Mail Order Bride: Springtime (Bride For All Seasons 1)

Camellia was feeling pretty much the same way herself. It was a lonely proposition, being a mail order bride, unloved, unappreciated, and barely tolerated. She might very well give in to an absolute luxury of weeping and self-pity, were she so inclined.

“Coffee?” she discovered, following her nose to the shining, sparkling kitchen.

It was indeed coffee, a half-full granite ware pot gently steaming on the stove’s back burner. Beautiful, aromatic, restorative coffee, that Ben had brewed for her to enjoy upon rising.

And a note on the table, held down (as if some errant breeze might boldly whisk it away) by the same jar of delicious strawberry jam—now much depleted.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” she read aloud, “because you must have been tired after all the cleaning you did yesterday. I’ll be back in a week. Maybe sooner. Sorry.”

No salutation, no signature. Well, who did she think might have written it—the minister who had married them, or that lout of a doctor keeping him company during their round of all the available bars and hootchy houses in town? She knew what went on. She knew how this worked. Hadn’t she seen her father come unsteadily through the door, countless times, smelling of stale cigars and bad whiskey and cheap perfume? What else could her dearly departed husband be sorry for?

She crumpled the thin paper against her breast.

However. At least he had left a note. That alone was helping to salve her wounded feelings, just a little. A very little.

Before she had time to think things through, a brisk knock sounded at the door, startling her so that she almost dropped the cup.

“Gak! Who—who’s there?”

“It’s Gabe, ma’am. Gabriel Havers. The doctor, remember? Wonderin’ if I could stop by and see you for a few minutes?”

She squealed her displeasure. “See me? But—it’s so early! Of course you can’t see me!”

“Uh—it’s nearabouts ten o’clock, ma’am,” came his friendly voice through the door. “Are you indisposed in some way?”

“Indisposed? No. Not at all.” That wasn’t really a falsehood. A miasma of the spirit could not be considered actual physical illness, could it? “But I am not dressed. It would hardly be proper for me to entertain a gentleman caller in my wrapper.”

Chuckling, he shuffled his feet on the floorboards of the porch, as if unsure whether to stay or go. “Mrs. Forrester, I assure you I have seen ladies—uh—patients in far less than a wrapper. Meanwhile, there is a reason for my presence; I, like the Greeks, come bearing gifts.”

“Gifts?” Camellia’s narrowed eyes matched the suspicion of her voice.”

“Yep. Doncha wanna see what I have? B’sides, the longer I stand here, the more chance neighbors might see me, and have a chance to gossip about your good name.”

“Oh, Heaven forfend,” she muttered.

Yanking the belt together to tie into a loose knot, she stomped across the parlor and flung open the door.

There, eyes twinkling, Gabriel had the audacity to look her up and down in a frankly lecherous, undoctorly way. “And this is your appearance, first thing in the mawnin’? My, my, Mrs. Forrester, I can only repeat what I’ve said before: your husband is a lucky man.”

She stared at him. Without warning, to her utter astonishment and his utter consternation, those gas-flame blue eyes filled with tears, and the tears overflowed, and she collapsed onto the nearby settee with a few bitter sobs.

“Oh, hey, now!”

Talk about providing fodder for the neighborhood gossips! Hastily he shut the door upon this intriguing scene, set aside the tub full of young flowering bush he carried, and, with a couple of steps, went down on one knee before her. Just that quickly he had slipped into her hand a nicely folded white handkerchief. The item every gentleman carries, in case a distraught young lady ever needs to use it.

“C’mon, darlin’, whatever I said that upset you, I apologize profusely. Can’t you please just forgive me, and stop cryin’?” poor Gabriel begged.

A sweet and soft southern voice during normal times, his accent thickened even more with smooth-flowing molasses in moments of stress. Such as this one.

“No, no,” protested Camellia, mopping at her drenched face even while gulps of contrition tore through her lungs. “No, it’s I who—who must beg forgiveness. So silly—I can’t imagine—what came over me!”

Gabriel could well guess what had come over her. He had spent too much time with her culpable husband last night, and listened to his many sad tales of woe, not to realize just what was taking place in this short-lived marriage. It was amazing how two people could be so at loggerheads with each other, and after a mere twenty-four hours together, no less. At this rate, what chance might lesser mortals have at happiness?

He himself was feeling a tad guilty for even the small role he had played in Ben’s fall from grace. Guilt had brought him here this morning, to ascertain Camellia’s mood; guilt would pin him to her side, until she had somewhat recovered.

For now, he simply moved easily away, taking a seat and waiting silently while she pulled herself together. Gradually the weeping slowed, then stopped entirely.

When the emotional deluge had died away to just an occasional sniffle, the doctor smiled brightly. “Got any coffee, Camellia?”