Chapter Eleven
CAMELLIA HAD, TO HER everlasting shame, pretended to be deeply asleep.
Oh, she wasn’t proud of dissimulation. But what was one to do, when one’s errant bullheaded husband refuses to give way on any issue, and both he and his wife were too stiff-necked—and probably too pressed for time before his impending departure—to discuss those issues?
Probably, by the time he returned, she would have cooled off. A week is way too many hours long to hold a temper. At least, from her point of view. She wouldn’t know about his, since they hadn’t been together enough to discuss such vital matters.
She didn’t know where Ben had gone, after he had disappeared with horse and buggy yesterday afternoon, because he hadn’t bothered to keep her informed of any plans from then on. And, after all, why should he? She was only his wife.
What, Camellia wondered, were the laws concerning divorce in Texas, after just one day of wedded bliss?
So, unsure of when—or if—he would once again walk through their door, she had kept herself occupied. Changing into her oldest and thinnest skirt and shirtwaist, she had tackled the kitchen. Cooking like a restaurant chef might be beyond her range of talent (for the moment, although she was determined to change that), and she had had little experience in the realm of actual cleaning. But Ben’s kitchen had demanded it. The heavy black stove had, in fact, almost sat back on its hind legs and begged.
In the clear light of day, the place was a mess. Dust and grease caked the sink, the counters, the two great windows, the utensils left about; cobwebs draped every corner; dirt lay in haphazard piles here and there on the plain wooden floor.
She had noticed its sadly unkempt condition during the last two weeks of residence with her sisters, but had done little to improve things. Too many other details had claimed her attention. Such as planning for her wedding, and keeping her cooped-up sisters from wringing each other’s necks, and unpacking essentials
from their wardrobes in the barn.
“Hot water,” Camellia, looking around, decided on her first order of business. “Soap. And scrub brushes.”
Good hard physical labor, fueled by aggravation and hurt, can help take the starch out of the staunchest backbone. Several hours later of a marathon session on hands and knees and stepstool, interrupted several times by a sudden, involuntary spate of angry tears, she treated herself to a fresh cup of coffee and a seat at the table.
Everything smelled so fresh and pristine, and looked that way, as well. For someone unused to doing a servant’s work, she had acquitted herself with distinction, and pride filled her sore heart as she surveyed the results. Windows had been pried open to let in the early evening breeze, spotless towels and rag rugs had been set straight, garbage had been removed, and all extraneous utensils had been put in place. This was now an exemplary room (not to compare, of course, with the grandeur of her mansion in St. Louis), put to order by her own lily-white fingers, and one which she would not be ashamed to invite anyone to visit.
There was no sign, no sound, no sight of Ben. Vaguely, and a trifle vexedly, she wondered where he was. Then came a fresh burst of tears, which she furiously blotted away. Wearily contemplating what she had accomplished, Camellia decided she might tackle the parlor tomorrow.
If she were still in residence.
She had clumsily cooked herself some supper. Eggs again, because they were easy, and bread warmed in the oven, and a helping of that marvelous strawberry jam. Then, after returning her space to its spic-and-span state, she blew out the lamps and retired upstairs.
To the spare room, down the hall. After her usual nighttime ablutions and the donning of a soft lawn gown, she transferred her few personal possessions to the dresser drawers and top and climbed into bed. There, somewhat comforted by the clean outdoorsy scent of the linens and the sweet nocturnal air from under the great trees, she read until drowsiness overcame her.
The disturbance from downstairs woke her some time later. It might have been minutes or hours since the kerosene lamp had guttered and died, and she turned from face-down to side in confusion. The noise was subdued, it was true, but unexpected: the front door opening and closing, a few scrapes of wooden furniture across the floor, the furtive rasp of male voices.
Disoriented, she sat up in bed to listen.
Benjamin. Ah. So he had finally decided to seek out his own rooftree, had he?
And Gabriel, his partner in crime.
And both, she could tell by the sound, drunk as skunks.
Her mouth thinned, and, reinforced by what she imagined, her mood darkened. Jerking the comforter back into place, she plunged a fist into the flattened pillow and threw herself upon it. A pox on those horrible, devious males and their horrible, devious doings! She was exhausted, and she intended to return immediately to the arms of Morpheus.
Except that, by now, her mind was awake and flitting from one subject to the other like a rabid dog, frantic to chew.
The vision of Morpheus was slipping farther and farther away.
But, at least, if Ben decided to crawl up the stairs to his room, she planned to let him think she was sleeping the sleep of the just. It seemed only right. And, if ever he might try to reconcile, from here on, she would let him know she still had her mad on.
Camellia woke next morning to a house preternaturally still, with no indication of human presence but her own.
Having spent most of the night changing position from side to back to other side, sighing dispiritedly, and wiping away silent tears, she could count the sum total hours of sleep on a mere few fingers. The bright sunlight slanting across her bed and onto her face, and the cheerful birdsong emanating from a whole grove of receptive trees, roused her to consciousness.
Sensing that Ben was long gone by now, she took her time fumbling into her wrapper and seeking out the slippers that, much earlier, she had flung, in a moment of pure fury, across the room.
Padding downstairs, she found the three main rooms empty, with that desolate, abandoned air that a home acquires when the master has taken himself away.