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.