by Sierra Rose
Hannah Burton could easily end up as the most famous, and the wealthiest resident of their little hamlet.
Shoving aside her afghan, Camellia rose somewhat creakily and stretched her arms overhead.
“Something I can get for you, Cam?”
“I’ve just been sitting in one place too long, Hen. I need to move a bit. Also, I’m starving, and it’s nowhere near time for supper. Let’s go see what’s available in the kitchen.”
By the time Ben returned from the store a little later, the sisters were huddled over the kitchen table, enjoying plates of snacks culled from the cold safe.
They had exchanged tidbits about Letty and Reese (nothing really new, there, except that Letty had presented her husband with one of Abel Norton’s rambunctious pups, and that in itself required adaptation), gossiped about any of the town doings which had not yet hit the newspaper (Mrs. McKnight was stepping out with a younger man, identity unknown), and discussed plans for the future (everything rosy so far, and would remain so, God willin’ and the Creek don’t rise).
“Huh. Went ahead and had supper without me, didja? Hard-workin’ husband comes home, hungry as a hog, and nothin’ here to eat.” Shaking the rain droplets off his hat, he hung up his coat, dashed his hands into a basin of water, and snagged one large chunk of cheese from the platter. “That don’t seem quite fair. Rainin’ to beat the band out there, and here you are, snug as a bug.”
He bent to press his cold cheek against Camellia’s. Romance. And subterfuge. Adroitly he grabbed a couple of Hannah’s bakery cookies.
“Oh, wait, Ben, dear. I’m sorry—we got to talking, and I lost track of time. It won’t take but a minute to heat up some potatoes and the last of the roast. You deserve something hearty.”
Immediately Hannah rose to collect used crockery for a trip to the sink. “I’ve intruded long enough, anyway. Let me gather my things, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Don’t rush off on my account,” said Ben amiably, lifting the lid of the teapot only to realize it was empty. “Stay and eat with us.”
“No, no. I have things to do. A book to read. Ads to pursue.” She flashed one quick glance at Camellia.
“Well, hang on there, sister-in-law.” Ben, who had picked up the Gazette from its place on the settee, turned back. “You maybe ain’t looked outside the window lately, it bein’ so close to dark, and all, but it’s comin’ down cats and dogs. Lemme get our ole bumbershoot, and I’ll walk you home.”
Hannah felt a great rush of gratitude for his thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Ben, I’d really appreciate that. I suppose now I’ll have to retract all those dreadful complaints I’ve made about you.”
“Huh.” He snorted. “I wouldn’t bet on that happenin’ anytime soon.”
“You know I love you, right?”
“You have to. We’re family.”
They both laughed.
Chapter Six
Lonesome, hardworking man looking for mate, marriage in mind.
Contact Stenton Ward in City of Lincoln.
Established businessman seeking wife with big heart to share future.
Just want true happiness. Good prospects in small town; will be well cared for.
If interested, please respond to “Ualraig,” c/o this newspaper
Rip-roarin’ gold miner in Montana struck it rich,
wants to show special lady a good time in true conjugal fashion.
Must be pretty and lively. Needs to know how to cook over open fire.
Get hold of Billy LaRue Sonata at Last Chance Gulch, Montana.
Honorable matrimonial engagement
sought by
lumberjack in northern Minnesota.
Want someone who is clean and neat and strong enough to wield an axe.
My name is Arne Olmstead. I am 38 years old and in excellent physical condition.
I can be reached through The Rochester Examiner.
WITH INCREASING DISMAY, Hannah looked over the scanty list she had accumulated. Slim pickin’s, all right. Were these the sorts of advertisements with which her sisters had had to contend, during their forays into the alien world of mail order brides? It was a wonder any one of them had been able to select a husband who was even standing and breathing, let alone one who was attractive. In fact, all three of her brothers-in-law could be considered quite a catch, with intelligence, compassion, sense of humor, and industry combined.
How was it she might end up as such a failure, drawing upon only this bunch of—dare she say it?—losing candidates? Only one looked good. It stood out. But the others didn’t seem like good prospects.
Checking the various personal notices, to see what might be available, didn’t mean she was quite ready to dabble her toes in the water with an ad of her own. Not yet. That required a tad more courage than she could possibly muster, at the moment.
“Ualraig,” she repeated, momentarily bypassing most of the other hopeful little blurbs. “What on earth is that, anyway? A name? A place? And how does one pronounce it?”
“Then why choose him?”
“Because he’s looking for the same thing as me: happiness.”
She decided to take her questions to Abigail, the know-all, be-all of Turnabout society. Fortunately, the lady was present tonight, and could be approached at a break in conversation.
Camellia had wanted to host a Christmas party. Nothing elaborate, she insisted, when Ben’s gaze, startled and skeptical, flew to her expanding middle. Just the family, and a few friends. It would probably be her last chance in indulge in some sociality before winter set in and she got to be too elephantine to move.
Understandably, he protested. Had she forgotten he would be gone, and she would be left alone, during the planned trip to Manifest next week?
“Oh, pooh.” Smiling sweetly, she had sidled closer to the kitchen table, where he was sitting, to stand behind his chair and wrap both arms around his sturdy shoulders. “You know that you and Reese can be there and back in just three days, easily. Even with my sisters staying here—I won’t be alone, at all—you’ll be anxious to get back. Won’t you, Ben?”
Bending forward, she lay her cheek upon his hair, tightened her clasp across his chest, and rubbed her expanding bosom against his shoulder blades. Pregnant she might be, with a swollen belly between them; but, by such loving gestures, she had learned, Ben could be easily moved. With a groan, he shook his head and resisted.
“Don’t you try your wiles on me, darlin’. You think I’ll fall right into your trap, but I—uh—oh, now, that ain’t fair, when it’s eight o’clock in the—uh...stop that, you she-devil—I gotta go to work, and you’re just—Camellia, ain’t you got no shame?”
“No. I have none,” she purred, “where you’re concerned. About this party...”
“Honey, that’s an awful lotta work for you. Cleanin’, and fixin’ food...”
“The girls will help with whatever I need to have done.”
Staring down at his empty plate, he said gloomily, “And I s’pose you’d wanna decorate the house, too.”
“Well, of course. This will be our first Christmas together. It should be special, don’t you think?”
He surrendered. What else could he do, when faced with such logic? And determination. Gently pulling free, he shoved away from the table and turned to embrace her. “All right, then, gol’ dang it. I’ll make sure Reese and I skitter on out and back in jig time, and I’ll follow whatever orders you have waitin’ for me. Now. Let’s see if you wanna finish what you started.”
So Camellia had gotten her party. Of course, her sisters assured her, they would be delighted to help. Not with cooking, mercy me, no. Molly had had to admit that poor Paul sometimes gave up on the inedible plate of something that she served him for dinner and blithely went off to take his meal at the Sittin’ Eat.
“I’m learning,” she had asserted. “But my skills have nowhere near gotten to the place where I’d want outsiders tasting samples. So I’ll just find myself somethin�
�� else to do, all right?”
Christmas, December Twenty-fifth, fell on a Sunday. With church services in mind, and other family gatherings to consider, Camellia set the date for the Saturday week prior, on the Seventeenth. Which was cutting things close, with so many details to attend to.
But willing hands make short work. By the time Ben and Reese returned, having stolen an extra day away to deal with a few minor problems that had arisen, the house had been cleaned within an inch of its life. Windows had been washed, inside and out, despite the frosty weather; carpets had been beaten to a pulp, and draperies shaken loose of dust. Sets of porcelain dinner service were collected from every cupboard of the three sisters, as were small tables and chairs, various festive tablecloths and napkins, serving ware, silver utensils, and so on.
“My, oh, my,” murmured Ben, entering with some trepidation upon all this activity, and hoping that he had been able to miss most of it.
Camellia was looking a little flurried, a little frowsy, but delicious as usual, with her misshapen form wrapped by a full-length apron and her hair bundled into an old scarf. “Oh. You’re home.”
“Well, yeah, I am. You don’t need to sound so overjoyed about seein’ me again.”
“Oh, Ben, sweetheart, don’t be silly.” She rushed into his arms for a hug and a most satisfactory kiss. “Here, you must be hungry. Come sit down and I’ll heat up some supper. Was it a good trip?”
“Fair to middlin’, I reckon. Ah, that looks mighty tasty, Cam. We got back later than expected, so I’m more’n ready to eat.”
They talked, in bits and pieces, while he wolfed down his pork roast, sugared cinnamon rolls, and creamed turnips, and she kept him company while sneaking a little of this or that from his plate. He reported on the ease of the eighty-mile round trip (“Gettin’ to be old hat, by now.”) and a few mistakes with shipping and delivery that had had to be corrected (“That temporary manager ain’t doin’ a bad job, but he needs experience under his belt. He’ll be fine till I can move Jimmy down there, the first of the year.”)
Camellia, for her part, was happy to describe what had been done in the way of preparations, here on the home front, and what remained still to do.
“Which brings me to you, my dearest husband.”
“Ahuh.” Ben, recognizing that tone, eyed her warily. His meal finished, he had leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table to work his way through a cup of hot coffee. “What great goin’s-on have you got planned for me?”
“Well, much as I would like to handle this myself, I’m hardly in a shape...” She glanced down at her protruding middle, then back to him, inferring her lack of a figure was his fault, anyway, and he owed her for it. “Could you go out tomorrow—well, yes, I realize you need to check in at the Mercantile, but possibly later—and fetch us our tree?”
“Tree? A tree?”
“Well, yes, a Christmas tree. The girls and I used to visit a farm, outside of St. Louis, each year, to choose one. Well—except for last year, not with so much happening. At any rate—”
His look was one of confusion, as if someone near and dear were suddenly taking unfair advantage of a man weary and worn. “Where in Sam Hill am I s’posed to find a tree?”
Chuckling, she patted his arm. “An evergreen, Ben. To decorate. I don’t know—surely there are woods round about. Can’t you ask Jimmy or Elvira where people can find Christmas trees? Oh, and I’ll need fresh ferns and boxwood, as well, to use in garlands. I suppose you’d better borrow a buckboard from Abel.”
For male support, and for companionship, Ben browbeat his brother into going along. Reese would have much preferred staying home with his bride, since he and Letitia had been wed but a few weeks, and he’d missed her during the three days away. But Ben and his determined arm-twisting—or his hangdog expression—prevailed, so off the two of them went.
They spent a full afternoon tramping through the hills and an outlying timber in their search for the perfect pine, to Camellia’s specifications. Forewarned is forearmed. Ben provided the transportation; Reese provided the extra manpower muscle and a full bottle of spirits. To keep their spirits up, naturally, under a bleak and dreary sky. And to keep gloved hands warm. And to keep blood flowing freely. It would never do to go out unprepared.
For those who could afford the more expensive of what was offered, home decorations at this time of year filled the rooms with scent and color. And those who couldn’t made their own: tallow candles, strings of popped corn and cranberries, greenery culled from someone’s garden or field. Five years ago, after hostilities had ceased and a truce was signed, binding two bloodied disparate regions into one nation once again, had come an almost giddiness of celebration, with excess galore to make up for those war years of sparseness and paucity and privation.
So, during her husband’s absence, Camellia had excitedly taken herself to Forrester’s Mercantile, where she had reveled to her heart’s content in the Christmas decorations Ben had had brought out to display. And sell. Angel ornaments dressed in gold and lace; Mercury glass birds and stars and glittery pine cones; beeswax tapers to be clipped onto branches and then lighted; cardboard rolls of red ribbon; large embellished stockings made especially to hang at the mantel.
Next on Camellia’s list was to plan the menu, then purchase and prepare what would be served. Eggnog, of course; cups of bouillon; snowflake potatoes; Porterhouse rolls; peas in mint sauce; a large roast turkey with giblet gravy and cranberry relish; Parisian salad; macaroons, fruit cake, and mince pie.
Ben could only groan aloud when she read this litany aloud to him.
“Darlin’, my belly is hurtin’ already, just hearin’ about all that fine fare. How much longer do I haveta wait till this grand event?”
Ambitious, to say the least. Some dishes could be made ahead of time, others would be last-minute. For this, for serving guests, and for clean-up after, Camellia had decided to hire the two teen-aged daughters of Mrs. Grace Ellen Tucker, president of the Ladies’ Aid Society at church. It seemed an arrangement that would work out well for everyone.
Every room spic and span? Check. Holiday adornments in place? Check. Foodstuffs arranged and table linens organized? Check. Now it was just a matter of choosing something fabulous to wear.
“Oh, look at that!” moaned Camellia, as she turned from side to side in front of the big cheval bedroom mirror. “I’m as big as a house!”
The weather was, not surprisingly, inclement, on this winter day, with volleys of wind and rain splashing about and trees flinging down matted wet leaves to impede the path of any unwary passerby. Concerned, Camellia had sent Ben to retrieve Hannah and her incidentals, with plenty of time to dress and take care of any last-minute details before the party started.
“Of course you’re not,” Hannah soothed from the security of her own slender figure, clad in party attire of sinuous sapphire velvet. “Why not just wrap yourself in that beautiful Spanish lace shawl Mother left you, and fasten it with her cameo pin?”
“Yeeesss...” Dissatisfaction in the tone. “How did I get so caught up with everything else that I didn’t plan my own outfit?”
“Because, Cam, dear, you’ve always been more concerned for the pleasure of family and friends than for yourself. Now, hush, and let’s go downstairs. Guests will soon be arriving.”
“I remember that gown of yours, Hen,” Camellia realized, as they started into the hall.
“You should. Papa let me buy it for my sixteenth birthday.”
Another critical but fond look. “How fortunate that you’ve not gained weight since then. The dress fits like a dream, and you look beautiful.”
Ben, all gussied up in his wedding suit, was already playing host—to himself. That is, he was sampling the eggnog. A slight flush of his freshly shaven face indicated that this wasn’t his first sampling.
“Did you find the taste satisfactory, my love?” asked Camellia, with a quiver of amusement.
“Yup. ’Specially after I added a trifle m
ore whiskey. What?” He feigned innocence. “Somebody had to make sure the stuff passes muster.”
The girls, Anna May and Phoebe, as alike in their country cream freshness and pigtailed blonde hair as twins, stood giggling in the kitchen, waiting for instructions. Time for the festivities to begin.
Chapter Seven
AS IF THAT CUP OF SPIKED eggnog were a catalyst for the evening, a soft west wind swept away the rain—at least temporarily, enough for the invited guests to make it from their surreys to the front door without being drenched to the skin. The women, in their finery, certainly appreciated a slight interruption of cold moisture.
Molly and Paul came hurrying in, laughing, their outwear sparkling here and there from a few derelict raindrops. The young Mrs. Winslow, emerging from her heavy coat, revealed a confection of peach shot silk, gussied up with scallops and pleats, bertha trimming, and a skirt rendered so full from its hoops that she could barely make it through the door. Camellia, greeting the couple, wondered not too facetiously if Paul had somehow come into possession of a private fortune, so that he could afford his wife’s extravagant (but oh so becoming) wardrobe.
Letitia and Reese hurried in right behind them. Letty’s party dress, unwrapped, was neither new nor expensive, but extremely flattering, with its shimmering emerald, flat-paneled skirt, and low-cut bodice covered in creamy lace.
Camellia was struck by the thought that the Burton sisters had been singularly blessed. With such a milk-and-roses complexion and such black curly hair, each could wear nearly any color and appear quite ravishing.
Consider Hannah, for instance, clothed in the birthday sapphire, sprinkled all over with bits of silver like fairy dust, and cinched in at her slender waist with wide velvet ribbon. Seven-years-old, that lovely outfit, and slightly out of fashion; yet by hue and by design it might have been made for a princess.