by Sierra Rose
“Oh, please don’t think me ungrateful.” Time to ease up and strike some sort of bargain, especially one he could feel he was winning. “I certainly did use your funds for the transport south. The rest of the expenses were paid for from a private sale of jewelry. Because it was necessary to provide for my sisters, as well.”
“Sisters. Huh.” His expression had frozen into something so distant and detached he might have been wearing a mask. “You never mentioned sisters in your correspondence.”
“No, I admit I did not.”
“And just what are you plannin’ to do with ’em? Am I s’posed to be responsible for three more females than I agreed to?”
As if those three young women, the only family she had left, were castoffs of some kind, to be simply tossed away. She allowed him a small smile, one that showed off perfect teeth and a nice set of dimples. “No, just me. As you know, Mr. Forrester, our father died in December, and the responsibility for my sisters’ welfare lies with me. If you will but allow me the luxury of some time...”
“And then?” He studied her with those intense and intimidating hazel eyes.
“We’ll work something out. I promise you that.”
“Huh.” A full soundless minute crept by, while he considered the situation, weighed options, decided on possible solutions. His brows went up again as he asked suddenly, “Does that mean you’ll all get rid of them muckety black clothes?”
Camellia couldn’t hold back a helpless giggle. He appeared so exactly like a small boy unwillingly having to confront the whys and wherefores of womanhood, and feeling kerflummoxed and perplexed at the same time.
“At home we would have worn mourning for at least a year. And it did seem wisest to put on our very oldest things for travel. But perhaps, after six months, we can undo custom. Yes, Mr. Forrester, we will exchange our muckety black clothes for something lighter and more pleasant.”
“Good. Like to see you without all them gloomy, dingy duds in place.” Abruptly he halted, at the intriguing mental picture he had just inadvertently conjured up. In reaction, an actual faint blush invaded his stubbled cheeks. “Uh. I mean—different outfit. Just a different outfit.”
Poor man. She didn’t dare giggle at that accidental faux pas. This might turn out to be fun, after all. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I’ve felt the same, myself. Was there anything else we need to discuss?”
“Yeah.” Probably due to being caught in crossfire, his voice came out a trifle roughly. “You need to put on a few pounds. No stamina. Look like a strong wind would blow you off into the middle of next week.”
Her eyes crinkled with amusement. It would seem that they might be making progress in this difficult acquaintanceship. “I shall certainly do my best, Mr. Forrester. Were you able to track down our wagons and belongings?”
Apparently feeling more at ease, he leaned back slightly to lay one booted ankle across the other thigh. “Yep, I took care of your stuff. Your drivers and I brought all the wagons here to unload everutjomg into the barn out back, then we got the teams all jig-shape at the livery. You can decide later what you wanna do as far as keepin’ or sellin’. And I’ll get some help to haul the trunks and such inside, whenever you need ’em.”
“Oh, I do hope everything survived the trip with no damage. So many bumps and ruts and bad weather to contend with, on that long—’
“A piano?” he blurted out, in astonishment. “You brung along a grand piano?”
“I know it will be hard to find space to fit in, and certainly we’ll need to find a tuner. But. Molly, you see—that’s my youngest sister; well, actually, my cousin, but—well, she plays, and her heart was set on having it along, and—”
“A piano,” he repeated, shaking his somewhat shaggy head. “It does beat all.”
Another few minutes passed by while Camellia glanced at the kitchen’s painted walls, and the cheerful rag rugs on the floor, and the great windows that let in light and dust motes. Anywhere but, dreading what might be coming next, despite their apparent congeniality, at her companion.
“I took a room at the Midnight,” he said into the silence.
“The Midnight? What’s that?”
“One of the hotels in town. I figured Turnabout’s gossips would be runnin’ full force if I stayed here, in a house full of women. God knows what kinda shenanigans goin’ on—you can imagine what would be said. So I’ll pack up some of my stuff to leave there. Until—”
“Until—?”
A few sounds had begun to intrude, during this mid-afternoon lull in the routine of the day. Several dogs barking at whatever had attracted their attention, and the rattle of wagon wheels and horses’ harness down the street, and someone calling to someone else.
“Until we get married.” He drained his cup, pushed back his chair, and rose, all in one swift motion. “So we need to talk about arrangements.”
Fascinating. Open-mouthed, Camellia watched him as he towered over her. She had never really witnessed a man blush before, and she found it to be not only fascinating but endearing.
“And I reckon,” he finished up, pausing in the doorway, “you’d oughta start callin’ me Ben.”
Chapter Seven
THE MUSIC, BOTH BEFORE and during, was lovely, just as the Burton girls had given complete assurance it would be. With the grand piano still stored in the Forrester barn, under a protective canvas cover, Molly had flexed her fingers and begun working the rather yellowed keys and stubborn pedals of the reed organ installed in Turnabout’s Church of Placid Waters. The pews were packed with bodies, both of regular church members and mere spectators happy to take part in an unusual event far outside the normal scope of routine.
It helped that the mid-May weather was holding fair and fine. No rain to muddy the streets, no wind to roil the dust. In other words, perfect.
True to Camellia’s promise, the Burton girls had put aside their ugly black and were wearing color and fabric appropriate to the season. And the occasion. They had joyously ransacked trunks and portmanteaus for just the perfect outfit; Molly had chosen ruffles of sweet pale green, Letitia was dressed in cool pink the hue of an apple blossom, Hannah’s soft blue reflected the clear sky overhead. With fans and slippers and showy hats to match.
Camellia, being the bride, and the center of attention, had taken out the dress and accessories she had purchased at a fine shop in St. Louis. With budget in mind, and the somewhat straitened circumstances of this marriage, she selected an ivory brocade that did marvelous things to her complexion and figure. The deep cut of its shawl collar was accented by a beige organza rosette, with several more being scattered down a waist-molding fold on the side. A four inch band of lace decorated the small bustle and finished off the sweeping hem.
It was an elegant, refined gown, of exceeding good taste, that would, she hoped, stir excitement and approval in her future husband’s eyes.
And, yes, she had been able to soak in that delicious bath. Several times, in fact. After being so deprived during the trek south, she felt she couldn’t get enough of being so pampered.
They had discussed the upcoming ceremony, she and her sisters (since one was to serve as organist, the other two would serve as bridesmaids), while they’d gotten into their finery this morning. There were corsets to adjust, and buttons to do up, and ribbons to tie. To watch their hustle and flurry, their comings and goings, was to watch a flock of beautiful butterflies, flittering about.
“Do you wish Papa could be here?” Letitia asked, at one point, while they were laying out petticoats. crinolines, and the two pieces of jewelry they had been allotted.
“Yes,” said Camellia promptly. “I do. Only—the old Papa, from years ago, before he got so caught up by the gambling fever.” Her tone, as she critically surveyed herself in the mirror, turned wistful. “The one we were used to having around recently—I don’t think I miss at all. It’s hard even to feel true grief. I’m just sorry for the way life ended up for him.”
“It
probably would never have happened if Mama hadn’t died at such a young age,” Hannah quietly opined.
“Yes. I wish Mama were here. Every girl wants her mother with her, on her wedding day.”
Amazingly, Camellia had asked Jesse Buchanan to escort her to church and to the altar. He would be, he had instantly replied, proud as punch to do so. And so he had appeared this mid-morning, cleanly barbered, freshly bathed, wearing a newly pressed brown suit and colorful cravat, to do his duty as requested. He had handed the bride and her sisters into the rented surrey with a distinctive flourish and a broad grin.
She stood here now, in the vestibule, waiting for just the right moment to move forward while the music ebbed and flowed. Mail order or not, she felt beautiful. The illusion veil floated down and around from her shoulders, the bouquet of wildflowers (a mixture, from what she could tell, of daisies, baby’s breath, buttercups, and salvia no bluer than her eyes) trembled only slightly in her hands, the silk of her gown rustled reassuringly with every breath.
Over the past two weeks of their living in Turnabout, the Burton girls had put aside their fusty mourning and ventured out into the town. They had poked into various business establishments, availed themselves of the small public library, explored the wide friendly streets both downtown and residential. In the process they had met a number of people happy to welcome the newcomers to their town.
Shopkeepers, merchants, the occasional browser; young women, some attractive, some not so much; young men, flexing their muscles and their mentality. All interested. Especially one Dr. Gabriel Havers, who made their acquaintance as he physically bumped into Camellia on his hurried way to lunch at the Sarsaparilla Café.
“Well, now,” he had paused long enough for a tip of his hat and a slow appraising grin. “I apologize for the discourtesy, but I can’t say I regret it. You must be the Burton ladies, livin’ up to all I’ve heard about you.”
“Complimentary, I hope?” murmured Camellia, twirling her umbrella.
“Every word. Absolutely every danged word.” Dressed in a lightweight suit, minus the jacket, he personified capability and trust, from his carefully combed dark auburn hair to his carefully cultivated sideburns and mustache to his carefully arranged watch fob and embroidered vest. “Nice to see some fresh faces hereabouts.”
Introductions followed, but the doctor hastened those along.
“Sorry to be rude once again, but I’ve only got fifteen minutes to eat before I have to leave town.”
“Oh. On the lam, are you?” inquired Hannah archly.
He chuckled. “Nope. Got a lady in the throes of childbirth on a farm about five miles away. Her husband is waitin’ for me, but he promised me some food before we set out. Meetin’ him inside, as we speak.”
“Then, pray, don’t let us keep you,” Camellia urged. “I’m sure we’ll see you again, sir.”
Dr. Havers had looked her up and down, still in that appraising fashion. “Bet on it, Miss Burton. You can bet on it.” And then, with another tip of his hat, he had hurried off.
All four new arrivals were impressed with the neatness and cleanliness evident everywhere. Shops were freshly painted or whitewashed, fences were kept in good order, colorful and fragrant flowers could be seen in large pots or planted near walkways. The place might have been lifted, intact, from some booming city on the Eastern Seaboard.
It came as no surprise for them to learn that the progressive mayor of this up-and-coming hamlet was none other than Ben Forrester, himself.
In between times of being out and about, they struggled to find themselves in his kitchen. Having learned much about the management of a household, but never having had to do the actual work, they were learning hard lessons. How to cook without burning or ruining the finished dish. How to guard against unforeseen accidents (the inevitable cuts, scrapes, scalds, etc.). How to restore a room to its rightful order after having been almost destroyed by too much youthful enthusiasm and inexperience.
From his command post at the Midnight, Ben had managed his thriving mercantile, supported by several clerks and laborers, during the day, and joined up with his wife-to-be for a few hours on free evenings. It was important that they get to know each other before the all-important approaching date, he said; and, what Ben had set his mind to do, he did.
So they took an occasional supper at one of several restaurants, or enjoyed a buggy ride together while the light held, or simply sat on the front porch of the house from which he had voluntarily exiled himself, and talked. Or, at least, Camellia talked. Ben wasn’t much of a talker. He was more of a listener. Which seemed a pretty good arrangement.
In answer to his questions, she described her life in St. Louis. Her social engagements. Her good works. Her proudest achievement, she admitted, was the fact that she had managed to scrape together enough money to provide several months’ worth of living expenses for every last retainer, once the house was finally closed up and she had had to tearfully let them go.
He, in turn, spoke little about himself. Family? Parents still happily existing on the outskirts of Memphis; one brother, Jackson, fallen at Gettysburg; another brother, Cole, somewhere out west. Dreams? To open another general store, and then another. Likes / Dislikes? Have to think on that one a bit. Plans? To get married and be done with it.
“Be done with it?” she had asked, surprised and just a trifle miffed. “What does that mean?”
They were sitting side by side in the porch swing for this one, and he had laid his Stetson on the floor and propped both boots, ankles crossed, upon the railing. Feeling quite comfortable in her company by this time, apparently. But, then, it was his house.
“For ten years I’ve had people after me, tellin’ me I’d oughta settle down,” he answered frankly.
“Men, winkin’ and givin’ me an elbow in the ribs, as if to say I should be in the same case they was. Women, pullin’ forward this cousin or that niece or a sister, sayin’ what a fine wife she’d make.”
Camellia felt torn between annoyance and amusement. “So this wasn’t exactly your decision, to send away for a girl completely off the home front.”
He yawned and scrubbed one hand through the rough hair that seemed never to get trimmed short enough for style. “Was I thinkin’ it was time? Yes. Did I get pushed into it? No. Nobody,” he paused for one sober, straight look at her in the gathering dusk, “pushes me into doin’ somethin’ I don’t wanna do.”
“Well, I’ve met quite a few very nice people in this town. And a fair number of single young ladies who must have just been dying to get a shot at the eligible mayor. That’s you, Mr. Forrester. I’m surprised you didn’t select one of them.”
“Didn’t want onea them. I’ve found out, over the years, that they darn well bore me almost to drink. I wanted me a wife who’s intelligent. Knows a bit about the world, and can discuss things on an even keel. That counts to me more than anything else.”
“Oh.” Well, she could choose to be irritated. Or she could choose to be flattered. She went for the latter, taking his words as compliment. “And you got that, just from our correspondence?”
“Yep.” He reached down for the cup of cooling coffee that had joined his hat on the floor. “And from your lawyer.”
“My lawyer! Mr. King?” Now she was insulted. “You were checking up on me?”
“Naturally.” He gave her another of those straight-on looks with an edge of lightning behind it. “And your Mr. King was doin’ the same towards me, on your behalf. Marriage is a serious business, Miss Burton. You end up stuck with one person for a good number of years. It better be somebody you can get along with, doncha think? Somebody who’s a partner, who’s honest and loyal and won’t stab you in the back. Seen too many of those.”
She hadn’t. One spouse or the other had always died at a young age.
The distaff side of the idle rich could certainly not be accused of living a difficult life—no more so than ordering a maid to bring breakfast on a tray and retrieve a certai
n outfit from the closet for wearing, or sending a menu down to Cook for the next day’s meals, or ordering the coachman to be ready with a vehicle for whatever excursions might be planned away from home.
Once divested of everything material and substantial, however, Camellia had found her life to be very difficult. Tedious. Exhausting. Worrisome. Just as it would be for one of the lower classes. Poverty-stricken, which was where she now found herself.
As a young, attractive, and sociable woman, she wanted to enjoy a little more lightheartedness, which had been sadly lacking for so long. While this marriage between the lovely Miss Burton and the apparently sought-after and eminently suitable Mr. Forrester might be arranged, between two consenting adults, she still wanted to be courted. She craved romance.
Surely she was not to go from the deadly dull hardscrabble routine of St. Louis to the same sort of troubled existence here in Turnabout? Surely it couldn’t be wrong to expect more than the bare survival minimum before old age came along, and death?
Among his other fine attributes (of which she was certain there must be many), was her husband-to-be possessed of a sense of humor? Could he smile? Did he grin? Would he ever let loose with a full-fledged belly laugh?
Up until now, she had seen little evidence of any joy, and that troubled her. He treated her with as much distance and respect as if she were his maiden aunt: a careful palm to her elbow, for guidance; an opening of every door; an immediate stand upon her entrance. Impeccable manners, she was pleased to note. If reverence for her womanhood provided a cornerstone for their relationship, could liking and loving be far behind?
The man was courteous to a fault, and, apparently, given Llewellyn King’s stamp of approval, dependable and financially solvent and steady as string.
But, oh, she didn’t want steady! She wanted wild exuberance, and physical contact, and the sheer bliss of being together. Even with Owen Riley, for all his faults, she had been able to share amusement, taking delight and pleasure in the silliest of occurrences.