“Yes?”
“Miz Forrester? I’m lookin’ for Miz Hennessey. She around?”
“She’s indisposed right now, and is unavailable,” responded Camellia crisply. “May I help you with something?”
“Yes, ma’am. S’posed to give these to her—” a nod toward the colorful blooms, “—along with this note.”
“Indeed.” Camellia’s brows arched. “Very well, I’ll certainly do so. Thank you.”
“Who was that?” Molly inquired, without animation.
“I don’t know. But he left a gift for you.”
Molly looked over the offering without much interest. “Picked from someone’s garden, I suppose.”
Fragrant roses, in pink and carmine and white; tall stems of scarlet hollyhocks; little golden marigolds and the round buttons of bright bold zinnias. Quite a mixture, chosen with more zest for variety than for floral design. Camellia took a few steps into the kitchen to locate some sort of pitcher as receptacle.
“My thoughts, exactly. And then there’s this.” Handing over the heavy vellum envelope, nicely addressed in a black-inked dashing script, she took her chair opposite the settee where her sister was semi-reclined. Just a brief cessation in the chores on her mental list.
She had barely had time to smooth her skirts out of the way when she heard a gasp and a clatter of metal.
“Molly? Molly, what is it?”
Every vestige of color had washed out of the girl’s face, until the bruises stood against the skin in stark relief, like a geographical map, and the spoon she had been holding now lay on the wooden floor where it had fallen. “It’s from him.” The note dangled between thumb and forefinger like the pelt of some wild, dangerous creature that she didn’t want to touch.
“From whom? Not—”
“Quinn. Yes. He—he wrote to me.”
With her sister’s permission, Camellia quickly scanned the note. Once, then again.
Quinn was hoping that his dearest beloved wife would accept these flowers with his most humble apologies. He knew he had behaved so badly toward her; he could only use as an excuse that his passions had run away with him. He would assure her that such mistreatment would never happen again. Words could not express how abjectly sorry he was for his abysmal behavior. He loved her dearly, desperately, and he wanted her back so they could make a fresh start. If Molly would but allow it, he would spend the rest of his life trying to make amends.
“The man can’t possibly be serious!”
“I think—I think he is,” Molly said faintly, and, closing her eyes, lay her head against the settee’s high cushioned back.
“It’s all about him; every other word refers to his behavior, his excuse, his passions. Does he really expect you to fall for that again?”
“I—I expect so...”
“The nerve! As if you would simply smile and shrug and let him back into your life!” Camellia snapped. Overwhelming fury had replaced every sense of composure; she wanted to stomp back and forth across the room, she wanted to tear something apart with her bare hands. No. She wanted to pound something, really really hard!
A traitorous tear slipped from Molly’s lashes down one pallid cheek. “Cam, I’ll never be free of him, will I? I’ll never get away. He’ll always be around, part of me, trying to hurt me, trying to destroy me, trying to ruin whatever I have.”
“I—I don’t know, Molly. I just don’t know—what—recourse—we have. I don’t know what to do.”
“I could leave. In the dead of night, I could leave. I could pack a few things, slip out, go somewhere far distant, where he’ll never find me.” From desolation to sudden pitiful eagerness.
Camellia was horrified. “You’d let him—that—that unspeakable cur—drive you away from your family and friends? No, Molly, there must be something else we can do. Has Paul discussed the subject with you at all?”
“Paul?”
“Yes, the sheriff. Remember, he talked with you for a while Monday afternoon?”
In any other circumstances, Camellia herself would have played chaperone. Nothing good could ever come of an unmarried man visiting a married woman, alone, in her boudoir, of all places! But when the woman was in frantic, frail indisposition, and the male visitors were her physician and an officer of the law, surely propriety must take a back seat to practicality.
“I remember.”