“Yes,” said Camellia promptly. “I do. Only—the old Papa, from years ago, before he got so caught up by the gambling fever.” Her tone, as she critically surveyed herself in the mirror, turned wistful. “The one we were used to having around recently—I don’t think I miss at all. It’s hard even to feel true grief. I’m just sorry for the way life ended up for him.”
“It
probably would never have happened if Mama hadn’t died at such a young age,” Hannah quietly opined.
“Yes. I wish Mama were here. Every girl wants her mother with her, on her wedding day.”
Amazingly, Camellia had asked Jesse Buchanan to escort her to church and to the altar. He would be, he had instantly replied, proud as punch to do so. And so he had appeared this mid-morning, cleanly barbered, freshly bathed, wearing a newly pressed brown suit and colorful cravat, to do his duty as requested. He had handed the bride and her sisters into the rented surrey with a distinctive flourish and a broad grin.
She stood here now, in the vestibule, waiting for just the right moment to move forward while the music ebbed and flowed. Mail order or not, she felt beautiful. The illusion veil floated down and around from her shoulders, the bouquet of wildflowers (a mixture, from what she could tell, of daisies, baby’s breath, buttercups, and salvia no bluer than her eyes) trembled only slightly in her hands, the silk of her gown rustled reassuringly with every breath.
Over the past two weeks of their living in Turnabout, the Burton girls had put aside their fusty mourning and ventured out into the town. They had poked into various business establishments, availed themselves of the small public library, explored the wide friendly streets both downtown and residential. In the process they had met a number of people happy to welcome the newcomers to their town.
Shopkeepers, merchants, the occasional browser; young women, some attractive, some not so much; young men, flexing their muscles and their mentality. All interested. Especially one Dr. Gabriel Havers, who made their acquaintance as he physically bumped into Camellia on his hurried way to lunch at the Sarsaparilla Café.
“Well, now,” he had paused long enough for a tip of his hat and a slow appraising grin. “I apologize for the discourtesy, but I can’t say I regret it. You must be the Burton ladies, livin’ up to all I’ve heard about you.”
“Complimentary, I hope?” murmured Camellia, twirling her umbrella.
“Every word. Absolutely every danged word.” Dressed in a lightweight suit, minus the jacket, he personified capability and trust, from his carefully combed dark auburn hair to his carefully cultivated sideburns and mustache to his carefully arranged watch fob and embroidered vest. “Nice to see some fresh faces hereabouts.”
Introductions followed, but the doctor hastened those along.
“Sorry to be rude once again, but I’ve only got fifteen minutes to eat before I have to leave town.”
“Oh. On the lam, are you?” inquired Hannah archly.
He chuckled. “Nope. Got a lady in the throes of childbirth on a farm about five miles away. Her husband is waitin’ for me, but he promised me some food before we set out. Meetin’ him inside, as we speak.”
“Then, pray, don’t let us keep you,” Camellia urged. “I’m sure we’ll see you again, sir.”
Dr. Havers had looked her up and down, still in that appraising fashion. “Bet on it, Miss Burton. You can bet on it.” And then, with another tip of his hat, he had hurried off.
All four new arrivals were impressed with the neatness and cleanliness evident everywhere. Shops were freshly painted or whitewashed, fences were kept in good order, colorful and fragrant flowers could be seen in large pots or planted near walkways. The place might have been lifted, intact, from some booming city on the Eastern Seaboard.
It came as no surprise for them to learn that the progressive mayor of this up-and-coming hamlet was none other than Ben Forrester, himself.
In between times of being out and about, they struggled to find themselves in his kitchen. Having learned much about the management of a household, but never having had to do the actual work, they were learning hard lessons. How to cook without burning or ruining the finished dish. How to guard against unforeseen accidents (the inevitable cuts, scrapes, scalds, etc.). How to restore a room to its rightful order after having been almost destroyed by too much youthful enthusiasm and inexperience.
From his command post at the Midnight, Ben had managed his thriving mercantile, supported by several clerks and laborers, during the day, and joined up with his wife-to-be for a few hours on free evenings. It was important that they get to know each other before the all-important approaching date, he said; and, what Ben had set his mind to do, he did.
So they took an occasional supper at one of several restaurants, or enjoyed a buggy ride together while the light held, or simply sat on the front porch of the house from which he had voluntarily exiled himself, and talked. Or, at least, Camellia talked. Ben wasn’t much of a talker. He was more of a listener. Which seemed a pretty good arrangement.
In answer to his questions, she described her life in St. Louis. Her social engagements. Her good works. Her proudest achievement, she admitted, was the fact that she had managed to scrape together enough money to provide several months’ worth of living expenses for every last retainer, once the house was finally closed up and she had had to tearfully let them go.
He, in turn, spoke little about himself. Family? Parents still happily existing on the outskirts of Memphis; one brother, Jackson, fallen at Gettysburg; another brother, Cole, somewhere out west. Dreams? To open another general store, and then another. Likes / Dislikes? Have to think on that one a bit. Plans? To get married and be done with it.
“Be done with it?” she had asked, surprised and just a trifle miffed. “What does that mean?”
They were sitting side by side in the porch swing for this one, and he had laid his Stetson on the floor and propped both boots, ankles crossed, upon the railing. Feeling quite comfortable in her company by this time, apparently. But, then, it was his house.
“For ten years I’ve had people after me, tellin’ me I’d oughta settle down,” he answered frankly.
“Men, winkin’ and givin’ me an elbow in the ribs, as if to say I should be in the same case they was. Women, pullin’ forward this cousin or that niece or a sister, sayin’ what a fine wife she’d make.”
Camellia felt torn between annoyance and amusement. “So this wasn’t exactly your decision, to send away for a girl completely off the home front.”
He yawned and scrubbed one hand through the rough hair that seemed never to get trimmed short enough for style. “Was I thinkin’ it was time? Yes. Did I get pushed into it? No. Nobody,” he paused for one sober, straight look at her in the gathering dusk, “pushes me into doin’ somethin’ I don’t wanna do.”