by Sierra Rose
“Now, do tell me, dear,” Henrietta barreled on, leaing forward with a confidential pat on Camellia’s knee, “just what in the world has happened to your sister? That poor girl, married but one day, supposedly on her way to a happy life—or so all of us assumed—and then coming back here almost immediately, in disgrace. I can’t imagine—”
“My sister is not in disgrace, Mrs. Blankenship.” The correction was made instantly, shortly, and coolly. “I have no idea what you’ve heard, but—”
“Oh, just the usual thing. Naïve young woman makes an ill-advised bad marriage, immediately gives up instead of working to make it better, runs home with her tail between her legs. Given the description I heard of her condition, her husband must have taken a stick to her.”
How could she have forgotten that the gossip mill that had run so rampant back home through busy, thriving St. Louis streets would also be hard at work here in small-town Turnabout? Especially fueled and fed by someone as vicious, as eager to spread hurt, as Henrietta Blankenship? Mrs. McKnight, friendly soul, of boarding house fame, had once offered a quiet, tactful warning about this particular individual; Elvira Gotham, solid acquaintance from the store, had been neither quiet or tactful in her own advice.
“Tongue like an adder,” Elvira, snipping away at a cut of yard goods as if she would prefer to use her scissors as weapon, had opined. “Many of us have prayed for years that she would move herself and her righteous Christian judgment to the other side of the world, but no luck. You’d do well to keep as far away as possible.”
“What you heard was incorrect,” Camellia said now. At least the part about the stick, so she wasn’t being entirely untruthful. “My sister had a—a sudden bad fall on the property, and of course it made perfect sense for her to recuperate here.”
“Indeed? And her husband hasn’t been around to see how she’s doing? I find that odd. Very odd. But, of course, I wouldn’t recognize the man if I saw him, since I wasn’t invited to the wedding.”
“It was a very small wedding, I assure you,” said Camellia desperately, “just the immediate family. And Quinn has wisely decided to leave Molly alone, to rest and recover, while he’s out looking for work.”
“Oh, really? Hardly what has been going around the—”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Blankenship,” Camellia gracefully rose, to show the interview was ended, “I have a lot to catch up on, and I’m sure you do, as well. Let me just show you to the door. Oh, and thanks again for the pie.”
The pie. That dastardly pie. With the door firmly closed behind her unwelcome guest’s hasty—if exceedingly reluctant because forced—exit, Camellia glared at the large dish as if it were personally responsible for her bad mood.
What was she to do with it?
And how could she possibly quell the nasty tittle-tattle that was, apparently, already consuming the interest of everyone in Turnabout?
“Please, please, don’t let any more well-meaning but nosy neighbors stop by!” she implored of the Great Beyond.
The next order of the day was to check on Molly. If the silence emanating from her room were any indication, the girl had, thanks to her physician-administered narcotics, slept a substantial fourteen hours. She ought to be needing some relief and some sustenance about now.
Molly was indeed, semi-awake, and making movements toward putting her feet on the floor and returning to semi-normalcy. A hint of color had washed into her abraded face, and she was regaining her sense of self. Perhaps feeling safe from harm—however temporary—had helped.
“Do you think she might have poisoned the pie?” Molly asked with a hint of her old spirit, upon hearing the story of Mrs. Blankenship’s visit.
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t put it past her. The old harridan. Perhaps I can persuade Amazin’ to bury the contents in our back yard. I’ve brought a tray for you, Mol, with tea and fresh buttered bread. While you eat, I’ll brush your hair, and you can tell me what you feel like doing today.”
“Anything,” the girl said quietly, “that doesn’t involve any effort. It’s strange—I have no energy, Cam. I want to just lie about, because it pains me too much even to shift position.”
Camellia eyed her with sympathy, understanding, and a heart that felt oddly full to overflowing yet close to breaking, all at once. “And no wonder, with what happened. You rest as long as you need to, sweetheart. Your sisters and I will take care of you. Are you—can you—will you—oh, Molly, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” the girl, flashing back to painful memory, murmured in a dull, dead voice, “He—he did such—such horrible things to me, Cam,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. “I never realized that—that a man might hurt his wife so badly, and—” a rough swallow, and a gasp for breath, “and seem to—to enjoy it...”
“Oh, Molly—dear—!”
They wept quietly together for a bit, the soft, silken, cleansing tears that ease distress and promote healing.
Their next visitor was Dr. Havers, who stumped into the parlor conveniently just about dinnertime. Dampened by the light rain that had started misting down from the leaden clouds, he handed her his shabby black felt derby and set his bag onto the floor, out of the way of traffic.
“Sorry, Cam, I meant to get here sooner, but the cook—you’ve met Silas Overton, haven’tcha?—over at Sittin’ Eat got splashed with a whole pot of boilin’ water.”
“Oh, dear, that sounds dreadful. I can’t imagine how much pain the poor fellow must be in. How does one treat something so severe?”
“Lemme tell you, I’m havin’ a run on my morphine tincture. Beyond that, a paste of wheat flour and cold water, applied several times a day, should take care of him. He’ll be all right, but looks like he might end up with some scars on his arm. I told Silas it would just make him look more manly for the ladies.”
“My, how compassionate.”
The doctor shrugged. “Yup. Goes with the territory. Lissen, Camellia, much as I enjoy jawin’ with you, I actually came to see my patient. Okay to head on upstairs and check in with her?”
“Give me just a minute, Gabe, to make sure she’s presentable.”
She should have been. After some tidying of her person, and the bed in which she had slept, Molly had, mindful of afflictions, carefully slipped into one of her nicer wrappers and opened one of the books waiting to be perused. Gabriel spent a half hour or so behind the closed door, and a murmur of voices assured any listener that the girl was at least talking.
“Well, now, lookit that.” He appeared to be just noticing the hour, when he rejoined Camellia in the kitchen a little later. “Got anything around here to eat?”
Shaking her head in exasperation and resignation, she couldn’t help grinning at the affable man who made himself so easily at home, wherever he went. “You do beat all, Gabe. If you can wait a bit, Ben is supposed to be home soon. Unless you don’t want to share.”
“Oh, heavens above, happy to share. Meanwhile, a cup of your fine coffee would go down well.” That was more than a broad hint. It was an out-and-out plea.
She had poured a cup of coffee for each of them, and, taking pity on his wistful expression, sliced the rest of the cornbread for his consumption—“Just to tide you over”—when a knock at the back door announced her third visitor for the day.
“Lucky for you that you cleaned up the joint after last night’s foofaraw,” commented Gabe, unperturbed. “Didn’t realize you’d have so much company in and out.”
“Nor did I,” muttered Camellia, rising to undo the lock.
“Well, well, look who’s here. C’mon in, Paul; Miz F. was just about to fix us a meal. May’s well join us. What’s up?”
Camellia sighed. The doctor was absolutely incorrigible. “Yes, Paul, do come in and join us.”
Carefully wiping his boots on the rag rug arranged at the threshold for just that purpose, the sheriff looked up with a crooked smile. His broad shoulders, in the soft home
spun he favored, were sprinkled with rain drops, and his Stetson, when he removed it, had been darkened here and there, as well.
“I didn’t stop by to eat, Miz Forrester. Been makin’ my rounds, keepin’ an eye on the place, and thought I’d see how Molly is doin’.”
“Paul.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
Resigned to the inevitable, she poured another cup of coffee and wondered if the simple dinner menu of fried steak and essentials would stretch to feed four instead of two. Dadrat that simpleton of a Havers, anyway. Why didn’t he just hire a town crier and invite three streets’ worth of guests in to sit at her food trough?
“Here, sit. Yes,” she assured him, somewhat impatiently, “by all means, stay and eat with us. Paul, why do you address me as Mrs. Forrestor but you use my sister’s first name?”
“Oh. Ah.”
As he laid his hat aside and took a chair opposite the doctor’s, he kept both gaze and face slightly downturned. Camellia realized, with a start of surprise, that faint color was mounting across the man’s tanned cheekbones.
“Didn’t figure I knew you well enough yet to get so familiar,” mumbled Paul, looking like nothing so much as a boy shamed before his peers.
“But you do Molly?”
“Well—uh—the circumstances that threw us together...sorta seemed—well, almost life and death, y’ know...”
Gabriel, reaching hungrily for another piece of cornbread, hooted. “Our sheriff here is comin’ late to the barn dance. Once struck, forever struck, in his books. Reckon his twenty-eight years is finally startin’ to feel grown-up.”
A steady, even glance across the table. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, as usual, old man, and nothin’ outa your mouth makes sense anyway.”
“Old man? Well, you young whippersnapper, I do have almost a year on you. Experience tells. So, y’all wanna hear how my patient is doin’, or not?”
“Oh, do wait until Ben gets home,” begged Camellia. Hoping he could keep these two rowdy males separated and the atmosphere convivial. Although, actually, the three of them together behaved even more badly—like toddlers, lacking supervision. The center spot of her spine between both shoulder blades, an excruciatingly sensitive area, seemed to be targeted to invite barbs, and she shrugged a few times, working to loosen tight muscles.
As it was, he showed up about ten minutes later, while Camellia was pounding and flouring the steaks into exquisite tenderness. If he felt taken aback by the men around his table, being entertained by a flushed and flustered wife, he gave no indication.
“Things slow over to the sawbones’ office?” he wondered casually. A kiss for his wife, a pat on her shapely bottom as she labored at the stove, and he could wash his hands in anticipation of devouring something whose savory smell drew him bodily to the table. “Nothin’ doin’ over to the jail?”
“Checkin’ in on Molly,” both visitors answered simultaneously. And then looked at each other.
“Ahuh. So, you gonna report to me, or what?”
“Let’s do it on a full stomach, whatddya say?” suggested the doctor, watching Camellia’s movements with interest.
One of Camellia’s most endearing attributes was her grace under pressure. It was, perhaps, a more unusual quality in which Ben took great pride, but there it was: the cool ability to turn out an edible—no, a wonderfully tasty—meal, before an audience of hungry and impatient males. For someone with so little training in culinary arts, she had come a long way.
Amazing. In short order, she set on the table a platter of beef steaks, fried with onions; a large bowl of creamed turnips, heated and mashed with butter; another bowl of stewed carrots; a compote of fresh cooked spinach topped by boiled egg slices; a plate of baking powder biscuits dripping with elderberry jam; and yesterday’s baking of a crusty and savory apple pie.
It wasn’t until everything had been consumed and the plates scraped clean that each of those males, now stuffed to the gullet, could loosen the first button of his trousers and slip arms free of suspenders. At an evening gathering, this would now be the time that they disappeared into Ben’s study for cheroots and something home-brewed, popularly known as Ol’ Red-Eye, and sold at Forrester’s.
Except that Camellia, who had put aside clearing and dish-washing for the moment, was waiting for her update.
The kitchen, under her expertise, had been transformed into a remarkably cheerful, welcoming room. The colorful rag rugs and printed tea towels, the slow heat of the fire, the appetizing aroma of fresh coffee, the slow run and drip of raindrops down the glass of each window—all her doing (except for the precipitation). Whether or not Ben mentioned it often enough, in so many words, he deeply appreciated this lovely, capable woman who had transformed his life, as well.
As promised, the doctor was first to report. Molly’s physical condition was gradually improving; internal and external injuries were already beginning to heal, and would continue to do so, with rest and good care. The state of her mental and emotional health was another matter entirely. She had actually smiled a few times, while talking with him earlier; and that was encouraging. But, clearly, the harm she suffered had gone far beyond the tangible.
“Me, I’ve just been kinda roamin’ around town all day,” Paul, pausing for a sip of coffee, contributed. “Makin’ sure nobody untoward approached your house here, or your sisters’.”
“You see anything of Hennessey?” Ben was scraping up the last bite of apple pie before reaching for his own cup.
“Caught a glimpse of him, talkin’ out in the open with Linus Drinkwater. He was lookin’ for a job, from what Linus told me later. Guess he’s took him a room at the hotel, though how he can afford it is anyone’s guess.”
“Especially since he was more than willing to abandon poor Molly at that hovel in the woods,” Camellia tartly observed.
“She—uh—expressed any interest in havin’ a chat with me?”
Camellia’s bright blue eyes widened just a little. “Why would she?”
He gave her a look halfway between impatience and forbearance. “About the ongoin’ investigation, Miz—Camellia.” There. That should sweeten her mood. “Like to have a few more facts under my belt b’fore I run into Mr. Hennessey again. Next time, I mean to make my case.”
“With me pressin’ charges, I hope,” was the doctor’s comment.
“I’m holdin’ that in reserve, Gabe. Want all the ammunition I can get.”
An expression of doubt crossed Camellia’s vulnerable face. “I don’t know, Paul. She’s still so exhausted—and afraid. But I can go ask her.”
“I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”
“Meanwhile,” Gabriel pushed back from the table with a satisfied groan, “I reckon I better get back and see what’s goin’ on. Bound to be some patients waitin’ for me to make an appearance.” Rising, he reluctantly refastened the trouser button and snapped his suspenders back in place.
“Huh.” Ben sent him a glance that was slightly disgruntled. “Gonna just eat and run, you ole pill-pusher? Gonna just leave this mess?”
“Why, Benjamin, my boy,” the doctor sounded surprised by this reaction, “it’s what I do. B’sides, you two are still newlyweds enough that I have no doubt you’ll enjoy helpin’ Cam clean up things in the kitchen. I wouldn’t dream of interferin’. Thanks for a grand meal, my dear. The Café Rouge couldn’ta put out one better.”
Chapter Thirteen
BY WEDNESDAY, WITH the skies still colored a depressing gray and everything green dripping moisture into puddles on the ground, Molly was feeling strong enough to put on one of her oldest, most comfortable outfits—a simple white cotton shirtwaist whose front formed shapely pleats and somber navy button-down skirt—and descend to the first floor.
It was mid-morning, although, given the dark and gloomy inclement weather, the hour seemed more like early evening. Camellia almost wished it were. The past two days had been busy ones, and she would be relieved to put housekeeping and familial c
hores aside, just to relax with a book, her husband’s company, and quiet conversation. And would a nice hot cup of tea, brewed by someone else’s hand, be too much to ask?
Visitors, expected and unexpected, appreciated and not so appreciated, had been making their way to her door at odd hours since Henrietta Blankenship had broken the ice on Monday. By now, she was about to plead with Ben that they might take an extended trip somewhere—anywhere—just to leave the hullabaloo behind.
Following Mrs. Blankenship’s lead, several other ladies had stopped by to express their concern about dear, sweet Molly Burton—oh, but it was Hennessey, now, wasn’t it?—press forward some sort of food offering, and send prying glances into every corner of Camellia’s downstairs. Elvira, too, had arrived, but for only a tactful ten minutes or so.
And last night both Letty and Hannah had come to supper, that they might have a brief chat (neither so frank nor so prolonged as might be anticipated) with their sister. The girls were, naturally, shocked by her appearance, entirely sympathetic as to her ordeal, and absolutely supportive in supplying any of her wants or needs. A book? Certainly. A game of whist? Of course. A box of chocolates? Done.
Today, after Molly had been satisfactorily settled with a tray of soup and sugar buns and sweet hot tea, it was time to take care of neglected household chores.
Determined to catch up, despite the weather, Camellia scrubbed and swept and mopped the kitchen within an inch of its life, then dusted the parlor and ran her carpet sweeper over the floors. In between, she also managed to brush aside the invalid’s heartfelt apologies; no, no regrets—when Molly’s health was back to full bloom (as if it were the state of her health in question!), she would be more than welcome to housekeep as much as she desired. Until then, sit, relax, rest.
Camellia was gathering up the basket of laundry in readiness for Mrs. Ruth Tidwell’s call, to take everything away for washing and pressing, when a knock sounded at the front door.
“Oh, bother,” she muttered, stuffing down a last pair of Ben’s long johns to join the rest. Perhaps she could get a Quarantine sign from Gabe to scare away any prospective callers. He owed her that much, anyway, and it would be one way for him to pay off the bill for all that good cookin’ he had taken advantage of lately.
