by Sierra Rose
“I’m so fortunate you approved of me,” she said dryly. Thinking, all the while, you don’t know the real Camellia Burton in the least.
“Prob’ly,” he serenely agreed, neither hearing nor sensing any irony. “Works both ways, don’t it?” And then, amazingly, he waggled his brows at her.
In that tiny gesture lay the inducement Camellia had needed to go ahead with their plans. Perhaps, God and all His angels willing, they might make a success of this venture.
“Mr. Forrester. I do believe I will meet you at the altar, after all, come mid-May.”
“Good thing.” His breath was coming a little more quickly, and his voice had roughened. “Otherwise I think you might’ve found yourself kidnapped, and held for ransom until we got this thing squared away.”
With that, they had proceeded, each detail, in order, following the other. A visit to the Rev. Martin Beecham, to reserve the church and receive any pastoral advice normally handed out. A general notice posted, inviting the town at large. An arrangement with the local restaurants to provide a big outdoor meal, after the ceremony, on the church grounds. A request to church members that they gather, cut, and organize a whole garden of flowers as decoration.
In the meantime, Ben wanted his house back. He had no intention of returning from the church and the aftermath of celebration to a wedding night bedroom with three giggling girls just down the hall. Something must be done about this situation. He wasn’t pushing, mind you, during the single brief discussion he had with Camellia. He merely stated his case and let it rest.
Camellia was torn. While she had known this day was coming, she had hoped to stave it off as long as possible. Which she had done. Now what?
Hannah herself had provided a workable option. Not the best, of course. But certainly feasible.
If they could leave most of their bulky belongings in place, (especially that awkward, unwieldy grand piano!), she suggested that she and the younger girls might board temporarily at Mrs. McKnight’s lovely old three story home on the edge of town.
With a sigh of relief, Camellia accepted the offer. “But only until we can make more permanent arrangements,” she had promised.
With an unseen nod of satisfaction, Ben also accepted. It seemed his future sisters-in-law might be the malleable sort, after all. A good start to future relations.
Briefly Camellia, overcome by curiosity, peeked into the sanctuary through a small opening of the double doors. At the front of the church, Molly was too intent upon her expertise to notice any other detail. But plenty of others paid attention, feeling, perhaps, that this was their entertainment for the day. They’d known the groom for years; they’d recently met the bride. All felt entitled to attend, and all were welcome.
Small-town weddings generally fell into the free-for-all category.
There sat Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Nolan, proprietors of the furniture store; the family Ledbetter, and their troop of six little Ledbetters; Charlotte Harwood, who managed the public library; Sheriff Paul Winslow, evidently at loose ends right now, with the town occupied and quiet; the Widow Lavinia Semple, owner of a tailor and seamstress shop established some ten years ago; Dr. Gabriel Havers, clearly in between patients, chatting easily with those around him; and many others.
At the pulpit stood their solemn pastor. Beside the pastor stood Ben Forrester, looking equally solemn. And, possibly, just a trifle nervous, given the unaccustomed set of his cleanly razored jaw and a slight narrowing of his hazel eyes. He was composed enough to hold his staunch position, but he did, at one point, insert a forefinger between neck and collar, as if the silk cravat had been tied too tightly.
She was, at least, marrying a man whose appearance could not be faulted: shoulders in the blue cloth coat, with its velvet collar and trim of fine silk cord, wider than they had any right to be; tall, strong body contained by soft gray angola trousers and a dove-colored waistcoat, the backbone ramrod-straight and stiff with starch.
His two groomsmen, as yet unidentified, were dressed similarly in blue diagonal frock coats and appeared completely at their ease. As if either they were already married and off the market, or still casting about and fancy-free.
Nearby, her sister attendants, in their lovely blue and rose-pink, were silently fluttering about, waiting for just the right moment to advance. Now that the time was actually upon them, they were less apprehensive than thrilled about the outcome, thus far, of this venture.
The church music had paused, with Molly’s busy fingers shifting from ballads and hymns to a more appropriate stately march. Jesse, who had been pacing from one side of the vestibule to the other, chewing on an unlit cigar, glanced up and winked at the girl for whom he was standing in as paterfamilias.
“You ready, Miss Burton?”
Holding her fragrant bouquet in one hand, Camellia tucked her other into the crook of the driver’s elbow. No backing out now.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Let’s go do this.”
Chapter Eight
CAMELLIA, FEELING A trifle dazed by all the noise and confusion going on around her, stared down at the shiny gold band on one finger that now tied her, irrevocably, to Benjamin Forrester and his fortunes.
After the ceremony, she had been hugged and kissed and embraced and thumped by too many well-wishers to keep count of. Soon she had simply pasted a brave smile upon her lips, lifted her chin, and accepted whatever came her way.
Guests at the outdoor celebration seemed to having a fabulous time, she noted, glancing around at those adults mingling and lingering, those seniors already seated at tables and being served, those children involved in games such as jumping rope, playing marbles, or rolling a hoop and stick along a dusty side street. She herself had had little to do with arrangements from here on.
Ever since she had accepted Ben’s proposal, thus setting foot on a train that led into the distant unknown, she had been caught up in a whirlwind not of her own making. She was merely along for the ride. Almost a spectator.
“Happy the bride the sun shines on,” said a cheerful voice behind her.
She turned slightly, squinting against the brightness overhead. Even the shade of the full-leafed maple above her couldn’t quite provide complete protection from the burning rays. Quite warm for this time of year, and probably bound to get warmer.
“Dr. Havers,” she acknowledged with a smile. “How nice to see you again.”
“And I, you. After that first time we met, when I so rudely bumped into you, I’ve had a rash of people bein’ sick, haven’t been able to call my time my own. Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for permission, he drew out a chair and plunked down.
“Of course. Although Ben—” she cast about for her new husband, wondering where he had disappeared to, after he had settled her in a place of honor, “Ben should be along any minute.”
“Wouldn’t count on it.” The doctor removed his hat, ruffled his curly red hair with a sigh of relief, and gloried in the slight breeze that skittered their way. “He’s been buttonholed by the Putnam Brothers. I don’t look for him to break free from those two for another good hour.”
Camellia’s lovely long veil and her sumptuous gloves had been removed immediately preceding the exodus to the church lawn and packed carefully away, thanks to her over-zealous sisters. Shifting position to push her cosseted silk skirt out of the way, she gave him another smile. “And are the Putnam Brothers some people I might have already met?”
He shrugged. “Doubt it. They own the Prairie Lot.”
“The Prairie Lot. And that is what—a granary? A pasture? A feed store?”
“Nope.” His white teeth flashed in a grin. “A saloon and brothel.”
Camellia, catching her breath, moved the handful of skirts once again, as if concerned that mere propinquity might soil the garment. “I’m surprised you would say such a thing to me.”
Another shrug, done well with wide shoulders in a neat cream-colored broadcloth. “You asked. Think I oughta spin some yarn, just b’
cause you’re not used to hearin’ the truth? So. You’re a mail order bride, huh?”
“I am,” she responded tartly. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Nope. Just wishin’ I’d sent off my own request to this agency Ben used. I’d say he got lucky to beat the band.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know that—”
“Hark, the fair maiden blushes.” His eyes were twinkling. Green eyes, she noticed, in a moment of uncertainty. Bright green eyes that, like her husband’s, seemed to see far too much. “Although, since this is your weddin’ night, I reckon you won’t be a maiden much longer, will you?”
She bridled. “Doctor. You forget yourself.”
“Doctor. It’s because I’m a doctor that I know these things. Got any questions to ask me about this whole marriage fandango that your sainted mama couldn’t answer?”
“My mother is dead. And, no, I haven’t.” She turned sharply sideways in her chair—a definite rebuff—wondering where on earth her husband had gotten to and why he wasn’t rescuing her from this uncouth, ill-mannered man.
“Ah, me.” The ill-mannered man sighed dramatically. “I seem to make enemies wherever I go. Since Ben is neglecting his marital duties—at least as far as keeping you company—perhaps I can atone for my boorishness. Might I fetch you a glass of punch, Mrs. Forrester?”
She really had no choice but to relent. It was a beautiful, breezy day, after all: her wedding day, when only good will should run rampant. And, undoubtedly, in this small town, she would come into contact with the doctor more often than she wanted. So she reluctantly climbed down from her high horse and accepted. Yes, she would appreciate a glass of punch, and thank you.
“I’ll just be a moment.” Dr. Havers rose and started off, but paused for a final remark: “Has your husband told you how mighty fine you’re lookin’, ma’am? That is a beautiful dress you’re wearin’, and you surely do it justice. Yes, sir, you surely do.”
Camellia, biting her lip, watched as he wandered cheerfully away. How had he known? How had he struck upon that one niggling thought that had hurt her heart? Certainly, if he had noticed, Ben had said nothing about her appearance. Nothing about her lovely dress, or the stack of her black curly hair twisted up into a becoming style, or the flowers (wilting now) that she had carried to meet him at the altar.
Was she such a petty, insecure person that she needed flattery to soothe a wounded ego? No, not really. But some acknowledgement might have served as a wedding gift, to ease the transition from maidenhood to womanhood. The lack left her feeling a little bereft, a little hungry. Was this to set the tone for their marriage?
Well, it was early yet. Perhaps a compliment—even a comment, yea or nay—might come later.
When the good doctor returned, skillfully weaving in between and around the crowd carrying two overfull glass cups in his hands, Ben was seated at the table beside his bride. Immediately Gabriel plopped down at the opposite corner.
“Ha. ’Bout time you decided to stop neglectin’ your bride. Got the Putnams all settled, didja?”
Ben shot him a significant look. “Not hardly the sorta men—or situation—you wanna mention to a lady, Doc.”
“Yeah, well, that ship has sailed, my friend. She already knows all about ’em. What’d those two thugs want?”
“Mayor business.” The groom’s mood appeared a trifle ruffled.
“Ahuh.” Gabriel made himself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other in an easy southern gentleman way. “Shoulda had more sense than to consult you on your weddin’ day, then, doncha think? Shoulda waited to bring up their nefarious schemes in your office, durin’ regular hours, right? Meanwhile, you do realize you’re a lucky son of a gun?”
Disgruntlement had deepened into irritation. “Man, you’re always goin’ off the deep end somewheres. What truck are you talkin’ about, now, Gabe?”
The doctor waved an elegant hand toward Camellia, who had sat silent but intently listening for the past few minutes. “Why, in your new wife, o’ course. Hope you’re properly grateful.”
Amazingly, his whole countenance softened, and he gave her a small smile. “I am.”
“B’cause she’s one mighty handsome woman, there, Benjamin, my lad. Lotta backbone, too.”
“Yes, I know. Camellia is mighty handsome, especially—” Ben paused for an audible swallow, “—in that dress. It’s quite—quite an outfit.”
“Yeah, I reckon she’ll do you proud, all up and down the street, whenever you—”
Camellia broke out into laughter. She couldn’t help it; this conversation was just getting sillier and sillier, no matter that she was finding an able champion, and perhaps a friend, in the redoubtable Dr. Havers.
“There, now, y’ see?” Gabe beamed, took a hefty sip from his cup, and beamed some more. “Just plain lucky. I want one exactly like her.”
“You expect to put your order in with a travelin’ tinker?” inquired Ben mildly. “Or maybe over the counter at my store?”
He seemed, suddenly, to be enjoying himself, and Camellia appreciated the fact that this appeared due to the doctor’s presence. She would have to watch his technique, and learn from it. A teasing, rather than critical, attitude might be just what was needed to grease the skids, so to speak. A lightness of mood could certainly improve what was bound to be a rough spot now and then in this fledgling marriage.
“Nope. But I figure the lady must be feelin’ a mite peckish. If you don’t get her some weddin’ lunch right soon, she’s likely to pass out from starvation.”
A faint look of alarm so instantly passed over Ben’s face—increasingly more expressive than she had noted at first blush—that Camellia giggled. “No, never fear, that won’t happen,” she assured him in a wifely tone. “Although I must admit I wouldn’t refuse getting something to eat. The scents that are wafting my way smell absolutely delicious.”
Enough tables had been set up, close to the back door of the church, with enough variety of dishes available for the line of hungry guests, ever mindful of those still waiting, to move along quickly. Cooks from several restaurants were proudly displaying their wares: Irish stew; meat pies and game pies; tender roast beef; thick slices of sugar-cured ham, spiraled onto a platter; whole chickens roasted to a golden brown crispness; bowls of thick dark gravy; mounds of mashed potatoes, flavored with butter and onion; creamed parsnips and pickled red beets; dishes of white hominy and others of white rice; stewed prunes; apple pudding and tapioca. Several of the largest blue enamel coffeepots were being kept at a continual boil over an open fire; another, separate table held hot tea and condiments and the punch bowl whose contents someone occasionally surreptitiously replenished via a silver flask.
Some little while after stuffing themselves into an almost lethargic state, the crowd was treated to—and sent huzzahs of approval toward—the cake-cutting ceremony by the bride and groom. Slices served on crockery plates proved to be a delicious concoction, filled with delicacies like currants and candied citron and a splash of wine and brandy for flavor, topped off by almond icing and white icing.
A round of toasts followed, exuberant or mellow, depending upon each speaker and his mood. The more outgoing offered cheers and laughter; the more subdued merely lifted their cups or bottles or glasses in acknowledgement.
At one point, Camellia plucked lightly at her bridegroom’s sleeve. “Who were the men standing up for you during the ceremony?” since one of them, slightly tipsy, had already stood and was praising Ben Forrester to the skies.
Eyes half-closed, he had leaned contentedly back in his chair. For who does not appreciate being heaped with lavish acclaim? “Oh, that one is Percy Cantwell—owns a little farm out west of town. I’ve known him a few years. The other’n is Austin Blakely, he’s a deputy in the sheriff’s department. Met him some time back when I—well, I got into a little trouble with the law.”
His new bride nearly fell off her chair. “You? Trouble? I can’t imagine the staid Ben Forrester ever
doing anything—”
“Well, since you must know, and people would take great pleasure in tellin’ you if you asked, I caught a fellah kickin’ his dog. So I kicked the fellah. And I took away the dog. Me and Aus, we didn’t quite see eye to eye on the whole procedure. Now, hush, and listen to my good friends assure you what a fine man you’ve married.”
Eventually, once everyone had given the food time to digest, and they’d had a chance to catch up on town gossip and local and national news, the music started.
Camellia could hear the tentative bowing of a violin, and strings of both a guitar and a bass being plucked. Turning slightly, she realized with surprise that Molly had joined the motley group at a small piano that had been hauled into place under the darkening trees.
“C’mon, man, you gotta strut your stuff,” urged Gabriel, who had returned to the couple after a leisurely circuit of the guests. “It’s only right you take your bride out for the weddin’ dance.”
Ben made no effort to hide his annoyance. “I swear, you are worse for hangin’ around than a tick on a dog. Don’t you have some patients to go kill, or somethin’?”
“Not at the moment. Everybody is bein’ right considerate. G’wan, now, son. If you won’t be the lady’s squire, I will.”
With a roll of the eyes, and a heartfelt martyred sigh, Ben put down his cup and pulled his big sturdy frame upright. Reaching for Camellia’s hand, he sketched a semi-bow and asked respectfully if he might have the pleasure of taking her onto the floor, ma’am.
They were the first, and only, couple to hearken to the appropriate strains of “Bridal Eve Polka.” Which was, of course, as it should have been; after all, the Forresters were those being honored on this occasion.
Feeling all eyes upon them in the gathering dusk, as they circled and pranced, Camellia did her best to follow her husband’s steps. Clearly inexperienced in this lively jounce around the area, Ben was doing his best, as well. Finally, mercifully, it came to an end, and he could make his escape, dragging Camellia alongside.