A round of toasts followed, exuberant or mellow, depending upon each speaker and his mood. The more outgoing offered cheers and laughter; the more subdued merely lifted their cups or bottles or glasses in acknowledgement.
At one point, Camellia plucked lightly at her bridegroom’s sleeve. “Who were the men standing up for you during the ceremony?” since one of them, slightly tipsy, had already stood and was praising Ben Forrester to the skies.
Eyes half-closed, he had leaned contentedly back in his chair. For who does not appreciate being heaped with lavish acclaim? “Oh, that one is Percy Cantwell—owns a little farm out west of town. I’ve known him a few years. The other’n is Austin Blakely, he’s a deputy in the sheriff’s department. Met him some time back when I—well, I got into a little trouble with the law.”
His new bride nearly fell off her chair. “You? Trouble? I can’t imagine the staid Ben Forrester ever
doing anything—”
“Well, since you must know, and people would take great pleasure in tellin’ you if you asked, I caught a fellah kickin’ his dog. So I kicked the fellah. And I took away the dog. Me and Aus, we didn’t quite see eye to eye on the whole procedure. Now, hush, and listen to my good friends assure you what a fine man you’ve married.”
Eventually, once everyone had given the food time to digest, and they’d had a chance to catch up on town gossip and local and national news, the music started.
Camellia could hear the tentative bowing of a violin, and strings of both a guitar and a bass being plucked. Turning slightly, she realized with surprise that Molly had joined the motley group at a small piano that had been hauled into place under the darkening trees.
“C’mon, man, you gotta strut your stuff,” urged Gabriel, who had returned to the couple after a leisurely circuit of the guests. “It’s only right you take your bride out for the weddin’ dance.”
Ben made no effort to hide his annoyance. “I swear, you are worse for hangin’ around than a tick on a dog. Don’t you have some patients to go kill, or somethin’?”
“Not at the moment. Everybody is bein’ right considerate. G’wan, now, son. If you won’t be the lady’s squire, I will.”
With a roll of the eyes, and a heartfelt martyred sigh, Ben put down his cup and pulled his big sturdy frame upright. Reaching for Camellia’s hand, he sketched a semi-bow and asked respectfully if he might have the pleasure of taking her onto the floor, ma’am.
They were the first, and only, couple to hearken to the appropriate strains of “Bridal Eve Polka.” Which was, of course, as it should have been; after all, the Forresters were those being honored on this occasion.
Feeling all eyes upon them in the gathering dusk, as they circled and pranced, Camellia did her best to follow her husband’s steps. Clearly inexperienced in this lively jounce around the area, Ben was doing his best, as well. Finally, mercifully, it came to an end, and he could make his escape, dragging Camellia alongside.
He was muttering something under his breath about clip-cloppin’ and caterwaulin’ when he was accosted by a gleeful Dr. Havers.
“My turn,” he announced, smoothly intercepting the duo before they could resume their seats. “Come along, Mrs. Forrester. Let me show you how a real southern gentleman trips the light
fantastic.”
Astonished, Camellia could only glance back over her shoulder in dismay when, feeling as if this were a case of being shanghaied by some pirate, she was dragged back to join other enthusiastic couples who had just begun to gambol about to the sweet, slower notes of “Say Not Adieu.”
“Ah, a lady to match my expertise,” murmured her partner, at one moment. “You enjoy dancin’?”
“I do,” agreed Camellia. “But I’m afraid that Ben may not appreciate being in the spotlight, as he was.”
“Oh, he don’t mind a fig about bein’ in the spotlight, him bein’ mayor and all. What he don’t like is dancin’ itself. Not much time for it, doncha know.”
“Well, perhaps I can change his mind.”
“Huh. That one? More likely to hit a mule b’tween the eyes with a two by four and get him to pay attention. No, I’m afraid your chances are slim on that score, darlin’. But you got nothin’ to lose by tryin’.”
“That’s what I’ve always believed,” Camellia serenely agreed.
The groom’s face wore an expression decidedly displeased when, laughing, chatting to those they passed, the two returned. “Took you long enough,” he pointed out, leaving Camellia to feel remarkably like a child being chastised. “Was it necessary to make a spectacle of yourselves by stayin’ out there for three dances?”
“Spectacle? Oh, dear me, Camellia, were we makin’ a spectacle of ourselves?”
“Not her, you dimwit—you. C’mere, wife. That’s ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ they’re startin’ in on, and even I can get my feet to work together for a waltz.”
His feet, in their unaccustomed shiny black pumps, worked quite well together, as he demonstrated. But he spoke little, and he looked like a condemned criminal trudging toward the hangman’s noose. Clearly dancing was not one of his favorite pastimes. Nor likely ever to be, no matter what pressure Camellia might bring to bear.
She had caught glimpses of her sisters now and then. They showed up like flowers in their fashionable gowns, wandering here and there or being propelled about by enthusiastic males in the area designated for dancing.
In the midst of all this joviality, a stab of homesickness hit her. For the home and the safe life they had had to abandon, for what used to be, for everything familiar now gone the way of the dodo. After the excitement of the wedding had died down, after a routine had been established in the Forrester household, she hoped that she might escape occasionally to visit the girls in their new lodgings. Then they could talk over all the details of what was going on socially and domestically, just as they used to do.