Mail Order Bride- Springtime

by Sierra Rose

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO do,” Camellia whispered. “I don’t know where to turn, or whom I should contact. Oh, Lord in Heaven, what a coil!”

  She was making this confession not to her sisters, or to a councilor, but to herself, in the privacy of her room. She had escaped there, after a dinner which had tasted like sawdust even though well-prepared, to wrestle with the thorny problem seemingly twisted and entwined through every fiber of her being.

  It was now mid-February, and the weather was offering a taste of what spring might be: slightly warming temperatures, a slight melting of the ice and dirty snow piled along the streets, a faint teasing scent now and then of budding leaves. Soon the pretty lawns would start greening up, and the tentative blooms of purple crocus and sunny yellow daffodils would follow.

  No matter. Camellia, consumed by worry, wouldn’t have noticed if she were Chicken Little and the sky was falling.

  Hannah had acquired tentative tiny frown lines, as if she too were occasionally overcome by anxiety. But the two younger girls gave no indication of concern about the future, going about the usual daily routine as if all were just fine and dandy in their part of the world. Like gadflies. In a way, Camellia couldn’t help envying them their complacency, their feeling that someone else would shoulder the burden of caring for their family. That someone would undoubtedly be Camellia herself.

  Where were they to live? How were they to live?

  What would happen to their faithful cook, housekeeper, three maids, laundress, man of all work, grounds man, and coachman when the house was shut up and no more salaries could be paid?

  The questions nagged her every hour of the day and kept her lying awake and restless in her great four poster at night. There were no easy answers, no easy solutions. The steps she had taken thus far, to save her family from utter penury and ruin, had simply not worked out.

  “Cam?” It was Hannah, tapping lightly at her closed door. “Cam, may I come in?”

  Listless, she turned away from the nighttime view outside, one she was trying to commit to memory for when she could no longer see it in person. “Certainly. Was there something you wanted?”

  “Just to talk, honey. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the whole blessed earth on your shoulders.” With a smile, Hannah joined her sister on the cushioned window seat. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you, with all that’s going on. I have no practical suggestions to make. But I can listen. I’m always here to listen.”

  “Ah, Hannah.” Camellia leaned her head back against the wooden framing, chill though it was, and sighed. It seemed she had done little else, these past three months, than grieve privately, moan silently, and sigh a lot. Had she ever felt light-hearted in the past? Blissfully happy? Surely not. Surely this miasma had simply taken over her whole life.

  “C’mon, girl, you can’t hold this up inside you forever. There’s just the four of us, against the world. It isn’t as if we had hordes of relatives clamoring to take us in. Will we end up on the streets? Shall we try finding jobs?”

  “We’re none of us trained for much of anything. Oh, I know, we could learn. And we may have to learn. We may have no other choice. Hannah.” Reaching out, she took her sister’s hand as if for sustenance. “I spoke with Owen Riley this past week.”

  “Owen? Whatever for? I thought you had decided there was no point in continuing with a relationship that seemed to be going nowhere. One that, if I might quote your own words, near bored you to death.”

  The brilliant blue of Camellia’s eyes flashed briefly in remembrance. “True. I did say that. But—times have changed. The situation has become desperate, Hen. And I wanted to make him aware of that fact. And that, were he to help—resolve—our problems, I should be—exceedingly—grateful...”

  Hannah sucked in a sharp breath of dismay. “Oh, no, Cammy, dear. Oh, no. To so lower yourself, like some—some—merchant, putting goods on the block!”

  “You needn’t worry about these goods, or my pride,” Camellia said dryly. “He refused.”

  Another sharp breath, almost like an angry goose, hissing. “Oh, how dare he! The utter cad!”

  A glance outside, into the quiet moonlit night with its rim of cold and frost, helped conceal the self-pitying tears that had gathered but not yet overflowed. “He mentioned something about having other fish to fry. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s as I guessed: without my fortune, I am, apparently, of no value. Worth nothing.”

  “The fault is his, not yours!” Hannah sprang angrily, loyally, to her sister’s defense. “And he considers himself one of the favored few in St. Louise society?”

  “It would seem so. Welcomed everywhere, certainly. So.” She sighed. “At least we know. That avenue has been closed to us.”

  For a few minutes they simply sat in silence, two young women drowning in black silk and sorrow. A fire wavered and danced comfortingly behind its grate, and a multitude of pretty kerosene lamps glowed from tables and sconces with their own particular light. It was a lovely room, stamped with Camellia’s own personality, that had introduced books and fresh green plants amid the cosseting colors of muted crimson, antique yellow, and mahogany.

  The softened notes of a waltz drifted up from the music room downstairs: Molly with her first great love, the grand piano. Would she have access to such an instrument in her future life, wherever she (and the rest of the family) ended up?

  “Mr. Riley was not my only port in the storm,” Camellia finally said. Her fingers were worrying at several loosened threads in the stitching of one cuff. That must be repaired, before a whole seam gave way. She must remember to pull out her sewing box.

  “I’m relieved to hear you’re so full of ideas. I must confess, I have none; and I’ve been feeling quite desperate about what to do.”

  Pulling herself erect, gathering up courage, Camellia blurted out, “I’ve put myself in the hands of a marriage broker.”

  Hannah blinked. And stared. “I beg your pardon. You’ve—what—?”

  “I spoke to Mr. King, so I could contact a person with good reputation. And—and who can provide positive results. It seems this is—this is a very common occurrence. Many women who are—who are up against the wall...desperate...take this way out.” Shrugging, as if it were a matter of small import, she went on in a low voice, “I myself—my character, my personality, my appearance—I am the only commodity I have that might be of benefit to anyone, Hannah.”

  “But, you—what will you—where will you—”

  Camellia managed a very thin, very weary smile. “Apparently there is a whole host of lonely men looking for wives, scattered west of the Mississippi and beyond. Mr. Farraday and I spent quite a fair amount of time together, searching through letters and files to choose a prospect who might be—uh—well-suited.”

  “I simply can’t imagine—” Slowly shaking her curly head in disbelief and dismay, Hannah had to wet her dry lips to speak. “It’s like—Cam, it’s like—selling oneself, to the highest bidder!”

  “But isn’t that what marriage is, anyway, in our circle? Isn’t fortune the most important factor? Who marries for love these days? It’s all about opportunity, isn’t it, and how one can best get ahead?”

  Surprisingly, her sister began to cry. “But I can’t bear to have you do such a thing! It seems so shameful. So demeaning!”

  “I suppose,” reflected practical Camellia, “it all depends on how one looks at it. We are desperate, Hen. You must realize that.”

  “Oh, I do, I do! But surely there must be some other way out!”

  Another sigh. Soon she would have no air left in her lungs, with all that had been and would be expelled. Would her body then just topple over, like a gunny sack emptied of its flour or salt? “I wish I knew of one. But this seems our only recourse.”

  Hannah took a moment to quiet her tears and mop at her face with an exquisite black-bordered handkerchief. Soon there would be no one available to tend to those niceties of washing and pressing
a small fancy scrap of linen. All these homely tasks that would have to be undertaken by their own untried, inexperienced hands! “And did you—did you find someone—suitable?”

  “I hope so. Through the offices of Mr. Farraday, I’ve written to him, anyway, this prospective husband of mine, to see if he’s interested.”

  The younger girl, confronted by her sister’s matter-of-fact attitude, was beginning to brighten just a bit. “Was there a likeness included in his letter?”

  “No. No likeness, so I’ve no idea what his appearance might be. He briefly described his temperament—yes, that’s important, too, Hannah, and you know it—and the town where he lives.”

  Turnabout, Texas (a peculiar name, Camellia had thought, upon reading this information). An up-and-coming place, its population nearly two thousand souls, with much to appeal to the average citizen. A library, several churches, the one fine school, two banks, an actual post office, a mixture of first-rate and second-rate restaurants and hotels, Main Street’s sheriff’s department (and hoosegow), the combination stable and blacksmithy, lawyers and doctors and a miscellaneous scattering of other professionals. Ben Forrester himself owned the largest mercantile in the area.

  “A shopkeeper!” Camellia couldn’t help gasping out, at the desk of Mr. Farraday and his Peerless Matrimonial Services that recent fateful day. She had decided to take a great step into the vast, murky unknown, and every nerve was quivering. “A shopkeeper!”

  The marriage broker had given her a considering look over the top rim of his spectacles. “Is that a problem, Miss Burton? It was my understanding that you couldn’t afford to be too—well, too picky, shall we say?”

  Slightly ashamed of her attitude, she had flushed and, of course, backed down. “No. You’re right. I can’t, and I shouldn’t sound so superior, as if a man of business intent might be beneath me. Go on, please, Mr. Farraday.”

  He had shuffled through the stack of correspondence on his desk. “Well, ma’am, I do believe we’ve examined all the applicants. It’s up to you from here on, if there’s one in particular you would like to write to. But this Forrester fellow does seem to be the best of the bunch. Got his own house, and everything.”

  Gloved hands trembling just a little over the clasp of her reticule, Camellia had bitten her lip with anxiety. “As you know, sir, our family attorney, Mr. King, referred me to you. Do you think—well, I’m quite torn, as you might imagine. Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  “Miss Burton.” He smiled gently at her, as a father might. “I am certainly cognizant of your feelings. All of this is very strange and irregular to you; I daresay you would never begin to contemplate such a drastic step, were it not for your straitened circumstances.”

  “No, I certainly would not.”

  “Since you’ve asked my advice, I can tell you that it is better—far better—for your well-being to go boldly forward. Make your decision, stick with it, and don’t look back with regrets or recriminations. You might get a bad bargain, or a good bargain, but the outcome lies entirely in your hands. Does that make sense to you?”

  Camellia had felt a sudden wash of relief. “It does, indeed. Thank you, Mr. Farraday. Very well. I choose Mr. Forrester. Let’s write the first letter to him today, shall we?”

  “And so you sent your information, offering yourself in marriage to a man you’ve never met?” Hannah, awed by her sister’s hitherto unrealized courage, said now, in the privacy of the bedroom.

  “Kings and queens have done so for centuries. If he accepts me, it will be a whole change of everything. A new adventure. A different part of the country. A chance for growth.” She was trying to put a positive spin on this great turn of events.

  Wistfully, Hannah glanced around the room and its homely décor. “Leaving behind the home you’ve lived in all your life. All you’re familiar with. All you know. All of—” she hiccoughed, “us.”

  “You? Oh, Hannah!” Aghast, Camellia swept the girl into her arms for a fierce hug. “Do you really think I’d abandon my sisters? No. If I hear from Mr. Forrester, and if he wants me, the three of you will be coming along. We’ll face whatever unforeseen happens, all of us together.”

  “But—won’t he be angry? Won’t he feel—fooled?”

  Soberly Camellia considered that. “Possibly. But, if so, I’ll—well,” her voice acquired strength and determination, “then I’ll just have to be the best wife I can to him.”

  “What about Letty and Molly? Shouldn’t you tell them what’s going on?”

  Chuckling, Camellia laid a light finger on the tip of the girl’s nose. “I hadn’t intended on telling you, poppet. It just slipped out. I think, probably, because I did need someone to confide in. At any rate, I’ll wait until I receive an answer, one way or the other, from Mr. Forrester. Then—well, we’ll just go on from there.”

  Chapter Five

  BEN FORRESTER HAD JUST started to cross the unpaved street when the cavalcade rumbled slowly into town. Like many others out and about on this fine day in late April, he paused to watch such a singular sight, while the lead wagon approached at a snail’s pace and then, teamed by six massive bullocks, plodded past.

  “Now, that’s somethin’ you don’t see every day,” commented a fellow spectator, from under the shade of a porch roof. He, too, had just emerged from the Sittin’ Eat Hash House after a hearty lunch and now stood applying a toothpick with dexterity.

  “Hey, Willis. No, you sure don’t. Wonder where they’re headed?”

  Squinting fine hazel eyes against the sunlight, Ben removed his hat long enough to brush back a thatch of wheat-colored hair (a gesture often employed when life momentarily held him in thrall) before replacing the headgear. When was the last time he had seen a get-up like this making its way into Turnabout? Well, just about never, actually.

  Dust from the dry earth underfoot roiled up into small clouds as the train of six wagons moved ponderously along toward the stable at the corner of Fifth and Main.

  Stable! To ask for directions, maybe. Where did the fool driver expect to leave six teams of tired animals to recuperate, for however long the group was staying? Did they think this was a cow town, like Abilene or Dodge?

  A tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed neatly but practically in a worn blue chambray shirt and light wool trousers, Ben had been about to return to his ample two-story mercantile down the street but decided on a brief delay. Curiosity was tugging at every fiber of his whiskers, and he wanted to satisfy the itch.

  He was not alone. As he ambled in the direction of this phenomenon, several others, including the aforementioned Willis, were ambling right along with him. It was an ambling crowd of interested males, in fact, that reached the first wagon just as its occupants began fumbling their way out.

  The driver was helping down a woman so enveloped in black mourning and so covered in dust that it was almost impossible for anyone to ascertain her appearance. She had managed to get to the ground and take a few steps away before, with a stifled moan, she suddenly began to slump.

  As luck would have it, Ben was conveniently right there.

  Before she could finish the fall, he had snatched her up, swiftly moved her to a bench in the shade of Turnabout Saddlery’s awning, and yanked off the hat with its miles of veiling.

  “Here, ma’am, you just need to get your land legs back. Kinda like bein’ on a ship, y’ know, and findin’ yourself safe on good dry land again. How long you been travelin’?”

  Brilliant blue eyes, the color of flame, looked without expression or interest at this solicitous man squatting on his heels beside her. “An eternity,” she replied faintly.

  A grin burst forth on his craggy but pleasant face. Not handsome, not with that stubble of beard glinting gold, and the nose that might have been broken at one time, and lines that hinted at age past thirty rather than near twenty; but with personality edged in. “Yeah, I reckon it must seem that way. Your party just passin’ through town, then, or plannin’ to stop here?”
>
  “Excuse me, ma’am, but I had a few words with the livery owner.” Their driver, sombrero pulled off in deference, had approached to respectfully interrupt. “He says he has plentya space in his corral for the bullocks and horses. We just need to unload the wagons and settle in somewheres before I can leave the stock.”

  “Oh, dear.” The lady lifted one thin hand to her cheek, also thin, and pale under the noonday sun, as if she might be in pain. “Well, Mr. Buchanan, I’m afraid I hadn’t thought that far ahead. We have so many household goods...”

  “Don’t I know it!” vehemently expostulated the driver. “Been fightin’ all that stuff every turn of the wheel.”

  A chorus of agreement came from the assembled crowd, along with various whistles of surprise and awed comments. “They got a whole goldanged pianner in onea them wagons.” “D’joo see the trunks they stacked up near t’ the canvas top of that there Conestoga?”

  “Perhaps there’s some sort of storage building nearby—?” She sent a questioning look upward to the man who had now risen and was balanced on one foot, ready to make an escape from all this fuss.

  Thus entailed, he was forced to pause. “Well, I don’t exactly know who—”

  “Oh, Cam, we’ve been waiting so patiently to find out what’s going on, but we just had to get down from those awful high seats in those awful big conveyances!” Another young lady appeared, also dressed from head to toe in smothering black. She was followed by two others, to surround the bench-sitter; all were flitting about like a cluster of agitated butterflies.

  For a few minutes, the flutter of feminine voices, in a dither, asking questions and making remarks, created such a minor spectacle that Ben’s uneasy, “Cam? Your name is Cam?” was completely routed. No one heard him, no one responded.

  “What are we doing?” one wanted to know. “Can we at least walk around?” another demanded. “I’m so hungry and thirsty!” the third’s thready voice sounded positively plaintive.