It was when she and Miss Gotham sat down for that promised serving of tea that Camellia needed to bite her tongue against any criticism. However appealing his stock, visible to customers, he took little care or pride for his workers. The storeroom was a dusty, cramped space, filled with an overflow of masculine items, and her fingers positively itched to clean the cobwebs off the one small window.
And that was just the first item that must be changed.
However, she and Miss Gotham had themselves a nice chat, with Camellia showing interest in her as a person and not just a clerk.
“And you have an invalid mother to care for? How difficult that must be for you. Who watches over her while you are away at the store?”
“I have a lady who comes in for a few hours each day,” Miss Gotham replied primly and offered the china plate of shortbread. “But, yes, you are absolutely correct...things can be—difficult...”
“Especially financially, I am sure,” was Camellia’s sympathetic answer. And made one more mental note: After cleaning out and freshening up this pathetic little space, she must get Ben to discuss salaries with her. She would only have to decide how to go about doing it.
Before she departed, some time later, she had been able to pry more information from Miss Gotham: the name and location of a laundress, a recommendation of which restaurant no one should patronize, and the time when Sunday services were held at the Church of Placid Waters. Then, feeling quite satisfied with her outing, she offered her utmost gratitude to both and slipped out the door.
Strolling home, with her parasol in play, she hoped that neither of those faithful employees had seen her as a spy, come to scout out problems while the boss was gone, in order to report any infractions to him upon his return. She wanted only to know more about the business, to be able to particip
ate in future decisions, to stand in equal partnership with the man who had worked so diligently to put all this together. She wanted to help him achieve his dream. If he would let her.
Of course, if he wouldn’t, realized Camellia, with a resentful tilt of the nose, it would only reinforce her opinion of his bullheadedness that she had been harboring for nearly two days.
She passed any number of townspeople and farm folk as she wandered, exchanging nods and smiles as each went about his legitimate business. Some to purchase goods, some to see their lawyer, some to visit their doctor, some to withdraw funds or deposit cash with their banker.
Two were none of the above.
Her hand was on the gate of the low picket fence surrounding her home when she heard her name being called.
Puzzled, she turned. Only to see two tall, hulking men in rough gear approach her.
“Mrs. Forrester, right?”
Camellia drew herself erect. Their property lay at the outer fringes of town, with the few neighborhood houses, empty at this time of day, still more than a block away. But she would not feel apprehensive. Not yet. “Yes, I am Mrs. Forrester. Have we been introduced?”
“Oh, not formally. Your husband ain’t about to let the likes of us come in contact with a delicate flower like you.” The man smirked. “I’m Earl Putnam, and this yere’s my brother, Eli.”
They looked to be more than brothers. Twins, most likely. The same greasy, slouched hat pulled down over greasy, lank hair; the same gritty, unshaven faces, with hard jaws and hard eyes; the same baggy, stained overalls. Neither prepossessing, by any stretch of the imagination.
From their stance under the trees, they had clumped forward to stalk several steps nearer. Too near. Camellia, feeling the pointed wood of the fence pressing into her back, wanted to take a stick and shoo them away, like chickens. Except they weren’t chickens. They were more like vultures.
“You must excuse me, gentlemen,” and she used the word without even a tongue in cheek. “I have duties calling me inside.”
“I’ll just bet you do,” chuckled the first speaker. Earl? The other had nothing to say for himself. Both were so close now that she was being forced to breathe in their rank smell, forced to tolerate their increasingly obnoxious presence.
She dared not pull her gaze away. She feared that, were she to do so, they would attack, like ravening wolves.
“Let’s just g’wan in with her, hey, Eli? You head on up them porch steps, little lady, and we’ll follow along behind. Wanna have a talk with you, and some privacy.”
Touch her, and she would scream bloody murder, no matter what sort of gossip and repercussions might follow!
Pushing her bodily along the flagstone walk, they hung on her every footstep as she inched toward what should be safety—what should be sanctuary!—from ruffians such as these. When she fearfully reached the front door, the brother named Earl shoved her into the corner with a savage arm.
“You give a message to that spiffy new husband of yours,” he muttered in a menacing tone.
His horrible face hovered over hers, his great hairy hand encircled her throat to hold fast. Camellia, swallowing hard, tried to turn away, but to avail. His lardy fingers tightened their grip, so that she choked a little, even as she struggled for freedom.
“Stand still, Missy. You ain’t goin’ nowheres, till I say you can.”
From top to toe she was trembling in every muscle. Never had she felt the vulnerability of her own womanhood so much as now: helpless in the clutch of a brute. And it was far too late to scream.
His large hooked nose was only inches away as, with his free hand, he smoothed her hair under its flirty spring bonnet, caressed her cheek, rubbed almost absently at her shoulder and collarbones, edged lower to fumble at her bosom. Camellia, caught like a bird in a snare, almost gagged. Unable even to cringe from his disgusting touch, she was struck sickly and dazedly by the thought: would she ever feel clean again?