“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.