“Fired!” Camellia was aghast. “You didn’t tell me that. You said you and Wilbur had simply parted ways. Amicably, I assumed.”
“No. He left me go. I doubt,” Hannah, brushing a few beads of condensation off her glass, said thoughtfully, “that he will provide me with a job reference in future.”
“And so your next project is to tear apart everything that’s growing on my property?”
“No, Cam. Pruning. As I explained, pruning. It’s quite satisfying to go chopping out deadwood. Next year I can start a wonderful vegetable garden for you; I’ve already begun laying out the plots. And Amazin’ Adam Hayes has agreed to be my mentor.”
“And you’re doing this without even asking my permission.”
“Well.” Hannah shrugged. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I am improving the homestead’s appearance, you know. And its value. I’ve even considered forming the very first Turnabout Ladies’ Gardening Club, to see who might be interested in joining.”
They were great organizers, these Burton girls, once they got up and activated.
Difficult though it was with this exasperating but lovable individual, Camellia managed to work her expression into severe lines. “Not exactly the sort of thing at which you might earn an income. At least, that is your purpose, is it not—to provide a living for yourself?”
Hannah considered. “Surely it would be worth something to boast about owning the finest garden for miles around. I thought—I assumed—this might become a paying endeavor.”
“Oh, Hen!” Won over, Camellia laughed and patted her sister’s free hand. “Now that’s an interesting proposition. I’ll talk to Ben, all right?”
Well, that would be fine. Ben, still foundering in the throes of enthralling first love, would probably be willing to jump over the moon if his wife requested it. Hannah felt fairly hopeful he would be persuaded to take her on as a dependent, albeit one who would labor long and mightily on the Forresters’ behalf.
While Camellia was busy in her role of housewife—which included still helping to direct (manage) the younger Burtons’ choices in life—and Hannah was out finding herself amongst the angel-wing and sapsuckers, Letitia had chosen to walk an entirely different path.
At nineteen, Letty, a girl possessing all the beauty and suppleness of figure as her siblings, had been perfectly content to while away her days. Her time was spent in changing from one fabulous frivolous costume to the next: for morning visits, for afternoon teas, for afternoon visits, for family dinners, for gala balls and society events. What had begun in St. Louis some years ago had continued here, in Turnabout—although without the involvement of an active community circle. More just for her own amusement, to keep the boredom from escalating.
She trailed exquisite lawns and laces from her boarding house bedroom to the verandah, where she draped herself upon an appropriate wicker chair and sipped at cool drinks, slowly wielded a feminine ivory fan, and sporadically scanned the library’s latest offering. Idly contemplating, in between, any passersby or traffic on Main Street.
Such indolence did not escape Mrs. McKnight’s critical eye. Their landlady quite happily accepted each month’s fee that paid for extending her largesse, in the form of clean linens and substantial meals, but being reimbursed for a service rendered could not shut off the spigot of gossip.
Within the first month of the Burton girls’ arrival, word had spread fast and furiously about the fragile but luxurious state of their undergarments and their slothful habits that expected everyone else to wait on them hand and foot.
Washin’ their hair so often, and takin’ baths more’n a single soul needed to in this lifetime. Puttin’ on airs, like as not; thinkin’ they was better’n anybody else.
Letitia was no stranger to such hurtful talk. She had survived similar female spite during several years of enrollment at Miss Harrington’s Private School for Young Gentlewomen. What could not be ignored must—and would—be confronted—in her own time, at her own convenience.
She had given much consideration to her plight, both while lounging on the shady front porch (when certain busybodies assumed her to be mindless and feckless) and in her quiet bed at night. Short of finding a decent man to marry—and those, in this town, were few and far between, she had discovered during thos
e hours of porch sitting; nary a decent single one in the bunch, with most either already married, or too old, or too decrepit, or just too blessed ornery to make a match—she must surely find a way to support herself. The proceeds from the sale of her jewelry would last just so long, and she wasn’t about to become a burden to Camellia and Ben.
All three of the sisters had tried to leave the newlyweds alone as much as possible, waiting for an invitation to visit instead of, in normal fashion, just dropping by. It was important to give the young couple some privacy, and let them settle into their own routine. Especially after their somewhat rocky beginning.
Such consideration, however, belied the closeness generated over the years, and left everyone feeling a bit lonely and neglected. Even somewhat prickly.
The weather continued hot and airless, with an unusual sense of tension all around. Like the sort of invisible electrical current that radiates through the atmosphere, just before a storm hits, where nerve endings stand up and take notice as would frazzled cat fur; and it had townspeople edgy and snappish.
Nevertheless, Letitia put on one of her prettiest summer dresses, pulled her heavy hair up and away from an unaccommodating neckline, and gathered her frothy parasol and embroidered reticule. Time to set out on the particular errand she had in mind.
Her path took her along board walks and across sod to Main Street, and the windows of various establishments which would have attracted the interest of any serious shopper. Since Letty had already explored every reputable business ad infinitum, she passed on by. She was on a mission. Unstoppable.
The bell over the glassed-in door tinkled as she walked in.
“Hello?” she called through the empty room.
“Back here, be there in just a minute.”
She could hear a muted rumble of voices, then silence, then another rumble, slightly louder. The sudden wail of a child, either frightened or in pain—or both—startled her enough that she began to briefly reconsider her original plan. Especially since the weeping continued, intermittently and fortunately with less force.
When, after a bit, Letitia had turned, about to leave and try this another time, the inner door opened to reveal an anxious young woman, holding the hand of a wet-faced little boy. Clearly he had needed a physician’s services: his bare right knee was wrapped around and around with a heavy gauze bandage, and he was limping.