“I must admit,” Camellia said now, with a sigh, “our lives have been in turmoil since December.”
“None more than yours,” her sister loyally assured her. “Even riding atop those horrendous—vehicles—” another shudder, “—all this way has been so difficult. I feel pounded to pieces.”
For a while the train had followed a road. Not much of one, to be sure; more ruts and mud than anything. But travel had certainly become more arduous once the simple track had wandered away in another direction and Jesse Buchanan had turned southwest. More often than not it was open field from there on, or grassy stretches that held furrows and buzzing insects and snakes.
The Burton girls had neither to hitch up nor unhitch teams, nor cook simple meals over an open fire, nor consult about the route being taken. They had merely to endure.
And so, grim-faced and stiff beneath their tight corsets and voluminous petticoats, they had.
Until now.
“And where are your sisters?” Camellia, with soft becoming color beginning to return to her pallid cheeks, asked now.
“They’re resting, in a spare room they’ve been given just down the hall. Similar to this one, I would guess.”
With her own middle starting to voice complaints about its emptiness, Camellia wondered if anyone had eaten anything.
“Oh, yes. Your Mr. Forrester demanded we make free with his kitchen supplies, so we were able to scramble some eggs, and find the butter and bread, and brew a pot of coffee. You must be starving, Cam. Let’s put you back together and go downstairs. See, I’ve managed to unpack a few essentials; here’s your hairbrush and hand mirror.”
“And the—uh—facilities?”
“Outdoors, I’ll show you where. I believe I’m to share this room with you.”
A step down; in the St. Louis mansion each girl had occupied a spacious, comfortable room all to herself. After the travails of the trail, however, such conveniences were not to be sniffed at. For too long there had been only superficial washing; and only rare chances for clean laundry; and always, always, the furtive moves away from the gathered males, guarded by one or two sisters, to tend to bodily needs. One makes do with what one must.
After a good night’s rest in a wide bed, Camellia next craved the utter bliss of sinking nose-deep into a hip bath full of fragrant warm water.
“This one appears to be quite—adequate,” ventured Camellia, as she bent to don the boots that seemed, here in such warm and appealing temperatures, quite heavy and out of fashion. “And Mr.—um—Mr. Forrester’s—arrangements?”
Although no one seemed to be within range of hearing, Hannah lowered her voice. “I’m not sure. That may be part of the mess he claimed to need straightening out. I declare, Cam, that man frightens me a little. He is so very—loud.”
It was the work of just a few minutes to put herself in order, brushing at and straightening her wrinkled clothing, patting her disordered hair into place. “There. I’m ready now.”
Hannah beamed. How reassuring that her sister was once more upright and afoot, instead of supine and white as death atop someone else’s comforter! “Very well, then. Here, down these stairs, Cam, and then out through the back door. I’ll accompany you.”
Having carefully not disturbed their sisters, they were seated at the table in a well-furnished kitchen, nibbling at the last of a chunk of cheese and sipping coffee, when the master of the household entered. Or erupted, if your thoughts ran in that direction. Camellia was beginning to wonder just how volatile her affianced’s temper might be.
Poor Hannah immediately cringed and shrank a good two inches down into her chair at the sound of his rather noisy appearance.
“It’s all right, Hen.” Raising her voice slightly, she called, “We are in the kitchen, Mr. Forrester.”
Immediately he clumped across the parlor and through the doorway. And immediately his presence seemed to fill the room, to make it feel smaller and more confined. Camellia frowned down at his sturdy boots. Was it really necessary to make such a racket? Or (a reassuring consideration), was he just so unused to the presence of ladies in his house?
“Well,” he said heavily. “I see you’re lookin’ less peaked. Does that mean you’re feelin’ better?”
“Absolutely. Thank you so much for your kindness and consideration, Mr. Forrester. And I really must apologize for such unseemly behavior.”
“It ain’t unseemly to black out if you got no strength left to stand,” he observed. The intensity of his hazel eyes, beneath thick pale brows, shifted toward Hannah. “I wonder if Miss Burton and me could have some privacy. There’s things to be discussed, and we’d ought to be alone to do it.”
With a little undignified squeak, the girl gulped, nodded, and skittered away. The sound of her footsteps pelting up the stairs, and then lightly through the second floor hallway overhead, echoed in the silence that permeated the house.
“As you see, we have most gratefully availed ourselves of the hospitality you offered us.” Camellia, ever the good hostess, was determined to be pleasant no matter the situation. “Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s freshly made.”
“I would, thank you.” The man pulled out a wooden chair away from the table and settled onto its worn seat. His first taste of the hot drink raised both brows in startlement.
“Is there a problem?” Her tone was on the verge of being anxious.
“Uh—no. Kinda unusual, more than anything. Different.” Wrapping both big hands around the mug, he drew in a breath that signified delay. “Look, Miss Burton—”