by Sierra Rose
“Girls, just give me a minute, please. We must get organized. There are the animals to see to, and all our possessions, and—”
“Cam?” Ben Forrester had swiveled back, frowning, almost in confrontational mode.
“Yes, I’m Camellia Burton, and I’ve come a great distance to meet my prospective husband.”
“Huh,” said he flatly, his face suddenly dark as a thundercloud. “Well, lady, you’ve done met him, right here and now. And just who is the rest of this troop?”
The rest of the troop, all three of them, had almost flattened themselves against the building’s exterior in anticipation of, judging by the man’s apparent belligerence, something most unpleasant ensuing from this point onward.
“Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry, Mr. Forrester!” Rising, she reached out one hand in a pretty, well-mannered gesture that he would have been a complete lout to ignore. “Do forgive me for being so discourteous! It’s just we’ve been on the road such a very long time, with so many difficulties, and—”
“You wanna keep them bullocks tied up for the next week or so?” dryly inquired Jesse Buchanan just then. “You’d oughta decide what’s goin’ on, ma’am, so’s we can get ’em set loose, and watered and fed.”
The black-clad visitor was slowly turning her gaze from one speaker to the next: the driver, her chattering sisters, the surrounding group of happy spectators and hangers-on, and the imperious man who purported to be her bridegroom. Overwhelmed, overcome, without another word she simply allowed her eyes to roll back in her head; and, in a very quiet and ladylike manner that indicated every bone in her body had dissolved into mush, fainted dead away.
Chapter Six
SHE SLOWLY OPENED HER eyes to a scene of such quiet, such stark and simple beauty, that it seemed the lengthy trip southward from St. Louis might have done her in, after all, and she had simply expired. If this were heaven, it might not be too unpalatable.
The room’s very simplicity was vastly appealing. Bare plastered walls, plain white, with not a single framed Daguerreotype or printed motto to relieve the monotony; a floor of some dark irregularly grained wood; the ample iron bedstead, overlaid with colorful quilts and pillows; several chairs and tables scattered about, and a selection of lamps; two large windows that looked out onto whatever landscape lay below.
With a sigh that came all the way from her toes, she tried moving the muscles that had never stopped aching, and slightly elevating the head that had never stopped hurting, to cast another glance around at her surroundings.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty. About time you come back to earth.”
Camellia managed a weak, weary smile. “Hello, Hannah, dear. Pray tell, where am I?”
“After your untimely keeling over—which frightened the liver out of all of us, I might add—Mr. Forrester shanghaied you from our clutches. You have been installed in a guest bedroom on the second floor of his house.”
“Oh. Uh. Just me, all by myself?”
Hannah, who, book in hand, had been occupying a worn but comfortable chair in the corner for several hours—and, to judge by her settled-in position, babysitting—chuckled with relief that her beloved sister had not succumbed to some dread and fatal illness.
“Not a bit, silly goose. I think it is extremely fortunate that your prospective husband is such a take-charge individual. Let me tell you what happened.”
Once again Johnny-on-the-spot, Ben Forrester had caught his exhausted mail order bride before she could kiss the dust at her feet and swept her into his arms. Then, barking an order at the remaining three women, still huddled together and as yet unidentified, to follow, he had clomped away. He was muttering under his breath as he clomped, and only a few flung-out words here and there could be recognized: “Nothin’ to her. Bird’s bones. No stamina to count on. What the blue blazes was she thinkin’, anyway?”
His home was situated in the residential area of town, taking up a whole block of nice green grass and lots of mature trees, all sadly overgrown. After unceremoniously dumping his unconscious burden upon a bed, he had barked more orders to her trembling retinue. Take care of whatever she needed. Make sure she was all right. Get some food in her stomach—and theirs. Then he had snapped that he’d return later, when he could, to straighten out this mess.
Neither his comment nor his expression boded well for the future, but Hannah could hardly report on that part of the day’s experiences!
By now Camellia, feeling much more rested and much less prone to faintness, was sitting up on the double bed. She assumed it had been her sisters who had kindly removed her dusty black boots, undone the buttons on her dress front, and loosened the ties of her corset. She felt a new woman.
Or would, once she had found sustenance.
“Oh, thank heaven, a glass of water. You’re very thoughtful of my well-being, Hen; I find my mouth seems to be filled with sawdust.”
Watching critically, as Camellia gratefully quenched her thirst, Hannah urged caution about plunging too quickly back into her usual routine. “For so many weeks, you’ve been cracking the whip over our heads,” was her somewhat aggrieved reminder, “and driving yourself harder than any hired servant I’ve ever seen. And then those—wagons—!” She gave a heartfelt shudder. “No wonder you fainted. Please go slowly now, if you please.”
Facts which could not be disputed. Camellia cast one exhausted thought backward in time, to the whirlwind of activity which had preceded this arrival at their destination.
Her first order of business, once Mr. Benjamin Hartley Forrester, Esquire, had written a reply definitely proposing marriage to Camellia Estelle Burton, Spinster, was one of necessity: she had gathered up everyone’s personal (and surprisingly substantial) collection of fine jewelry. Over voluble and vehement protest, of course.
“Not all of it, Cam!” Letitia had almost wailed. “That’s just mean!”
Camellia, as overseer of their little band’s future, was not moved. “Very well, two pieces. Keep two pieces back, and that’s it. The rest we must sell for traveling funds.”
As luck would have it, their father had never dipped into his daughters’ cloisonné treasure boxes to fuel his gambling habits. Perhaps he held the gifts he had given them, over the years, as sacrosanct. Then again, befuddled by drink, he may have forgotten the existence of such valuable selections. Whatever the reason, at least the girls were left with quite an assemblage of cameos, rings, bracelets, necklaces, even a tiara or two, all made with precious and semi-precious stones.
The gracious Mr. Llewellyn King had, upon Camellia’s request, taken charge of the booty. Then he had referred her to a well-qualified and experienced trail master—there seemed no end to the man’s connections throughout St. Louise—named Jesse Buchanan. From there on, a number of appointments had been set to discuss what was needed, what could be packed, reliable drivers to be hired, and so on.
After the complete and devastating betrayal by Nathaniel Burton, during the last few months of his regrettable life, Camellia tended to look at most males askance. Could this one possibly be trustworthy? Or that one? Would their few remaining funds also be somehow stolen away, as had all other parts of their inheritance?
Certainly Mr. King had proven himself to be a worthy confidant. She was finding that his business associates followed his lead. Thus she could rely on Jesse to purchase necessary provender for some two months of travel, for some ten adults, plus horses and oxen.
Meanwhile she was working furiously, with her sisters, to pack their wardrobes and personal possessions into a startling number of trunks, cases, wooden boxes, and carpet bags, ready for transport to the great unknown. And, as always, the brunt of running the whole show, dealing with tears and occasional near-mutiny, overcoming the stigma of destitution, had fallen upon Camellia’s slender shoulders.
And there was the emotional toll, as well. The young Burtons were leaving behind the safe, secure life protected by ivied walls to venture out into the world, abandoning all they had known and loved for who knew
what fearsome future.
Camellia had, on the sly, shed a few tears herself.
On behalf of the orphaned Burton girls, Mr. King worked with the bank to settle up debts as quickly as possible. By vacating the premises about to be foreclosed at an earlier date than scheduled, they were able to recoup a small but reassuring amount of fees and charges. All cash and coin went into the designated Turnabout fund, ready for whatever emergencies might come along.
“I must admit,” Camellia said now, with a sigh, “our lives have been in turmoil since December.”
“None more than yours,” her sister loyally assured her. “Even riding atop those horrendous—vehicles—” another shudder, “—all this way has been so difficult. I feel pounded to pieces.”
For a while the train had followed a road. Not much of one, to be sure; more ruts and mud than anything. But travel had certainly become more arduous once the simple track had wandered away in another direction and Jesse Buchanan had turned southwest. More often than not it was open field from there on, or grassy stretches that held furrows and buzzing insects and snakes.
The Burton girls had neither to hitch up nor unhitch teams, nor cook simple meals over an open fire, nor consult about the route being taken. They had merely to endure.
And so, grim-faced and stiff beneath their tight corsets and voluminous petticoats, they had.
Until now.
“And where are your sisters?” Camellia, with soft becoming color beginning to return to her pallid cheeks, asked now.
“They’re resting, in a spare room they’ve been given just down the hall. Similar to this one, I would guess.”
With her own middle starting to voice complaints about its emptiness, Camellia wondered if anyone had eaten anything.
“Oh, yes. Your Mr. Forrester demanded we make free with his kitchen supplies, so we were able to scramble some eggs, and find the butter and bread, and brew a pot of coffee. You must be starving, Cam. Let’s put you back together and go downstairs. See, I’ve managed to unpack a few essentials; here’s your hairbrush and hand mirror.”
“And the—uh—facilities?”
“Outdoors, I’ll show you where. I believe I’m to share this room with you.”
A step down; in the St. Louis mansion each girl had occupied a spacious, comfortable room all to herself. After the travails of the trail, however, such conveniences were not to be sniffed at. For too long there had been only superficial washing; and only rare chances for clean laundry; and always, always, the furtive moves away from the gathered males, guarded by one or two sisters, to tend to bodily needs. One makes do with what one must.
After a good night’s rest in a wide bed, Camellia next craved the utter bliss of sinking nose-deep into a hip bath full of fragrant warm water.
“This one appears to be quite—adequate,” ventured Camellia, as she bent to don the boots that seemed, here in such warm and appealing temperatures, quite heavy and out of fashion. “And Mr.—um—Mr. Forrester’s—arrangements?”
Although no one seemed to be within range of hearing, Hannah lowered her voice. “I’m not sure. That may be part of the mess he claimed to need straightening out. I declare, Cam, that man frightens me a little. He is so very—loud.”
It was the work of just a few minutes to put herself in order, brushing at and straightening her wrinkled clothing, patting her disordered hair into place. “There. I’m ready now.”
Hannah beamed. How reassuring that her sister was once more upright and afoot, instead of supine and white as death atop someone else’s comforter! “Very well, then. Here, down these stairs, Cam, and then out through the back door. I’ll accompany you.”
Having carefully not disturbed their sisters, they were seated at the table in a well-furnished kitchen, nibbling at the last of a chunk of cheese and sipping coffee, when the master of the household entered. Or erupted, if your thoughts ran in that direction. Camellia was beginning to wonder just how volatile her affianced’s temper might be.
Poor Hannah immediately cringed and shrank a good two inches down into her chair at the sound of his rather noisy appearance.
“It’s all right, Hen.” Raising her voice slightly, she called, “We are in the kitchen, Mr. Forrester.”
Immediately he clumped across the parlor and through the doorway. And immediately his presence seemed to fill the room, to make it feel smaller and more confined. Camellia frowned down at his sturdy boots. Was it really necessary to make such a racket? Or (a reassuring consideration), was he just so unused to the presence of ladies in his house?
“Well,” he said heavily. “I see you’re lookin’ less peaked. Does that mean you’re feelin’ better?”
“Absolutely. Thank you so much for your kindness and consideration, Mr. Forrester. And I really must apologize for such unseemly behavior.”
“It ain’t unseemly to black out if you got no strength left to stand,” he observed. The intensity of his hazel eyes, beneath thick pale brows, shifted toward Hannah. “I wonder if Miss Burton and me could have some privacy. There’s things to be discussed, and we’d ought to be alone to do it.”
With a little undignified squeak, the girl gulped, nodded, and skittered away. The sound of her footsteps pelting up the stairs, and then lightly through the second floor hallway overhead, echoed in the silence that permeated the house.
“As you see, we have most gratefully availed ourselves of the hospitality you offered us.” Camellia, ever the good hostess, was determined to be pleasant no matter the situation. “Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s freshly made.”
“I would, thank you.” The man pulled out a wooden chair away from the table and settled onto its worn seat. His first taste of the hot drink raised both brows in startlement.
“Is there a problem?” Her tone was on the verge of being anxious.
“Uh—no. Kinda unusual, more than anything. Different.” Wrapping both big hands around the mug, he drew in a breath that signified delay. “Look, Miss Burton—”
She managed one brief wavering smile. “Perhaps we ought to try being on a first-name basis? It would be friendlier. And, after all, we are to be married.”
“Ah—about that marriage...”
Panic suddenly seized her in a vise-like grip, although she dared not reveal that her middle was beginning to quake, and her fingers were trembling. To let this man see the frightening effect of his hesitation would be a sign of weakness. A mistake. Of all the scenarios Camellia had pictured at journey’s end, the possibility that she might end up husband-less, and more destitute than ever before, had never occurred to her.
Instead, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Yes? What about our marriage?”
He was giving her a once-over, dead-on, taking in every feature, probably for the first time. “Seein’ you here, in my house—well, I just ain’t so sure now that marriage is the right thing to do. We’d maybe oughta think this thing through a little more, come up with some other solutions.”
“Indeed.” No revelation, either, of this blow to her pride. Unwanted, by two perfectly acceptable males, within the space of a few months. It was enough to drive one into vapors! “Do you find my appearance displeasing in some way?”
“Displeasin’!” His reaction came so swiftly, so sharply, that she was reassured by its authenticity. “Ma’am, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with your looks. In fact, you’re so downright pretty that I couldn’t believe my own good luck when I figured out who you are.”
Point in her favor. At least he wasn’t revolted to the place where he might be completely nauseated by having to face her every day. “Well, then?”
Again he hesitated, turning the mug this way and that. Not a quick thinker? Or just trying to find the easiest, least hurtful method of truth-telling?
“Miss Burton, through your lawyer, I sent what I thought would be a fair amount of money for your passage to Turnabout. Did you get it?”
“I did. And thank you.”
“Ahuh.
Well, then I see you pull up in a set of rigs that musta cost the earth. Six wagons, teams to pull ’em, men to drive ’em, supplies to fill everybody’s gullet, furnishings like you think there ain’t nothin’ available in our fair town. Accordin’ to what you wrote in your letters, you were just about dead broke. So somethin’ is fishy somewhere. I simply don’t think the lifestyles between us are gonna be able to match up, a’ tall.”
Camellia rose, wrapping her hand in a dish towel in order to carry the hot coffeepot to the table, where both could help themselves. She was as capable of delaying tactics as he!
Then, reseating herself, she folded her fingers together in an almost prayer-like attitude and spoke quietly but earnestly. “Mr. Forrester, I’m sorry this is the impression you have gotten. We agreed to setting a marriage date, to take place soon after I arrived. I hardly think there would be any sort of problem with meshing our cultures and our backgrounds together.”
“I can just see trouble afoot if—’
“Any man and woman must surely make huge adjustments, don’t you think?” she rushed on.
“Simply living as husband and wife would take getting used to. It does seem to me that deliberately working on a union might help to overcome any obstacles, wouldn’t you agree?”
A vein had begun to show itself throbbing in his temple. Perhaps not a good omen. “What you’re sayin’ is all true, I s’pose, although I have no personal—”
“And, I assure you, I respect the contract we’ve made. I intend to honor my commitment. It’s too bad you don’t feel the same integrity.”
“Integrity? Honor? Now, wait a goldanged minute. I’ll have you know—”
“I had intended to be the best wife possible. It would be a shame if the town of which you clearly think so well—” She cast a glance around, taking in all four corners of the house, “—were to discover you were not a man of your word, after all.”
He was beginning to huff and puff with frustration, much in the manner of the big bad wolf attempting to blow down the pigs’ brick home. “I am and have always been a man of my word,” Ben Forrester gritted out between his teeth. “I don’t know what kinda high-jinks you’re tryin’ to pull, but—”
