Mail Order Bride- Summer

by Sierra Rose

  When, after a bit, Letitia had turned, about to leave and try this another time, the inner door opened to reveal an anxious young woman, holding the hand of a wet-faced little boy. Clearly he had needed a physician’s services: his bare right knee was wrapped around and around with a heavy gauze bandage, and he was limping.

  “That should heal up right fine, Martha,” Dr. Gabriel Havers, trailing along behind, told her in a hearty tone. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you, Billy, sewin’ up that nasty ole cut. But look at it this way, you won’t be takin’ a bath for at least a week.”

  “And you want to see him again in a few days?”

  “Yeah, sure do; I wanna double-check that everything’s doin’ as it should. Okay, Bill? You were mighty brave, young man, and your maw and me are proud of you. You just keep that wound covered and dry, now, hear?”

  Tears still brimming, the boy, who couldn’t have been more than four years old, nodded, sniffled, and glanced up at his mother for reassurance.

  Just then the doctor spied his visitor. “Well, Miss Burton, hello. Have you met my patient here?” Smiling, he introduced one to the other. Mrs. Martha Thompson; Miss Letitia Burton; Master William Thompson. “Billy has learned a great lesson in life, Miss Burton. Mere flesh and blood can never stand up to broken glass.”

  “I appreciate you doin’ this, Doctor. Billy, what do you say for the horehound candy this nice man gave to you?”

  The child looked dubious about the “nice man” part, but he managed to mumble a thank you, regardless.

  Once the pair had said their helloes and goodbyes and departed, Gabriel shifted with his usual affable expression. “That little nipper escaped punishment by the skin of his teeth. Broke his mother’s favorite vase and then tried to hide the evidence. If he hadn’t been bleedin’ like a stuck pig, I reckon his bottom woulda been blistered.”

  “Perhaps it still might be,” suggested Letitia, “once the cut is healed?”

  “Oh, maybe. But Martha will take one look at the scar on his knee and save up money to buy another doodad. Well, Miss Burton.” Hand extended, the doctor ushered her into his office. It was a relatively orderly room, containing diplomas on the wall and a shelf full of books and an extra chair for the visitor’s comfort. “What sorta problem have you got for me today?”

  “No problem, actually. I was hoping to—” she paused, blushing, as she seated herself and settled her fluffy skirts, “—I was hoping that I might possibly solve one of yours.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Curious, he leaned back, lacing both hands across his middle. “Howzzat?”

  Having hung the handle of her parasol over the chair arm, she laid her pretty embroidered bag across one knee where her fingers could smooth the decorative design, as if for support. “Um. Well. I was wondering whether you might need—um—someone to help out.”

  “Help out. You mean, wash the windows and scrub the floors?”

  A look of horror crossed her face. “Manual labor?”

  “Ahuh. What were you thinkin’ of?”

  “Well—um—perhaps...here...in the office?”

  “And just how would you do that?” He sighed. “C’mon, Miss Burton, spit it out. It’s almost the noon hour, and I take my meal times very seriously.”

  Her hard swallow was not quite audible. The lout! Just as discourteous and uncouth as Hannah had claimed! “Keeping records, helping with patients, that sort of thing?”

  “I pretty much do that on my own. Not much need for somebody else around.”

  Irritated, Letitia drew herself up to her full height and glared at him. “Dr. Havers, I need employment. I need a salary. What about as a nurse, to assist you with your patients?”

  Rumbling something that might have been laughter, Gabriel too pulled his lanky form straight and brushed back the rough auburn hair sadly in need of a trim. “Whatddya think, girl, that I’m independently wealthy? Not too often we get somebody havin’ to seek medical care; this place can barely support one sawbones, let alone somebody strivin’ to attain that exalted position. And as for nursin’ care, have you been trained for the job?”

  “I had hoped you might provide that,” she said stubbornly.

  Another burst of laughter. Unflattering, that a serious request was being taken so unseriously.

  “Oh, ho. Pay you while you’re learnin’ the ropes, no less. I like your spunk, Miss Burton.”

  Tilting her head slightly, she surveyed him with all the gentility she could muster. “Letitia. Since we’ll be working together, I give you permission to use my first name.”

  “Oh, you do, do you? Well, same here, Missy. You may call me Doctor.”

  “I believe I have been. Tell me, Doctor, when would you like for me to start working?”

  Gabriel, shaking his head in awe (if not respect for her dogged perseverance), rolled his chair back and hauled himself upright. “C’mon, let’s head on over to the Sittin’ Eat—don’t worry, you’ll be my guest—and get some food, and we can talk over this proposition a little more.”

  “That would be just fine, thank you,” said Letitia primly, gathering her things together.

  “Listen. Uh.” The doctor’s voice trailed off, on an air of discomfort, as he preceded her to the door. “How’s that sister of yours doin’?”

  As for Molly, the wayward bride, she was spending her time in the most lackluster way possible: waiting for her intended husband to appear.

  Chapter Four

  HE WAS EVERYTHING SHE had hoped he would be. And more.

  Tall. Narrow elegant shoulders that nicely filled a stylish embroidered waistcoat. Flashing brown eyes matched by thick smooth brown hair. A neatly trimmed beard, spade-shaped in the style of Mephistopheles.

  She had been waiting so long for him to get here, following his imagined progress kitty-corner across Kansas and Oklahoma Territory into this tucked-up corner of Texas. Now, she realized, it had been well worth any amount of time to wait.

  “Mr. Hennessey,” preened Molly in her best sweet Southern Belle cadence.

  She extended her hand, barely covered by a white lace mitt; and, right on cue, Quinn Hennessey caught her fingers to raise to his lips.

  “Ma belle,” he said extravagantly. “You are exactly as I pictured you. So beautiful. So graceful. So refined.”

  Ben, accompanying his wife and her sister to this crucial first meeting upon Camellia’s request, merely rolled his eyes. Much as he had come to love and appreciate his own bride, his tongue still remained stuck when it came to voicing such superfluities. One could only wonder if he admired or disdained the newcomer’s apparent talent at smooth talk.

  They were standing in the ample carpeted lobby of the Drinkwater Hotel (built, owned, and operated by one Ezra Drinkwater), as arranged according to Mr. Hennessey’s request in the message delivered to Miss Molly Burton. Fortunately, for decorum, under public scrutiny; unfortunately, for the sense of privacy, under public scrutiny.

  “C’mon, let’s all g’wan over to our house and get a little friendlier,” Ben, feeling the weight of interested gazes all around, suggested. The clerk, a couple of spectators waiting to check in, patrons in the dining room next door... He had already (somewhat reluctantly) given up time at the store this morning; might as well go for broke and waste a couple more hours.

  Camellia shot him a look that could only be considered speculative. Of course, she was fine with the invitation; that had been her idea in the first place, once news had come out that Mr. Hennessey was arrived in town. What she was mulling over, and what Ben had no doubt he would hear about later, was his attitude. Cynical, as always. He couldn’t help it. In his opinion, the fellow looked like a fop. Surely everyone else could see that?

  “So. Quite a trip was it, from—where, some place in Kansas, I heard tell?” Ben, sitting casually at his kitchen table with one ankle resting atop the other knee, was making polite conversation while the women bustled around preparing refreshments.

  “It was, indeed,” said Mr. Hennessey with
a smile made somewhat disconcerting by the shape of his beard. “Rough, in patches, I must admit. But gorgeous bits of scenery along the way. This is a wonderful home you have here, Mr. Forrester.”

  “Ahuh. Camellia’s done a fine job, workin’ with just the bare bones of the place. What was the name of that town again?”

  “Oh, a little hamlet you’ve probably never heard of. Prairie Spring, incorporated just a few years ago.” This time he aimed the smile in Molly’s direction. “But I was given strict orders to relocate from there to here, if I had any intention of making this lovely lady my wife.”

  “Mmmm. You’ve learned a valuable lesson already, my friend: best just to give in. These Burton women are hard-headed about gettin’ their own way, for sure. Ouch.” The hand of a certain Burton woman that rested so lovingly on his shoulder squeezed down. Hard. In response, he offered Camellia a sheepsh smile. “Thanks for the coffee, darlin’.”

  She smiled sweetly back. “But I haven’t poured it yet.”

  “Oh, I have faith that you will, right soon. In a cup. Not in my lap.”

  Small talk ensued for a little while, as everyone munched on oatmeal cookies and raisin scones. Their guest did ask, in a slightly plaintive voice, if tea might be available, and Molly immediately swept away from the table to heat water.

  “You pulled into Turnabout yesterday afternoon, then?” Ben pursued the subject like some dog chasing a bone, refusing to give up until he’d reached the tasty marrow.

  “Yes, Mr. Forrester, I did. And I asked that a note be sent to Miss Burton, just as soon as I had booked a room at the hotel and refreshed myself. I’m so pleased that all of you could arrange to meet me so quickly.”

  “You do know there’s two more of these ladies runnin’ around town, doncha?”

  Gratefully Mr. Hennessey accepted the cup of hot tea presented to him by Molly, brewed by her own two worshipful hands. “Is there cream, perhaps? And sugar?” he murmured in an aside. Then, “Oh, yes, Miss Burton provided quite a full description of her entire family. Her circumstances. Her former home, and her current situation here. Living in a boarding house, as she explained, when there’s all this lovely extra space right here.”

  “I’ll just bet she did,” muttered Ben, in a low enough tone that no one could quite decipher the words. “Huh? Oh, yeah, well, the girls were kind enough to give Cam and me some privacy when we first took up residence together, ’steada crowdin’ in on top of us. And so you two are gonna get hitched?”

  Her intended caught up Molly’s accessible hand and brought it to his lips once more. “That’s our plan, isn’t it, my dear? As soon as possible. We’ll spend the afternoon making arrangements, if that meets with your approval.”

  Camellia had been remarkably restrained during today’s encounter. At this, she couldn’t prevent a worried protest: “On the strength of just a few letters exchanged back and forth? Surely you will want to become better acquainted first? Surely you will—”

  “We’ve become acquainted just fine.” Molly, already infatuated, was staring into the man’s dancing brown eyes with intensity and delight; she might have been drowning in some deep, dark pool, declining any thought of rescue. “Besides, you and Ben had no more a foundation than this, did you, with your own marriage?”

  Helplessly Camellia turned toward her husband, who raised his brows and shrugged. “Sorry, darlin’. She has a point. We were a mail order couple our own selves. If the girl has already given consent...”

  “But she’s so young!”

  “I’m nineteen,” Molly bristled. “As I keep reminding you, Cam. When will you realize I’m no longer a child? That I’m all grown up?”

  When you start acting that way! Camellia wanted to wail. Wasn’t it just a few months ago her sister was wearing pigtails and playing with dolls? What right did she have to take charge of her own life in this manner?

  Ever-practical Ben asked a few more pertinent questions: where do you expect to live? (Quinn: We haven’t decided yet.); what kind of work do you figure on doing? (Quinn: I’ll look around to see what’s available.); how do you intend to support a wife? (Quinn: We’ll take care of things.).

  After a bit, the probee began to show signs of a slight resentment at being probed. Or, at the very least, restiveness. His expression reflected his state of mind. You’re not her parents. Why do I have to answer to you?

  By then, the visit seemed to be wearing thin, and there was little more for the group to discuss. Clearly the young couple was anxious to be alone, to make their plans, to find out more about each other, to bill and coo. Perhaps during a stroll around town, where Molly could proudly display her acquisition; perhaps sitting sedately on a shaded bench in Turnabout’s small city park, bordered by mature oaks and maples and a mass of free-growing wildflowers.

  “But—you’ll let us know what you decide?” queried Camellia anxiously, at the front door while she watched them depart. “You’ll tell us what’s going on, and—and the details—and—”

  “O’ course they will,” said Ben. “Even if they got no common sense, they got you, don’t they?”

  Grinning, he brushed a kiss against his wife’s temple, gave her a familiar pat on the bottom, and sauntered on back to the store. He accompanied himself with a warble of tuneless but satisfied whistling from some unknown melody—probably of the dance hall variety. He knew he had done a good day’s work already, and was ready to wash his hands of the women’s affair.

  Not so Camellia. She drifted through the rooms of her home like a southern ha’nt, picking up things and putting them down, moving from piano to dust rag to stack of books in Ben’s study.

  All very well and good for him; it wasn’t his sister that might be going off the deep end! She was miffed at him for such apparent unconcern, and, if she so chose, that miff might last all the way through bedtime.

  Camellia could just imagine his response if she asked his opinion of the purported bridegroom. A nonchalant shrug, and the judgment: “Looks like a riverboat gambler to me.”

  Well, just how UNreassuring could that be?

  Her skin felt prickly, as if she had fallen haphazard into a patch of nettles; and she couldn’t sort herself out and direct attention to one task or one idea.

  Her mood matched the unpredictable weather outside.

  Chapter Five

  “IS MY VEIL STRAIGHT?”

  “It’s perfect, Mol.”

  “And the tucks that were added—can you see them?” The bride was bending almost backward in her unsuccessful attempt to see what was going on behind her, with the train.

  “Absolutely not at all. You look wonderful.”

  “Are there too many flowers in my bouquet? Or too many colors? Or too many—”

  “Molly, dear, you don’t have a single thing wrong,” Camellia firmly assured her sister. “You are excellence itself, a paragon. Quinn may very well burst into tears of joy when he sees you.”

  A look of absolute bliss crossed the girl’s radiant face, and then she giggled. “Now that wouldn’t be very fittin’, would it?” She paused, then impulsively embraced her sister, satin and lace and all, in a heartfelt hug. “Oh, Cam, thank you.”

  Camellia was blinking back a film of tears herself. “For what, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, for understanding. For accepting. And for—for the loan—of your own beautiful wedding outfit!”

  “Well, that. I suspect it may end up being the communal gown.”

  They two were standing in the vestibule of the Church of Placid Waters, waiting for the music to begin. Not Molly’s, of course, she of the light touch and the learned hands, since her all-important role today was certainly not that of church organist.

  “And it’s only the end of June,” bubbled Molly. “I’m a summer bride.”

  Camellia, all togged out in a daring light blue dress whose sheer sleeves and flaring skirt embodied a series of flattering ruffles, was serving as her sole attendant; besides Letitia and Hannah, already seated in the pews
, just a few others had been asked to this small and private wedding. There was, surprisingly, Sheriff Paul Winslow, his badge pinned discreetly under his coat, parked in the back; Miss Elvira Gotham, invited by Camellia (Jimmy Dunlap, assistant manager, had stayed behind to run the store); Dr. Gabriel Havers, somewhat rumpled and haggard as to appearance (another lengthy delivery of some poor woman’s baby?); and several female acquaintances from the boarding house.

  Ben was standing at the altar, filling the role of best man. He looked very sober and solid and prosaic, and only slightly uncomfortable, in the single suit he owned. Its smooth blue cloth and gray angola trousers provided a quiet, steady contrast to the striped coat and colorful silk embellished vest of the husband-soon-to-be.

  “Honey, are you—sure—about this?”

  “What?”

  “It isn’t too late. Are you sure this is what you want? Everything has happened so quickly, and you’ve hardly had time to think, let alone find out what Quinn is really like. I mean, he seems nice enough, and pleasant, and all that, but—” Camellia, almost breathless, fizzled to a stop.

  “Oh, Cam.” Smiling, Molly looked straight and deep into her sister’s eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. Quinn is all I want. Can’t you see that I’m madly in love with him?”

  Madly in love with him? Or madly in love with the idea of love?

  Camellia was about to start in again when Molly gave an excited little jounce. “Listen. Mendelssohn—the March. It’s time, Cammy. It’s time.”

  Once the couple had formally plighted their troth, spent an hour or so speaking with the Rev. Martin Beecham, and reserved the time and date for their church ceremony, the ensuing week had flown by in a flurry of activity. While the sisters were delighted and thrilled by Molly’s ecstatic state, below all that ran an undercurrent of tension and concern, over which they had privately consulted.

  “She’s just a baby,” scoffed Hannah. “She doesn’t have a clue what she’s getting herself into.” There was just a bit of the “dog in the manger” attitude about Hannah, who, as second eldest, felt it her right to be married next. Although, to give her credit, she too had been expressing some worry about this hasty wedding to an unknown.