what looked like a large dinghy-come-canoe. Somehow his lankiness had its own grace as he moved, but it was the intelligent expression in his eyes that caught her attention.
"Excuse me, are you Mr Smith? Mr John Smith, commonly known as 'the Doctor'?" she called out to him as she got closer.
"I am," he warily supplied, resting a foot on the edge of his vessel as though he were about to jump over the side. "Who's asking and why?"
She stopped three paces away and took in a gulp of air for encouragement. It wouldn't pay to be hesitant. Not now, at the final moment. "How do you do, Mr Smith. I'm Miss Noble. You may have been expecting me."
He found the same gloved hand from earlier in the day being offered towards him to shake, so he did so, with great relish. "How do you do, Miss Noble. It is lovely to meet you properly, but why would I be expecting you?"
Her smile faltered slightly. "Because you have hopefully been informed of my impending arrival."
"Er, no," he denied, adding in a scratch to his forehead as his mind hit a blank. "Please explain."
Immediately her heart began to beat faster in dismay. This would not do. Not at all. Her fist scrunched up the information envelope as she forced herself to calmly tell him, "I've been sent by the agency."
Instead of him appearing pleased, he became more confused. "Agency? What agency? I'm sorry, Miss Noble, but I have not contacted an agency. Are you expecting to buy some land from me? Because I have none for sale."
"No, Mr Smith. You do not understand. Land is not my intention," she tightly replied. She then lowered her voice to say, "The arrangement was made by the Harkness Agency."
To her horror, his frown deepened. "It still means nothing to me. I can only think of possible employment, and I assure you that I have no such position to offer you. There has been a great misunderstanding."
"There has indeed," she spat out through gritted teeth, wondering why he was being so dense. "The fact of the matter is, Mr Smith that I have been sent to become your wife."
"What?! Wife?!" he cried out in shock; and leapt onto the quayside. "No, no, no, no! Why do you think I sent for a wife?" he demanded. His hands reached out towards her, imploring her to offer a logical explanation.
Hesitantly, she held out the piece of paper that had been tightly grasped within her hand, reluctant to relinquish the tatty note despite John's attempts to retrieve it from her grip. Once she lost it to him, after a small tussle, Donna lowered her head in disgrace. This was not what she had wanted to happen; far from it.
"Wife!" John exclaimed again, having read the letter of introduction. "I've no idea who this Mr Harkness is or why he has arranged for you to come here. Why would I want a wife?" he loudly pondered.
This was shaming. "To erm…" Donna cleared her throat in a vain attempt to regain some moisture in her suddenly dry mouth. "To look after you. Every man needs that," she reasoned. "It's not every woman that needs a husband, beyond the social disgrace of not having one, of course, because I had been employed for many years."
He scowled at her. "How can I provide you with any possible social standing you would want? My finances are extremely limited."
Oh! He wanted to play dirty, did he? Well Donna Noble was not going to let THAT happen, not now, not ever. It was bad enough being practically sold off by her family into this arranged marriage, but for him to leave her now possibly destitute was a step too far.
"Now look here, my good man," she commanded, thrusting an irate digit in his direction. "I have just travelled half way across the world to become your wife. If you reject me, then I am left with nothing. No money to return home and no money to pay back The Harkness Matrimonial Agency the funds already spent by my family on built up debts. The only way I could survive here without you is by selling myself; thus making my body available to more men than just you. But that ain't going to happen; yet apparently you're fine with that, so I'll just sit here and quietly wait to starve to death." Donna then plonked her bottom down onto her upturned suitcase and pinned him with a dark look. "Good day, Mr Smith. It's been lovely knowing you."
"Hang on a tick!" he protested, holding up his hands to halt her stern words. "I am the injured party here; not you. Some unknown fool has paid for you to come here, without my permission or consent, and I will not comply."
She pointed to the crumpled paper now squashed within his fist. "So you're okay with them being paid for doing nothing and for me to die on this spot. Well thanks a bundle, mate! I hope you sleep really soundly in your bed tonight; assuming of course that unjust men sleep. May you and your pillow be very happy together, alone out in the woods, or wherever it is that you hole up."
Her words stung him, but he was not to be so easily persuaded. "Fine!" he spat. "I'm better off on my own anyway."
"I'm sure you are," she agreed. "Especially when you fall ill, are tired or hungry. And those clothes on your back just wash themselves."
"Clothes?" He looked pathetically down at himself and fingered the grimy material of first the collar of his shirt and then his jacket. It had been a long time since he had looked after himself properly, let alone shared a meal with any decent company in his home. Suddenly the thought of having someone provide all that and more for him was very appealing. "What else can you do?" he risked asking.
Now knowing she might be winning him round, Donna pointed towards her suitcase. "I've got a canister of tea on me, if you're interested. The ship's crew said tea was scare here, so I've been carrying it with me ever since before I arrived in this country, just in case."
John's face lit up with delight. "Perhaps I've been a little hasty…"
~o0o~