“Hark, the fair maiden blushes.” His eyes were twinkling. Green eyes, she noticed, in a moment of uncertainty. Bright green eyes that, like her husband’s, seemed to see far too much. “Although, since this is your weddin’ night, I reckon you won’t be a maiden much longer, will you?”
She bridled. “Doctor. You forget yourself.”
“Doctor. It’s because I’m a doctor that I know these things. Got any questions to ask me about this whole marriage fandango that your sainted mama couldn’t answer?”
“My mother is dead. And, no, I haven’t.” She turned sharply sideways in her chair—a definite rebuff—wondering where on earth her husband had gotten to and why he wasn’t rescuing her from this uncouth, ill-mannered man.
“Ah, me.” The ill-mannered man sighed dramatically. “I seem to make enemies wherever I go. Since Ben is neglecting his marital duties—at least as far as keeping you company—perhaps I can atone for my boorishness. Might I fetch you a glass of punch, Mrs. Forrester?”
She really had no choice but to relent. It was a beautiful, breezy day, after all: her wedding day, when only good will should run rampant. And, undoubtedly, in this small town, she would come into contact with the doctor more often than she wanted. So she reluctantly climbed down from her high horse and accepted. Yes, she would appreciate a glass of punch, and thank you.
“I’ll just be a moment.” Dr. Havers rose and started off, but paused for a final remark: “Has your husband told you how mighty fine you’re lookin’, ma’am? That is a beautiful dress you’re wearin’, and you surely do it justice. Yes, sir, you surely do.”
Camellia, biting her lip, watched as he wandered cheerfully away. How had he known? How had he struck upon that one niggling thought that had hurt her heart? Certainly, if he had noticed, Ben had said nothing about her appearance. Nothing about her lovely dress, or the stack of her black curly hair twisted up into a becoming style, or the flowers (wilting now) that she had carried to meet him at the altar.
Was she such a petty, insecure person that she needed flattery to soothe a wounded ego? No, not really. But some acknowledgement might have served as a wedding gift, to ease the transition from maidenhood to womanhood. The lack left her feeling a little bereft, a little hungry. Was this to set the tone for their marriage?
Well, it was early yet. Perhaps a compliment—even a comment, yea or nay—might come later.
When the good doctor returned, skillfully weaving in between and around the crowd carrying two overfull glass cups in his hands, Ben was seated at the table beside his bride. Immediately Gabriel plopped down at the opposite corner.
“Ha. ’Bout time you decided to stop neglectin’ your bride. Got the Putnams all settled, didja?”
Ben shot him a significant look. “Not hardly the sorta men—or situation—you wanna mention to a lady, Doc.”
“Yeah, well, that ship has sailed, my friend. She already knows all about ’em. What’d those two thugs want?”
“Mayor business.” The groom’s mood appeared a trifle ruffled.
“Ahuh.” Gabriel made himself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other in an easy southern gentleman way. “Shoulda had more sense than to consult you on your weddin’ day, then, doncha think? Shoulda waited to bring up their nefarious schemes in your office, durin’ regular hours, right? Meanwhile, you do realize you’re a lucky son of a gun?”
Disgruntlement had deepened into irritation. “Man, you’re always goin’ off the deep end somewheres. What truck are you talkin’ about, now, Gabe?”
The doctor waved an elegant hand toward Camellia, who had sat silent but intently listening for the past few minutes. “Why, in your new wife, o’ course. Hope you’re properly grateful.”
Amazingly, his whole countenance softened, and he gave her a small smile. “I am.”
“B’cause she’s one mighty handsome woman, there, Benjamin, my lad. Lotta backbone, too.”
“Yes, I know. Camellia is mighty handsome, especially—” Ben paused for an audible swallow, “—in that dress. It’s quite—quite an outfit.”
“Yeah, I reckon she’ll do you proud, all up and down the street, whenever you—”
Camellia broke out into laughter. She couldn’t help it; this conversation was just getting sillier and sillier, no matter that she was finding an able champion, and perhaps a friend, in the redoubtable Dr. Havers.
“There, now, y’ see?” Gabe beamed, took a hefty sip from his cup, and beamed some more. “Just plain lucky. I want one exactly like her.”
“You expect to put your order in with a travelin’ tinker?” inquired Ben mildly. “Or maybe over the counter at my store?”
He seemed, suddenly, to be enjoying himself, and Camellia appreciated the fact that this appeared due to the doctor’s presence. She would have to watch his technique, and learn from it. A teasing, rather than critical, attitude might be just what was needed to grease the skids, so to speak. A lightness of mood could certainly improve what was bound to be a rough spot now and then in this fledgling marriage.
“Nope. But I figure the lady must be feelin’ a mite peckish. If you don’t get her some weddin’ lunch right soon, she’s likely to pass out from starvation.”
A faint look of alarm so instantly passed over Ben’s face—increasingly more expressive than she had noted at first blush—that Camellia giggled. “No, never fear, that won’t happen,” she assured him in a wifely tone. “Although I must admit I wouldn’t refuse getting something to eat. The scents that are wafting my way smell absolutely delicious.”
Enough tables had been set up, close to the back door of the church, with enough variety of dishes available for the line of hungry guests, ever mindful of those still waiting, to move along quickly. Cooks from several restaurants were proudly displaying their wares: Irish stew; meat pies and game pies; tender roast beef; thick slices of sugar-cured ham, spiraled onto a platter; whole chickens roasted to a golden brown crispness; bowls of thick dark gravy; mounds of mashed potatoes, flavored with butter and onion; creamed parsnips and pickled red beets; dishes of white hominy and others of white rice; stewed prunes; apple pudding and tapioca. Several of the largest blue enamel coffeepots were being kept at a continual boil over an open fire; another, separate table held hot tea and condiments and the punch bowl whose contents someone occasionally surreptitiously replenished via a silver flask.
Some little while after stuffing themselves into an almost lethargic state, the crowd was treated to—and sent huzzahs of approval toward—the cake-cutting ceremony by the bride and groom. Slices served on crockery plates proved to be a delicious concoction, filled with delicacies like currants and candied citron and a splash of wine and brandy for flavor, topped off by almond icing and white icing.