No matter. Camellia, consumed by worry, wouldn’t have noticed if she were Chicken Little and the sky was falling.
Hannah had acquired tentative tiny frown lines, as if she too were occasionally overcome by anxiety. But the two younger girls gave no indication of concern about the future, going about the usual daily routine as if all were just fine and dandy in their part of the world. Like gadflies. In a way, Camellia couldn’t help envying them their complacency, their feeling that someone else would shoulder the burden of caring for their family. That someone would undoubtedly be Camellia herself.
Where were they to live? How were they to live?
What would happen to their faithful cook, housekeeper, three maids, laundress, man of all work, grounds man, and coachman when the house was shut up and no more salaries could be paid?
The questions nagged her every hour of the day and kept her lying awake and restless in her great four poster at night. There were no easy answers, no easy solutions. The steps she had taken thus far, to save her family from utter penury and ruin, had simply not worked out.
“Cam?” It was Hannah, tapping lightly at her closed door. “Cam, may I come in?”
Listless, she turned away from the nighttime view outside, one she was trying to commit to memory for when she could no longer see it in person. “Certainly. Was there something you wanted?”
“Just to talk, honey. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the whole blessed earth on your shoulders.” With a smile, Hannah joined her sister on the cushioned window seat. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you, with all that’s going on. I have no practical suggestions to make. But I can listen. I’m always here to listen.”
“Ah, Hannah.” Camellia leaned her head back against the wooden framing, chill though it was, and sighed. It seemed she had done little else, these past three months, than grieve privately, moan silently, and sigh a lot. Had she ever felt light-hearted in the past? Blissfully happy? Surely not. Surely this miasma had simply taken over her whole life.
“C’mon, girl, you can’t hold this up inside you forever. There’s just the four of us, against the world. It isn’t as if we had hordes of relatives clamoring to take us in. Will we end up on the streets? Shall we try finding jobs?”
“We’re none of us trained for much of anything. Oh, I know, we could learn. And we may have to learn. We may have no other choice. Hannah.” Reaching out, she took her sister’s hand as if for sustenance. “I spoke with Owen Riley this past week.”
“Owen? Whatever for? I thought you had decided there was no point in continuing with a relationship that seemed to be going nowhere. One that, if I might quote your own words, near bored you to death.”
The brilliant blue of Camellia’s eyes flashed briefly in remembrance. “True. I did say that. But—times have changed. The situation has become desperate, Hen. And I wanted to make him aware of that fact. And that, were he to help—resolve—our problems, I should be—exceedingly—grateful...”
Hannah sucked in a sharp breath of dismay. “Oh, no, Cammy, dear. Oh, no. To so lower yourself, like some—some—merchant, putting goods on the block!”
“You needn’t worry about these goods, or my pride,” Camellia said dryly. “He refused.”
Another sharp breath, almost like an angry goose, hissing. “Oh, how dare he! The utter cad!”
A glance outside, into the quiet moonlit night with its rim of cold and frost, helped conceal the self-pitying tears that had gathered but not yet overflowed. “He mentioned something about having other fish to fry. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s as I guessed: without my fortune, I am, apparently, of no value. Worth nothing.”
“The fault is his, not yours!” Hannah sprang angrily, loyally, to her sister’s defense. “And he considers himself one of the favored few in St. Louise society?”
“It would seem so. Welcomed everywhere, certainly. So.” She sighed. “At least we know. That avenue has been closed to us.”
For a few minutes they simply sat in silence, two young women drowning in black silk and sorrow. A fire wavered and danced comfortingly behind its grate, and a multitude of pretty kerosene lamps glowed from tables and sconces with their own particular light. It was a lovely room, stamped with Camellia’s own personality, that had introduced books and fresh green plants amid the cosseting colors of muted crimson, antique yellow, and mahogany.
The softened notes of a waltz drifted up from the music room downstairs: Molly with her first great love, the grand piano. Would she have access to such an instrument in her future life, wherever she (and the rest of the family) ended up?
“Mr. Riley was not my only port in the storm,” Camellia finally said. Her fingers were worrying at several loosened threads in the stitching of one cuff. That must be repaired, before a whole seam gave way. She must remember to pull out her sewing box.
“I’m relieved to hear you’re so full of ideas. I must confess, I have none; and I’ve been feeling quite desperate about what to do.”
Pulling herself erect, gathering up courage, Camellia blurted out, “I’ve put myself in the hands of a marriage broker.”
Hannah blinked. And stared. “I beg your pardon. You’ve—what—?”
“I spoke to Mr. King, so I could contact a person with good reputation. And—and who can provide positive results. It seems this is—this is a very common occurrence. Many women who are—who are up against the wall...desperate...take this way out.” Shrugging, as if it were a matter of small import, she went on in a low voice, “I myself—my character, my personality, my appearance—I am the only commodity I have that might be of benefit to anyone, Hannah.”
“But, you—what will you—where will you—”
Camellia managed a very thin, very weary smile. “Apparently there is a whole host of lonely men looking for wives, scattered west of the Mississippi and beyond. Mr. Farraday and I spent quite a fair amount of time together, searching through letters and files to choose a prospect who might be—uh—well-suited.”
“I simply can’t imagine—” Slowly shaking her curly head in disbelief and dismay, Hannah had to wet her dry lips to speak. “It’s like—Cam, it’s like—selling oneself, to the highest bidder!”
“But isn’t that what marriage is, anyway, in our circle? Isn’t fortune the most important factor? Who marries for love these days? It’s all about opportunity, isn’t it, and how one can best get ahead?”