Chapter Six
SHE SLOWLY OPENED HER eyes to a scene of such quiet, such stark and simple beauty, that it seemed the lengthy trip southward from St. Louis might have done her in, after all, and she had simply expired. If this were heaven, it might not be too unpalatable.
The room’s very simplicity was vastly appealing. Bare plastered walls, plain white, with not a single framed Daguerreotype or printed motto to relieve the monotony; a floor of some dark irregularly grained wood; the ample iron bedstead, overlaid with colorful quilts and pillows; several chairs and tables scattered about, and a selection of lamps; two large windows that looked out onto whatever landscape lay below.
With a sigh that came all the way from her toes, she tried moving the muscles that had never stopped aching, and slightly elevating the head that had never stopped hurting, to cast another glance around at her surroundings.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty. About time you come back to earth.”
Camellia managed a weak, weary smile. “Hello, Hannah, dear. Pray tell, where am I?”
“After your untimely keeling over—which frightened the liver out of all of us, I might add—Mr. Forrester shanghaied you from our clutches. You have been installed in a guest bedroom on the second floor of his house.”
“Oh. Uh. Just me, all by myself?”
Hannah, who, book in hand, had been occupying a worn but comfortable chair in the corner for several hours—and, to judge by her settled-in position, babysitting—chuckled with relief that her beloved sister had not succumbed to some dread and fatal illness.
“Not a bit, silly goose. I think it is extremely fortunate that your prospective husband is such a take-charge individual. Let me tell you what happened.”
Once again Johnny-on-the-spot, Ben Forrester had caught his exhausted mail order bride before she could kiss the dust at her feet and swept her into his arms. Then, barking an order at the remaining three women, still huddled together and as yet unidentified, to follow, he had clomped away. He was muttering under his breath as he clomped, and only a few flung-out words here and there could be recognized: “Nothin’ to her. Bird’s bones. No stamina to count on. What the blue blazes was she thinkin’, anyway?”
His home was situated in the residential area of town, taking up a whole block of nice green grass and lots of mature trees, all sadly overgrown. After unceremoniously dumping his unconscious burden upon a bed, he had barked more orders to her trembling retinue. Take care of whatever she needed. Make sure she was all right. Get some food in her stomach—and theirs. Then he had snapped that he’d return later, when he could, to straighten out this mess.
Neither his comment nor his expression boded well for the future, but Hannah could hardly report on that part of the day’s experiences!
By now Camellia, feeling much more rested and much less prone to faintness, was sitting up on the double bed. She assumed it had been her sisters who had kindly removed her dusty black boots, undone the buttons on her dress front, and loosened the ties of her corset. She felt a new woman.
Or would, once she had found sustenance.
“Oh, thank heaven, a glass of water. You’re very thoughtful of my well-being, Hen; I find my mouth seems to be filled with sawdust.”
Watching critically, as Camellia gratefully quenched her thirst, Hannah urged caution about plunging too quickly back into her usual routine. “For so many weeks, you’ve been cracking the whip over our heads,” was her somewhat aggrieved reminder, “and driving yourself harder than any hired servant I’ve ever seen. And then those—wagons—!” She gave a heartfelt shudder. “No wonder you fainted. Please go slowly now, if you please.”
Facts which could not be disputed. Camellia cast one exhausted thought backward in time, to the whirlwind of activity which had preceded this arrival at their destination.
Her first order of business, once Mr. Benjamin Hartley Forrester, Esquire, had written a reply definitely proposing marriage to Camellia Estelle Burton, Spinster, was one of necessity: she had gathered up everyone’s personal (and surprisingly substantial) collection of fine jewelry. Over voluble and vehement protest, of course.
“Not all of it, Cam!” Letitia had almost wailed. “That’s just mean!”
Camellia, as overseer of their little band’s future, was not moved. “Very well, two pieces. Keep two pieces back, and that’s it. The rest we must sell for traveling funds.”
As luck would have it, their father had never dipped into his daughters’ cloisonné treasure boxes to fuel his gambling habits. Perhaps he held the gifts he had given them, over the years, as sacrosanct. Then again, befuddled by drink, he may have forgotten the existence of such valuable selections. Whatever the reason, at least the girls were left with quite an assemblage of cameos, rings, bracelets, necklaces, even a tiara or two, all made with precious and semi-precious stones.
The gracious Mr. Llewellyn King had, upon Camellia’s request, taken charge of the booty. Then he had referred her to a well-qualified and experienced trail master—there seemed no end to the man’s connections throughout St. Louise—named Jesse Buchanan. From there on, a number of appointments had been set to discuss what was needed, what could be packed, reliable drivers to be hired, and so on.
After the complete and devastating betrayal by Nathaniel Burton, during the last few months of his regrettable life, Camellia tended to look at most males askance. Could this one possibly be trustworthy? Or that one? Would their few remaining funds also be somehow stolen away, as had all other parts of their inheritance?
Certainly Mr. King had proven himself to be a worthy confidant. She was finding that his business associates followed his lead. Thus she could rely on Jesse to purchase necessary provender for some two months of travel, for some ten adults, plus horses and oxen.
Meanwhile she was working furiously, with her sisters, to pack their wardrobes and personal possessions into a startling number of trunks, cases, wooden boxes, and carpet bags, ready for transport to the great unknown. And, as always, the brunt of running the whole show, dealing with tears and occasional near-mutiny, overcoming the stigma of destitution, had fallen upon Camellia’s slender shoulders.
And there was the emotional toll, as well. The young Burtons were leaving behind the safe, secure life protected by ivied walls to venture out into the world, abandoning all they had known and loved for who knew
what fearsome future.
Camellia had, on the sly, shed a few tears herself.
On behalf of the orphaned Burton girls, Mr. King worked with the bank to settle up debts as quickly as possible. By vacating the premises about to be foreclosed at an earlier date than scheduled, they were able to recoup a small but reassuring amount of fees and charges. All cash and coin went into the designated Turnabout fund, ready for whatever emergencies might come along.