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

“The girls will help with whatever I need to have done.”

Staring down at his empty plate, he said gloomily, “And I s’pose you’d wanna decorate the house, too.”

“Well, of course. This will be our first Christmas together. It should be special, don’t you think?”

He surrendered. What else could he do, when faced with such logic? And determination. Gently pulling free, he shoved away from the table and turned to embrace her. “All right, then, gol’ dang it. I’ll make sure Reese and I skitter on out and back in jig time, and I’ll follow whatever orders you have waitin’ for me. Now. Let’s see if you wanna finish what you started.”

So Camellia had gotten her party. Of course, her sisters assured her, they would be delighted to help. Not with cooking, mercy me, no. Molly had had to admit that poor Paul sometimes gave up on the inedible plate of something that she served him for dinner and blithely went off to take his meal at the Sittin’ Eat.

“I’m learning,” she had asserted. “But my skills have nowhere near gotten to the place where I’d want outsiders tasting samples. So I’ll just find myself somethin?

?? else to do, all right?”

Christmas, December Twenty-fifth, fell on a Sunday. With church services in mind, and other family gatherings to consider, Camellia set the date for the Saturday week prior, on the Seventeenth. Which was cutting things close, with so many details to attend to.

But willing hands make short work. By the time Ben and Reese returned, having stolen an extra day away to deal with a few minor problems that had arisen, the house had been cleaned within an inch of its life. Windows had been washed, inside and out, despite the frosty weather; carpets had been beaten to a pulp, and draperies shaken loose of dust. Sets of porcelain dinner service were collected from every cupboard of the three sisters, as were small tables and chairs, various festive tablecloths and napkins, serving ware, silver utensils, and so on.

“My, oh, my,” murmured Ben, entering with some trepidation upon all this activity, and hoping that he had been able to miss most of it.

Camellia was looking a little flurried, a little frowsy, but delicious as usual, with her misshapen form wrapped by a full-length apron and her hair bundled into an old scarf. “Oh. You’re home.”

“Well, yeah, I am. You don’t need to sound so overjoyed about seein’ me again.”

“Oh, Ben, sweetheart, don’t be silly.” She rushed into his arms for a hug and a most satisfactory kiss. “Here, you must be hungry. Come sit down and I’ll heat up some supper. Was it a good trip?”

“Fair to middlin’, I reckon. Ah, that looks mighty tasty, Cam. We got back later than expected, so I’m more’n ready to eat.”

They talked, in bits and pieces, while he wolfed down his pork roast, sugared cinnamon rolls, and creamed turnips, and she kept him company while sneaking a little of this or that from his plate. He reported on the ease of the eighty-mile round trip (“Gettin’ to be old hat, by now.”) and a few mistakes with shipping and delivery that had had to be corrected (“That temporary manager ain’t doin’ a bad job, but he needs experience under his belt. He’ll be fine till I can move Jimmy down there, the first of the year.”)

Camellia, for her part, was happy to describe what had been done in the way of preparations, here on the home front, and what remained still to do.

“Which brings me to you, my dearest husband.”

“Ahuh.” Ben, recognizing that tone, eyed her warily. His meal finished, he had leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table to work his way through a cup of hot coffee. “What great goin’s-on have you got planned for me?”

“Well, much as I would like to handle this myself, I’m hardly in a shape...” She glanced down at her protruding middle, then back to him, inferring her lack of a figure was his fault, anyway, and he owed her for it. “Could you go out tomorrow—well, yes, I realize you need to check in at the Mercantile, but possibly later—and fetch us our tree?”

“Tree? A tree?”

“Well, yes, a Christmas tree. The girls and I used to visit a farm, outside of St. Louis, each year, to choose one. Well—except for last year, not with so much happening. At any rate—”

His look was one of confusion, as if someone near and dear were suddenly taking unfair advantage of a man weary and worn. “Where in Sam Hill am I s’posed to find a tree?”

Chuckling, she patted his arm. “An evergreen, Ben. To decorate. I don’t know—surely there are woods round about. Can’t you ask Jimmy or Elvira where people can find Christmas trees? Oh, and I’ll need fresh ferns and boxwood, as well, to use in garlands. I suppose you’d better borrow a buckboard from Abel.”

For male support, and for companionship, Ben browbeat his brother into going along. Reese would have much preferred staying home with his bride, since he and Letitia had been wed but a few weeks, and he’d missed her during the three days away. But Ben and his determined arm-twisting—or his hangdog expression—prevailed, so off the two of them went.

They spent a full afternoon tramping through the hills and an outlying timber in their search for the perfect pine, to Camellia’s specifications. Forewarned is forearmed. Ben provided the transportation; Reese provided the extra manpower muscle and a full bottle of spirits. To keep their spirits up, naturally, under a bleak and dreary sky. And to keep gloved hands warm. And to keep blood flowing freely. It would never do to go out unprepared.

For those who could afford the more expensive of what was offered, home decorations at this time of year filled the rooms with scent and color. And those who couldn’t made their own: tallow candles, strings of popped corn and cranberries, greenery culled from someone’s garden or field. Five years ago, after hostilities had ceased and a truce was signed, binding two bloodied disparate regions into one nation once again, had come an almost giddiness of celebration, with excess galore to make up for those war years of sparseness and paucity and privation.

So, during her husband’s absence, Camellia had excitedly taken herself to Forrester’s Mercantile, where she had reveled to her heart’s content in the Christmas decorations Ben had had brought out to display. And sell. Angel ornaments dressed in gold and lace; Mercury glass birds and stars and glittery pine cones; beeswax tapers to be clipped onto branches and then lighted; cardboard rolls of red ribbon; large embellished stockings made especially to hang at the mantel.

Next on Camellia’s list was to plan the menu, then purchase and prepare what would be served. Eggnog, of course; cups of bouillon; snowflake potatoes; Porterhouse rolls; peas in mint sauce; a large roast turkey with giblet gravy and cranberry relish; Parisian salad; macaroons, fruit cake, and mince pie.

Ben could only groan aloud when she read this litany aloud to him.

“Darlin’, my belly is hurtin’ already, just hearin’ about all that fine fare. How much longer do I haveta wait till this grand event?”