kate | chapter 1 The first time I saw Tom was down by the bay. I was taking my evening walk and he kept cat calling me and looking me up and down, a typical thing for a man to do. Because I am rather pretty. Growing up in London, my mother made sure I was the prettiest on the block. And I was. That first time I saw Tom, I wore my red dress and a corset. I always wear a corset! And that is one of the things the ladies down in the city gossip about me for. And the fact that I go on dates with many men but I don’t stick to any of them. But so what? It’s 1884; I’m allowed to have fun! What my parents real want is for me to get married and start a family and be a housewife. I’m still waiting for Tom, while Father writes to tell me how many suitors I gained in a month back home in London. Hint, it’s a lot. I live by myself on the prairie, living off of romance novels and my tea Mother ships from London. Sure, I miss England, but I have much more freedom here in America. Mother and Father would be ashamed that I am waiting for a blacksmith to come home with me and spend the rest of his life with me. They don’t approve of him at all! Well, I haven’t yet told them about Tom Wilson…but. I imagine their reaction would be horrid! As I pour myself some tea in the parlor, there is a knock of the door. I gently set down the tea kettle and walk over to open the door. Standing there is Tom, looking ruggedly handsome as usual. “Hide me,” he says with wide eyes. “I’m sorry?” I say. “Hide me,” Tom repeats. “From what?” As I ask, Tom rushes in and hides behind my ugly green couch. I shut the door, and soon there is another knock. “Mother? Father?” I stare at my parents in the doorway, shocked. “What are you doing here?” “We’ve come to visit, sweetheart. You just worry us too much being eighteen and alone,” Mother kisses my cheeks. “I mean, what if you fell in love with a poor blacksmith? Ha!” I chuckle nervously, glancing behind me at the couch. “So, Father, how have you been?” “I’ve been alright, Katherine. Lovely of you to ask. Have you gotten my letters of your suitor count for this month yet?” “No, Father,” I sigh. “Well, have you any here?” Mother asks, sitting down in my ugly green chair. “I often get catcalled—” “Ha! I told you, James! I told you making her beautiful would work out in America, too! Oh, sorry, sweetheart. Continue.” “Well, I often get catcalled and I go on many dates, but none of the men seem to stick. I’ve even gone on dates with other women's’ husbands because they find me so attractive!” “Probably the corset,” Father smiles at Mother, his way of thanking her. Mother ignores him. Instead, she’s looking towards the couch. “Do you hear that? That…that shuffling noise behind the couch?” “Uh, no.” I say. Mother gets up and slowly walks toward the couch. Uh-oh.
