by Sierra Rose
“Yeah, we all got a cross to bear,” agreed Paul dryly.
“Fandangoing?” Hannah, brows raised, murmured in an aside to no one in particular.
The house seemed abnormally quiet when the three men with their bulk and essential maleness finally departed. Both Camellia and Hannah, having seen them to the door and beyond, had collapsed in utter exhaustion at the table, almost too weary even to talk.
Camellia, her beautiful blue eyes ringed by fatigue and marked by the bruises of her ordeal, looked around. Following two full hours of rough masculine occupation, cooking, and its aftermath, the kitchen was left a shambles, that smelled disagreeably of grease.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured.
“Not surprising,” agreed her sister with alacrity. “You’ve been living in a three-ring circus for the last two days. Not to mention being drugged. Let’s just sit for a few minutes, shall we, Cam? I’m worn out myself.”
What coffee remained in the pot had turned black and thick as sludge. Hannah heated water and, for a pleasant change, brewed tea instead. Plenty of sugar helped both mood and spirits as they simply enjoyed sipping.
“Lemons,” Camellia, fingers wrapped around a more delicate porcelain cup unearthed from the cupboard and elbows propped on the table in defiance of etiquette, said dreamily. “I’m craving a nice tall glass of cool lemonade. Wouldn’t that be delicious? I want to go shopping for groceries, and buy some lemons.”
“Mmmm. Sure you’ll feel up to it? You’ll probably be the brunt of town gossip, the way that face of yours looks.”
Camellia shrugged. “As to that, I was the innocent victim of an attack. The gossip will be all about me, I’m afraid, no matter what I do or where I go. Tell me, Hen, are Molly and Letitia carrying on all right? When we went out to supper, the other night, they sounded particularly unhappy.”
“They’re just trying to adjust, that’s all, and you were willing to listen to their problems. They need to get busy and stay busy. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, you know. Don’t be concerned about it, Cam. You have enough to deal with,” the tilt of her head indicated a parlor full of wounded, unconscious husband, “as it is.”
Involuntarily Camellia’s gaze shifted. “Dr. Havers seems to be rather—indifferent—to Ben’s condition, don’t you think? As if he’s trying to convalesce from a—a mere sprained ankle, or something, instead of a near-fatal bullet wound.”
Hannah stretched one hand across the table top to cover her sister’s. “I think he doesn’t want to worry you, dear. Remember, he did say how healthy Ben is, and how strong. He’ll just need time to recover.”
She found his bearded face very warm to the touch, when she knelt beside his recumbent form a little later. But, then, to her understanding, fever was a way for the body to fight off infection. So perhaps that was a good thing, and nothing to be terribly concerned about. Hannah, like the good sister she was, was already piling dirty dishes into the sink full of hot, soapy water and scrubbing off counters and stove, leaving Camellia to tend to her patient.
That he was in pain, even insensible, showed in his occasional restless movement, and in the new lines carved around his temperate mouth and between his brows. But he did not wake. Camellia, after more careful sponging with fresh cool water, pulled a chair closer to watch over him. Like a guardian angel.
After a period of clinking and splashing in the kitchen, during which she seemed to letting off steam, Hannah, drying her hands on a tea towel, came briefly to join her.
“Do you care—so much?” she asked quietly, standing next to the chair to lay an arm across her sister’s shoulders.
“He’s my husband,” Camellia responded in a simple, matter-of-fact voice.
“Yes, honey, I know. But I mean—do you care?”
Camellia raised eyes both troubled and unsure. “We had a—a horrible fight, Hen, just before he left for Manifest. I hadn’t wanted to tell you. To burden you.”
“Oh, Cam. Who could you talk to, if not me?” Hurt registered on Hannah’s face, so very like her own. “Haven’t you taken care of all of us, all these years? Looked out for us? Went into a mail order marriage to support us? Of course you wouldn’t burden me.”
“Not even two days together,” reflected Camellia mournfully, “and the quarrel sprang up out of nowhere, until we weren’t speaking at all. He didn’t even say goodbye Monday morning! It was so awful, Hannah—as if...it was as if we hated each other!”
“I can’t imagine how hard this must have been,” said Hannah with rich sympathy.
“He went away, on this business trip, and then such—such terrible events took place, one after the next, that we haven’t had a chance to talk. To come to an understanding. To make up, and for me to make amends. And now—” she stopped, to bring one trembling hand to her trembling mouth,
“—now, we possibly never will have that chance!”
“Ssssh, ssssh,” Hannah, her heart breaking, softly urged. The lovely skirts of her sunny cambric striped dress rustled as she slipped to her knees beside the upholstered chair. “Of course you will, Cammy, and I won’t let you think otherwise. The fact that he’s survived thus far is a remarkable testament to his stamina, don’t you believe?”
“I—I suppose...”
“And, don’t forget, I saw the way he looked at you last night, before he left on his mission. It’s true I don’t know much about men, but there was a whole world of hope in his eyes.”
Camellia’s woebegone expression lightened. “Oh, you really think that’s true?”
“More than think, Cam, dear. I know it’s true.”
Just then the large form taking up space, that resembled nothing so much as a giant canvas bag gone limp and slack because emptied of its stuffing, stirred slightly. With a barely audible groan, Ben slowly opened his eyes, looked blankly about without comprehension or intelligence, and closed his eyes again.
“There, you see?” hissed Hannah in triumph. Her fingers dug into Camellia’s with prehensile intensity. “I told you so!”
“Yes,” Camellia, heart suddenly hammering in a rapid-fire tattoo, agreed weakly. “You did, indeed, tell me so.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I HAVE COME, MR. DUNLAP, to throw myself upon your mercy.”
Jimmy, who had been exerting his mighty man muscles to insert a crowbar between the lid and bottom of a wooden crate, to aide in prying it open, looked up with a smile. “And what is it I can help you with today, Mrs. Ferguson?”
Camellia was looking her prettiest on this sunny Saturday morning, in a cool blue and white dress with low-cut square collar, three-quarter length sleeves that ended in a long flounce, the very smallest of bustles, and piping for trim in a hue that rivaled Queen Victoria’s costliest royal sapphire.
Perched on her head was a cunning little straw hat covered in rosettes; thrust onto her feet were shoes of light gray satin, embellished with a dark gray bow.
Or, at least, she might have been looking her prettiest, if not for the fading discoloration, left by Earl Putnam’s massive hands, in hues that didn’t match her dress at all.
“Oh, but, ma’am!” Startled after getting a good look in the full light of day, the assistant came forward to take her gloved hand. “Please, do come sit down. I heard how badly you were hurt, and what happened to Ben and all, but I didn’t realize—here, can I get you a cup of tea or somethin’?”
“That would be delightful, Mr. Dunlap,” graciously assented Camellia, taking the chair he had pulled forward for her. “But I’m not here to take up your time when I know how hectic things are. You and Miss Gotham must be furiously busy here at the store, with Mr. Forrester—Mr. Forrester...”
It was no use. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth, refusing to form the words.
Jimmy, taking pity on her plight, stepped into the breach. “Oh, ma’am. The sheriff stopped by to let us know his condition. I hope you haven’t come to tell me that he’s—he’s—” A gulp.
“No, no, please—I’m sorry to be acting so like a silly woman today—” But just wait until I can sink my teeth into the meat of what I intend—! “You must understand that this is the first I’ve set foot out of my house in—well, my goodness, several days. And I’m just a little giddy. No, Mr. Forrester is actually showing a slight improvement, and we’re all simply thrilled.”
She couldn’t help it. For one dazzling moment, she spun back in time to that lovely Thursday supper hour. She and Hannah were consulting in the kitchen over what supplies were available and what recipes their fertile imaginations might produce, when she had heard the muffled thud of one stockinged foot landing on the parlor floor and the croak of a rusty voice.
Like a demented bird, beating its wings, she had flown.
“Ben,” she breathed, skidding to a precipitate halt beside the settee.
He wasn’t physically able to move more than a few muscles (try though he might). He wasn’t able to speak more than a few words before running out of steam. But he was able to look at her with recognition. And respect. And relief. And something else...
“Cam. Darlin’.”
She shivered a little. Since the first time she had heard that sweet word, uttered with such concern and that “something else,” as recently as yesterday, he had won her heart. As easily and completely as that, did he but realize it. Nothing else mattered; all else could be fixed.
Kneeling on the rug, as near as she could be without actually joining him on the settee, leaning down, she murmured, “Ben,” in a tone rich with longing.
“Here...safe...?”
“Yes, Ben,” she assured him. “You’re home. You’re safe. You’re with me.”
“Good...” Exhausted but determined, he fumbled weakly for her hand. “Always—with you...”
For some time, the wounded man lay still and silent, content with her presence. While Hannah fumbled around uncomplainingly with pots and pans in the kitchen. Finally Camellia had gently freed herself from her sleeping husband’s loose clasp to return to duty. She had gained some slight knowledge of culinary skills since her wedding, and it was only right that she should put them to use. She could at least fry eggs!
Hannah, who was mixing ingredients together in a bowl—flour? and baking powder? a dab of milk? Biscuits, evidently—looked up, pleased. “He woke, Cam? He actually woke? How encouraging is that!”
“He did, Hen. And he knew me. And he looked so—so—” Camellia’s every muscle tightened with another delighted shiver. “Well. At any rate, next time he wakes, I plan on fetching Dr. Havers. I’m not strong enough, and he will have to help Ben with the—uh—more—personal—functions.”
“I understand. A rather delicate task.”
“Yes. As soon as I mix up our griddle cake batter, I’ll run upstairs and bring down the—uh—the convenience.”
And she had, and he had, and by early evening, when the doctor came to visit and willingly performed his task (in the study, for privacy), Ben was already more alert and slightly more talkative.
“You need to make this boy some good rich soup,” opined Gabriel, tucking up to the table with a napkin stuffed into his collar. Supper was ready, wasn’t it? He might as well get a home-cooked meal, mightn’t he? Food was food, especially if he didn’t have to prepare it with his own two hands. Except—the menu around here could get a trifle boring, because he was once again being served...
“Don’t we have eggs pretty often, Cam?” Hannah, staring at her plate almost cross-eyed in resignation, wondered aloud.
“My thought, exactly.”
Hannah looked down her nose at him. “Beggars can’t be choosers, doctor. Why don’t you get a wife of your own, and then you can eat at home?”
The grin on Gabriel’s face stretched wide. “An excellent suggestion. Are you applyin’ for the position?”
She gave a delicate shudder. “Heaven forfend.”
The bickering—good-natured enough for the time being, Camellia had noticed—continued throughout the meal; and the doctor, having nothing better to do at the moment, stayed chatting with an occasionally lucid Ben until Hannah marched to the front door and pointedly flung it open. With a sigh, Gabe had assisted his patient to the private downstairs bathroom one last time, then offered the ladies an elaborate bow and disappeared.
And thus had passed Thursday, Camellia, sipping at the tea Jimmy Dunlap had so willingly brought her, now recalled.
Friday’s busy hours had slipped by in even happier fashion. Ben, fortified by half a messy omelet (“Eggs again?” Hannah had sniffed), was actually able to half-sit half-recline on the settee, after his morning visit to the necessary. He had been aided once more by the affable Gabriel, who just happened to stop by.
“Don’t you have a place of your own?” Hannah, scanning him up and down as if he were something disagreeable washed onto a beach, had asked coldly.
The doctor’s dramatic clasp to his heart would have done any repertory actor proud. “Gadzooks. I’m detectin’ a distinct lack of welcome here.”
“Oh, hush up. I suppose you want breakfast, too.”
“Well, I am performin’ a necessary service...”
He was delighted with Ben’s improvement, with barely a day and a half gone by. “Color looks good, everything is startin’ to heal, blood clottin’ in a healthy manner. Yes, sir, Ben, my lad, I do b’lieve you’re gonna survive to harass the rest of us a great long while, after all.”
Camellia, who had helped soak away the old stained bandage with warm water, to be replaced with fresh bindings, was not so sure. She would freely admit that her talents lay in another direction, other than the sickroom parlor. (Although she wasn’t quite sure what those might be.)
The very sight of that wound, with its bruises and gore and shriveled flesh, sent strange little chills up her spine, and she actually felt light-headed. But she set her jaw, pulled up every reserve of strength, and persevered. Whatever the doctor wanted or needed, she would do her best to provide.
Ben was, surprisingly, well enough to growl a minor protest at his treatment. “I ain’t a chunk of wood, straight off—some tree,” he complained.
“If you’re stupid enough to stand there and be shot,” snorted the doctor, neatly tying up the bandage ends, “you’re stoic enough to handle whatever I do to you. Lay still and stop twitchin’.”
“At least give me somethin’ else to eat,” Ben pleaded, when the torture session was finished.
“Somethin’ with some meat in it.”
Hannah, overhearing, had already retreated to the kitchen table, where she was poring over a book of cooking receipts. “I told you, too many eggs,” she muttered.
“Never fear,” Gabe, rising, reassured his patient. “Camellia and I are gonna spend some quality time together, workin’ in front of the stove. Oh, and you, too, Miss Hannah, if you’re interested.”
The wooden box which he had hauled in, that short time ago, contained a number of paper-wrapped parcels. He had then lifted those out, one by one, instructing Camellia to cut the strings while he procured a fry pan and a tall soup pot from her cupboard.
“Didn’t know what all kinda supplies you had around,” he explained, rolling up his shirt sleeves to scrub briskly with soap and water at the sink. “So I hiked myself over to Forrester’s this morning—” the flash of a grin, “and picked up the essentials.”
“Where did you learn so much about fixing a meal?” Hannah, watching from the sidelines, wanted to know.
“My mama gave birth to four sons.” Gabe was patiently demonstrating how to cut a chunk of raw red beef into small pieces, that must then be dredged in seasoned flour before plopping the whole lot into sizzling fat to fry. Already the appetizing aroma had everyone suffering hunger pangs. “She said none of her chicks might ever marry, might always be on our own, without a woman to do for us. So we would at least be taught how to cook our own food and press our own clothes. Believe me, I bless that woman’s name every day of my life.”
&n
bsp; “What was her name?”
“I forgot.” Gabe paused in his stirring of the skillet’s contents to grin disarmingly. “Naw. Of course I couldn’t forget. Her name was Sophia, and she passed along a wagon load of wisdom. Now, let’s just cut up these vegetables, here, Camellia, and get some of that beef stock...”
Soon, with all the ingredients simmering together, the chefs—experienced and beginners—were able to join Ben for a bit of conversation. He was likely to fall into a doze every so often, so he wasn’t very entertaining company. But the doctor figured he might appreciate hearing about the raid on the Putnams’—due, no doubt, to go down in the history of Turnabout as a most daring exploit—now that he was coherent enough to listen.
The tale took the better part of an hour. It might have been finished in more timely fashion, but for the eagerness of three contributors to add their own part in the whole affair. And but for the invalid’s proclivity to ask questions. They shared coffee and Hannah’s biscuits, spread with butter and strawberry jam, while the conversation ebbed and flowed.
The homemade soup turned out to be a rousing success, a little sample of ambrosia straight from heaven. Gabe accepted all compliments with becoming modesty.
Much as Ben had longed to join the group at the table, “to feel human again,” his wishes were determinedly ignored. He ate his dinner from a tray set across his knees.
“Ladies, a fond farewell,” Gabriel offered politely, finally heading for the door. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it, with a flourish. “Much as I hate to depart from your charmin’ company, I do have patients to see. Some that are more grateful than others. Benjamin, my man, I will stop back again this evenin’ to see how you are. Might even let you up tomorrow, God willin’. Camellia, Hannah, I leave you to it.”
“To the mess, you mean,” muttered Hannah, as the door closed behind him. She looked gloomily around at the kitchen, strewn with empty pans and used knives, the discarded tail ends and peels of vegetables, used plates and cups and cutlery. “And why must he always use so much lard?