“Nor should you be,” said Hannah firmly, in the manner of a school teacher taking charge of her class. “We shall cope, Cam, dear, so don’t worry your head about it. Ever since Papa was killed, we knew there would be major changes coming along in our lives, and there was nothing we could do but accept with good grace. I have already applied for a position at the Sarsaparilla.”
Dismay was now added to Camellia’s darkening mood. That her elegant, well-educated, loving sisters must be brought to this pass! “As what?”
“A sort of all-round employee, I would assume.” Proud Hann
ah, refusing to let anyone witness her own consternation over this state of affairs, lifted her chin. “It’s all right, I assure you. Only a temporary fix, until something else comes along. But my working will give us some extra cash to spend.”
“Please don’t do anything rash. I’ll talk to Ben, when he returns. Perhaps he’ll have some suggestions. He seems quite—” perverse “—enterprising.”
“The Firewater Saloon has an opening for a piano player,” Molly, moving aside her glass to accommodate the plate of salad being offered by their waiter, said innocently.
Camellia hissed like an angry pit viper. “Don’t you even consider such a thing. You’re not to set foot inside their door, do you understand? And, just how,” she paused for a frown and suspicious glance, “did you find out about this so-called opening, anyway?”
The girl shrugged. “Oh, someone mentioned it in passing over dinner at Mrs. McKnight’s. There’s no music hall hiring anyone, and no traveling repertory troop available. I simply thought, with my musical background—”
“M’h’m. Well, you can think again, Missy. How’s the salad?”
Forking up a mouthful, Molly chewed thoughtfully before responding. “Wilted.”
They were doing their best to cut through what was optimistically labeled on the menu as “ranch-fresh beef” when Hannah rather timidly broached the subject of Camellia’s marriage. Was everything all right? Was she adjusting? Was she being treated—another moment of lowered voice—kindly?
Business was picking up. Although a few early diners, replete, had departed, more were trickling in, laughing and conversing as they waited for a table. The Burton family might have been marooned on some small sailboat, awash in an ever-roughening sea of larger craft.
Much as Camellia would have liked to confide in her sisters, to ask their advice, to consult over puzzling matters, several factors intervened. One was concern for their innocence, in the matters between husband and wife. Not just the physical connotation, but the grinding, twisting knots of emotional binding them together, as well. Another was her own sense of pride. For peace of mind, she could simply not go spewing forth a list of marital problems that only she and her husband could resolve.
Last was, not surprisingly, loyalty. What lay between them, she and Ben, must stay there.
So she laughed lightly and parried the question. “Marriage is a whole different sort of life. As you will see, my dear sisters, when it comes your time to walk down that aisle. Shall we try their chocolate cake for dessert?”
Chapter Thirteen
“GOOD MORNING, MR. DUNLAP.”
The spare, bespectacled assistant manager looked up from whatever work he had been attending to behind the substantial counter. “Why, Mrs. Forrester! A very good day to you, ma’am, and welcome to the mercantile.” Beaming, he stepped away from the marble top and all its attendant features—cash register, boxes of snuff and tobacco and other miscellany for quick sale, heavy scale, blue Mason jars of jams and jellies, pad of paper and its nearby pencil, and the like—to greet her.
“Thank you so much. With Mr. Forrester out of town, I decided to walk over and take a look at all the things he’s so proud of.”
She was nicely turned out, not in her Sunday best, but in a perfectly acceptable weekday gown that might have been inspired by an ice cream shop: white cotton gauze printed with pink polka dots and pink stripes, trimmed with white lace at collar and cuffs. Her small skimmer of a hat had been tied by a neat little white bow, decorated by silk flowers (that tried to be roses) in various shades of pink.
It was a confection of an outfit, probably stirring envy in the hearts of women who either could not or would not wear such light-hearted frippery during the heat of a late spring day.
Such as Miss Elvira Gotham, who had decided to descend just then from her realm on the second floor. Everything about her was gray: her hair, pulled into a meticulous bun and fastened by numerous pins; her eyes, sharply observant behind a pair of old-fashioned pince-nez; her dress, long-sleeved and stiffly boned as to collar and waist. Upon first impression, one would wonder if her thin, rigid frame might ever bend.
“Ah, and good day to you, as well, Miss Gotham,” said Camellia, going forward cheerfully with gloved hand outstretched. “I appreciate both of you attending our ceremony on Saturday. It seemed time for me to stop by and chat with you in your own element.”
“Indeed.” Miss Gotham’s spine could not have been more unyielding; her head barely inclined in a nod of acknowledgement.
This, Camellia instantly realized, would be a tough nut to crack. Clearly Miss Gotham’s entire scope of devotion was centered upon Ben Forrester, and she resented any interloper (Camellia herself) who might try to intercede or interfere. So Mrs. Forrester must do her best to win over the stringent clerk.
“If neither of you is terribly busy right now,” (Camellia had deliberately chosen a time to visit when it seemed the business rush might be at a lull) “I wonder if you would mind taking me around the store? I would dearly love to see the goods you offer, and find out a little information about each. For instance, do China silks actually come from China?”
“We’ll be happy to escort you, Mrs. Forrester,” said Jimmy Dunlap happily. Did his face, with its splendid set of muttonchops, always beam so brightly? “And answer any questions you might have.”
By the end of the tour, several hours later, during which Camellia had easily sidestepped the unlighted stove and its circle of chairs, admired the neatness and cleanliness of the store, and complimented the inviting display of merchandise in the ladies’ department upstairs, Miss Gotham had thawed slightly. Enough to invite her employer’s wife to partake of tea and biscuits in a little storeroom turned over for employees’ use.
They had been interrupted a few times by someone wanting to purchase this or someone wanting to see samples of that, and Camellia had obligingly stepped aside. After all, the consumer’s wishes must take priority.
Meanwhile, she was making mental notes of everything around her, comparing quality and selection to St. Louis wares, and trying to decide how to approach her obdurate husband about possible improvements. And that would be no easy task.