Mail Order Bride: Winter (Bride For All Seasons 4)

For now, she must stiffen her spine and prese

nt a brave front.

“Your turn will come,” Camellia, ever-sensitive of her sisters’ moods, said quietly. “Don’t begrudge anyone their happiness, Hen, simply because things are not in peak form for you right now.”

Caught, she managed a shamefaced smile. “What makes you think I am? It’s just that I’m looking around for Abigail, and every time my glance crosses those two—well...ugh.”

The room, expansive though it might be, was crowded, not only with guests and multiple dishes, but with tables, chairs, and benches. Every family had brought a favorite menu item to pass—fruit breads and sourdoughs, cured sliced ham and fried chicken and beef roasted to perfection, vegetables creamed or baked or sauced, cakes and pies of all varieties. Diners ate, and socialized, and ate some more.

Restless children, having finished their own portions, were begging to go outside for play time; several babies offered up their own brand of protest to the hum of conversation and laughter which overlay everything. If one were to judge by the noise level, Turnabout’s Thanksgiving Dinner was a howling success.

And, best of all, the tradition that would follow for decades to come: leftovers. Every attendee would, before departure, divvy up the spoils for a share and share alike.

“Oh, there she is!” Hannah realized. Too courteous to point, she half-rose from her chair and gestured from across the room.

With a smile, and a few murmured words here and there, Abigail managed to thread her way through knots of diners until she was able to find a clear area at the Burton table.

Her attire, on this special day, matched the standard set during their first meeting. An interesting style, of deep rich garnet brocade that provided a perfect foil for her hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. The jacket, with an open collar and long flounced sleeves, boasted black trim and several rows of black buttons down the front; the skirt held its own point of pride, with three tiered ruffles also nicely embellished.

Hannah, perched next to such finery, couldn’t help feeling just a trifle frumpish by comparison, in her five-year-old green-checked wool. There was certainly no question of updating her wardrobe for the present, nor even for the foreseeable future. So be it. She would make the best of a somewhat discomfiting (for the fashion-conscious) situation, and go on. One does not live or die because one’s garments have gone out of style.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, Abigail,” Hannah greeted her. “Have you gotten your dinner?”

“Oh, indeed, I have, my dear. Twice over. In fact, I doubt I shall ever fit into this gown again without a smaller corset and tighter lacings.” She laughed comfortably. “Is this your family?”

Ben and Camellia smiled at the newcomer and introductions were made all around, as Hannah explained that these were just two members; the other four were floating about somewhere. For a little while pleasant small talk flowed back and forth. The hall was gradually emptying, as families gathered up sleepy children and began to wend their way home.

“And where is your medical friend today?” Ben asked.

“Who, Gabriel?” Hannah managed to restrain a snort.

“He’s out on a call,” Camellia said.

Diverted suddenly, she glanced around but failed to spy the tall, handsome doctor with the big, green eyes. “That is odd. Normally he would be here, the center of everyone’s attention, glad-handing the men and flirting with the ladies.”

“Yes, well he can be larger than life. And that’s what we love about him.”

Why wasn’t he here? Did he really have a call? Or was he mad about what she had said. That she only wanted to remain friends. Hannah knew that staying friends was for the best. She didn’t want or need the drama. And she was sure he didn’t need it either. She could picture herself looking deeply into his eyes and holding his hands. No! She couldn’t think like that. That doctor was off limits.

Before Hannah could say a word, Abigail went on to mention the weather. Not exactly what she was used to, certainly. Was this warmth unseasonable?

“Warmth?” Ben, working on his third piece of apple pie, chuckled. “Ma’am, it’s less’n fifty degrees out there. For us southerners, that’s almost cold enough to freeze the marrow in our bones.”

“Cold?” It was the lady’s turn to chuckle. “I’m from New York City, Mr. Forrester. You’ve hardly felt cold until you’ve seen icicles hanging from every window pane and watched snow falling to a four foot depth.”

“You don’t say!” Ben, fork laid aside to reach for his cup, was honestly amazed. “That must be somethin’.” Turning toward his wife, he covered her hand with his. “Mayhap we’ll have to take a trip up north someday.”

“In the middle of winter?” Camellia’s amused reaction almost questioned her husband’s sanity. “Go on with you, Ben; I hardly think so.”

For a few minutes, conversation ebbed and flowed, in aimless chatting that included the town, the area, and the new business, with all four contributing bits and pieces. Only a few dozen diners remained; in the kitchen, to the rear, those ladies who had volunteered to take care of clean-up were clearing tables and washing dishes. Those heroines were carrying on their own conversation, interspersed with hearty laughter and a few lusty giggles.

After a while, Ben began making the motions of a stuffed-to-the gills, drowsy male ready to head home and relax for a few hours. That included fetching Camellia’s hat, reticule, and heavy shawl, along with his own coat.

The other sisters, and their spouses, had stopped by the table to be introduced, make a few sounds of welcome, and depart. Once Ben and Camellia, too, had decided to leave, after a few minutes’ final chat with Rev. Beecham, Hannah honed in on her target.

“Is it necessary for you to rush off anywhere?”

Abigail brought the tea cup to her lips, sipping with an expression of enjoyment. For the taste? Or because someone other than herself had brewed it? “No, my dear, I’ve closed the shop for today. Was there something you wished?”