The Woman before you is perhaps twenty years of age. She stands a petite five feet four inches tall and weighs approximately one hundred and ten pounds. Although diminutive in stature she is possessed of a woman's curves. Where a tin type photograph might lead one to assume an air of fragility, in life there is an energy about her that belies such a misconception.
She is a pretty young woman. A pale peaches and cream complexion, her face surrounded by a raven's wing of blue-black hair that, when left unpinned, falls rich and thick to her mid back. Her dark and expressive eyes are her most compelling feature, holding a guarded sadness. Her lips often quirk into a sad half smile. Her hands are long fingered and strong looking, clever hands capable of fine and detailed work.
Today she wears a floor length, full skirted, long sleeved, apron fronted dress with a high pleated collar. The fabric is good quality and is a deep burgundy color. The button up bodice of the dress is form fitting and narrow waisted. It is trimmed in two panels of black lace over the burgundy fabric of the dress. The black lace appliqué continues on the apron front and at the sleeves down to their cuffs. The skirt is full and its train covers the bustle.
Her voice is sweet, musical, and her accent clearly marks her as an Englishwoman.
We all have pasts; all have things we're not proud of in them. I more than
most I fear. My past will see me hanged one day.......But I get a head of my
story and why I've come to Maddock... in Montana...in America......so far from
my beloved home......
I was born in Barrow-In-Furnace, in England in May of the year of our Lord
eighteen hundred and fifty eight. I recall my early years as happy, growing up
in the bosom of my family, which consisted of my Mother and my Father, although
my recollections of my Mother are vague. She died when I was six, you see,
attempting to give my Father another child. Neither she nor the child survived.
After that it was just me and my father.
I should tell you something of my Father and of his family. He, his Father, his
Father's Father and back for five generations had been gunsmiths. They were well
known and well respected in the north of England for the quality of the weapons
they made. They were craftsmen of the first caliber and did what they did out of
a love of their craft. They never sought to mass produce, never sought wealth.
My father and I lived above the family business in a middle-class mercantile
area on the outskirts of Barrow-In-Furnace. On the outskirts, while I was
growing up at least. As the city became an industrial center it grew up around
our neighborhood and enveloped it. Many of the merchants that had long held
businesses there were slowly forced out by the change in their custom. Working
class people often didn't have the kind of money for the luxuries the shops made
their profits from. Father's shop was not as dependent on local trade as the
other local businesses. Most of the work he did was custom and his customers
were willing to travel to do business with him.
Father never remarried. Never even looked at another woman after Mother's death,
so we were the center of each other's worlds. Being of the Middle Class Father
saw to me getting an education. After school I would work with him in the smithy
and he taught me as he might have taught a son. I learned everything five
generations had learned about gunsmithing. I can take raw iron and wood, and
after hours of careful fashioning, create the finest rifle or shotgun or pistol,
all decorated with beautiful engraving. I worked at my father's side once I left
school at fourteen and became quite proficient in the design of firearms as well
as their construction. Also, as any gunsmith that is worth their salt, I also
became a decent shot with both pistol and rifle.
As an aside to my story I feel I must mention my.....well, obsession if you
will. One day an American came into the shop. He was seeking a good English
rifle for his collection. We had what he desired, but he was short a few pounds.
During the negotiations he showed Father a vest pocket pistol. One of the
constructions of Mr. Derringer. I was immediately fascinated that pistol could
be made so small. Father saw my interest. He suggested that he and the gentleman
go to the local tavern for an ale as they finish their negotiations on the
rifle. They came back and Father gave him the gun and he went away happy. That
evening Father gave me the Derringer as a gift. He'd negotiated it in place of
the few pounds the man was short. He said it was for me to study and work from,
to see if I could make something so fine and compact. I've been designing and
building pocket pistols ever since.
Things were well for a few years, but business became more and more scarce. By
the time I was sixteen Father had taken to drink and the shop was struggling to
make ends meet. That's when Mr. McGregor came into our lives. Mr. McGregor was a
wealthy stock broker who collected guns as a hobby. He convinced Father to
invest in a publicly held company. Promised huge returns on the investment.
Enough to pay our debts and keep the shop running for many years. Father
invested everything we had in Mr. McGregor's stock market deal all of it on
margin. Beyond that he acted as Mr. McGregor's agent in getting others to invest
heavily. The deal turned out to be a swindle. We lost everything. Father was
ruined.
There was litigation, court dates, demands for payment. Mr. McGregor, it seems,
was well connected and untouchable. Publicly he had no connection with the
venture. He made it clear to me, that should I be willing to warm his bed, he
would see what he could do to help my Father. In an attempt to save my Father I
acquiesced and became Mr. McGregor's doxie. After I had given him what is most
precious, and soiled myself beyond redemption, I discovered that in this too
McGregor had lied. All the help my Father got from him was in being thrown to
the wolves when the Scandal came out. The night before the authorities would
come to put us out of our home. Father got drunk and put a shotgun into his
mouth and pulled the trigger.....
Homeless and penniless on my eighteenth birthday, I took the few possessions
that were left to me, mostly the tools and guns Father and I had made from the
shop and left the only home I'd ever known. Knowing that no gunsmith would hire
a woman and having no prospects, save the sad life of working the streets as a
common prostitute, I embarked on a dangerous course. I went back to Mr. McGregor
and continued to be his mistress. He moved me into a private residence that he
kept for such assignations. There I surrendered myself to his lusts, did what
ever was asked of me.
You see, I knew that an honorable business man, even a crooked one like McGregor
would be discreet about his liaisons with a Mistress. Although other men would
know he likely kept one, it would be social ruin for him for such to become
public gossip. It took almost half a year of prostituting myself to him before
he showed me what I wanted to see. He took me to his study and there he opened a
safe and showed me a small fortune in gold sovereigns. All the money from the
stock swindle that ruined and then killed my Father. It was what I'd been
waiting for. I drew the Derringer from the small purse I carried and informed
him it was my intention to take back what he's stolen from my Father. He
attacked me and I shot him.... twice. It was not my plan to kill him, only to
take back what was mine. But the courts would take little notice of what my
intentions were. He was dead and I would hang. I took the sovereigns, and my
Father's tools and Guns and I left. Traveling by train I went to Liverpool, and
from there booked passage on the first ship to America.
A turning point in my life came while I was aboard the ship. A decision about
what road to follow. There was an American rancher on the ship. He was bringing
some prize English stock back to breed into his cattle herds in the Oklahoma
Territory. During the journey he spoke at length of the differences between the
civilized East and the frontier. Entertained us with stories and anecdotes.
Somewhere during the trip the idea gelled in my mind that the west would allow a
woman with skill to stretch herself, where she would be constricted by the
social conventions of the proper role of man and woman in the civilized East.
That the harsh conditions in the West might allow a woman alone to establish a
business and operate it successfully. As soon as the ship docked in New York I
converted the gold sovereigns into American dollars and Letters of Credit and
started making my way westward.
It has been a year since the night I killed Mr. McGregor. I have traveled
extensively and I have, I believe, at last come home. Yesterday I arrived in
Maddock, Montana. A sizable outpost of civilization on the frontier. This place
has a significant population and one part time gunsmith that also functions as
the town's Mayor. I have the capital necessary to build a workshop and store
front and support myself while I build a clientele. Perhaps the time has come to
rebuild the family legend and make Balcombe guns known for their quality in
America.