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

“Huh. That ain’t the half of it. Those two limbs of Satan betrayed him to the local authorities—good Rebs, every one of ’em—and he was hauled away in chains.”

Her gasp of horror sounded extra-loud in the stillness. Was there no end to the unknowns being exposed throughout this conversation? How many more secrets about her enigmatic husband would she learn?

“Oh, but surely—surely—not their own son—?”

“Hard to figure, ain’t it? No wonder the boy doesn’t want nothin’ to do with either one. Reckon he’s just plain lost his faith in humanity. Benjamin woulda been hanged, if he and another fellah hadn’t managed to escape.”

The shiver deep inside her middle seemed to be radiating outward, along every muscle, to her very fingertips. What a far-ranging effect of war, down through generations; what tangible, lingering anathema and pure hatred to carry forward!

“See, I know just how rough this past weekend was on you, and that you’re mad enough at Ben to spit ten-penny nails. And I ain’t sayin’ he don’t deserve it. But, darlin’, next time you two have a dust-up, just remember what I’ve told you of his past, and try to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

There were two sets of doubts needing benefit, two sides to every coin. It was called compromise. Camellia’s mouth set into a mutinous line.

“He’s a rich man, y’ know.”

Camellia blinked. “Ben?”

“Yup. Came here without a penny in his pocket, worked hard eighteen hours a day, and been on the road to prosperity ever since. You’ll end up with a pretty decent life, Mrs. Forrester, if you can stick it out through the tough times.”

Another unexpected revelation, one to which she would have to give careful thought. Whatever kind of life she ended up with, Camellia refused to surrender her own sense of self, her standards, her ideals, her visions and dreams.

Stung, she flashed, “Do you take me, then, to be so venal?”

“No, o’ course not, perish the thought. And, now,” the doctor’s chair legs came back to earth with a hearty thunk, “suppose you fill me in about your background, Camellia, my dear, and let Uncle Gabe solve all your problems in one magical session. And then we’ll go plant that nice expensive magnolia tree in your back yard.”

Chapter Twelve

THE REAR HALF OF THE first floor had been divided into two rooms: the kitchen, an ample area serviced by wonderful wide windows and a back door which led to another porch and the yard full of trees, grass, and outbuildings; and a smaller open space holding an oak library table, several leather chairs, a desk, and some nicely filled bookcases.

The front half had been given over to a parlor, which held interesti

ng mixes of formal and informal. A large fringed rug, topped by small round tables scattered here and there, three or four upholstered armchairs and a settee to match, and some objets d’art that looked chosen by some masculine hand more for filler than for appreciation, covered most of the wooden floor.

The main wall, looking out onto the verandah, supported a substantial fireplace and wooden mirror; the north wall had been bumped out for a trio of windows that held an inviting cushioned seat. Against the remaining outside wall stood, not surprisingly, an upright piano, its lid closed and its top wearing a layer of dust. Most homes of that era featured a piano, thus ensuring their own brand of entertainment.

Better than seeking out the bawdy houses and saloons, for sure!

Satisfactory rooms, all in all, but certainly in need of a woman’s touch, for cleaning and straightening and rearranging.

All of which Camellia, somewhat restored, achieved later that afternoon.

Once again, wearing another older dress, her form tied snugly into one of the aprons packed an eon ago at the St. Louis mansion, her hair snugged under a scarf, she swept and dusted, polished with lemon oil and washed with ammonia. By pushing and pulling, she managed to move the long settee (newly brushed) to a better location in front of the fireplace (newly scrubbed). Which meant a different position for the remaining furniture.

She removed a few extraneous, outdated items (two withered and dried-up potted plants, a stack of yellowed newspapers, candles burned down to a stub, a couple soiled pillows, the display of glass jars and chimneys which held nothing more interesting than bodies of dead flies). She shook loose every fold of the blue paisley curtains and washed the huge fireplace mirror. She worked long and diligently, until the room had been loved enough back into a sleek and shining model of its former self.

Just as during her work in the kitchen, she made mistakes and fell victim to accidents.

Stretching too far to reach ceiling webs strained a side seam of her dress to the splitting point. Absent-mindedly coming too quickly down from a stepstool painfully turned her ankle in its unsubstantial shoe. Tugging at a heavy wooden table which refused to cooperate sent her sprawling backward, flat on her bottom.

Scrapes, cuts, bruises: she was beginning to appear more a victim of some war than the owner (by right of marriage) of the Forrester homestead.

Clearly, given its condition, Ben had done little more than occupy his house—like an invading army—for however long he had resided here. He had expended only a small amount time and energy into upkeep or maintenance—just enough to keep the place livable.

She did, at some point during her labors, poke her nose into his study. This was the neatest space she had found so far, and she decided to leave it alone for the present. He would hardly appreciate her moving around or putting away the business papers and ledgers that had been piled on a corner of the desk.

Although the use of a feather duster and the opening of windows to fresh air couldn’t hurt.

By the time she was finished, to her satisfaction, Camellia was tired. And hungry. Nor did she feel up to facing the sight of one more egg eaten in solitary splendor in the kitchen.