by Sierra Rose
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.
It took but a few minutes to sponge-bathe, with her favorite lavender hard-milled soap, and change into a more reputable soft sunshine-yellow gown that showed only a hint of bustle. Then, with reticule and lacy parasol in hand, she slipped out and prudently (the habits of big-city living die hard) locked the door upon her departure.
“Good day, Mrs. McKnight. I should like to visit with my sisters, if that is convenient.”
The stout, gray-haired lady who had answered her knock at the boarding house was already beaming. “Well, how do, Mrs. Forrester. Yes, ma’am, you come right on in and set for a spell. They’re upstairs; I’ll just let ’em know you’re here.”
Camellia barely had time to answer, “Thank you, that’s very kind,” before her hostess had scurrled away.
Shown into the parlor from the wide hall, she perched gingerly on a chair whose every inch of upholstery appeared to have been starched, given its unyielding stiffness, set up in a space similar to her own in style but much larger, by design, and crowded by bits and pieces of furniture. Black walnut, mostly, although the collection also included oak and teak. The landlady had scattered about a number of plants (lively and thriving, by sharp contrast), and, instead of the Forresters’ dark blue print, the walls were papered in turkey red.
She was peering curiously out through the tall windows, onto a painted verandah, when her sisters hurried down the stairs and into the immaculate sitting room. Fluttering and cooing like a flock of turtle doves, the three of them surrounded her with hugs, kisses, and cries of surprise.
“Down, girls, down!” Camellia, who felt she was dealing with a pack of enthusiastic lap dogs, implored.
All were chattering away at once, but most prevalent was the astonishment at the newlywed Camellia’s appearance here at Mrs. McKnight’s boarding house, with but two days of marriage behind her.
“Shouldn’t you be with your husband?” and “Perhaps he’s still at work?” and “No, no, he’s away on a trip!” and, the repetition of, “Shouldn’t you be with your husband?”
To forestall any more questions, especially from the landlady, who was watching this scene with interest, Camellia asked if she might steal her sisters away, to be treated to a supper at the Sittin’ Eat Hash House.
“Why, that’s fine with me,” Mrs. McKnight assured her. Certainly the wife of the most powerful man in town could do just about whatever she wanted. The young woman had not yet learned what kind of position she held hereabout, thanks to Ben Forrester. “You g’wan and enjoy yourselves. But, just remember, doors get locked up at nine o’clock.”
“Oh, we’ve missed you so, Cam!” Hannah said with a sigh, as they trudged along arm in arm.
The daylight was fading somewhat, moving from late afternoon into early evening, to cast that almost pearlescent glow over all and sundry. When the most intense of the heat was beginning to ease, and those minding the stores and boutiques and businesses along Main Street were consulting their empty middles as to a late or early meal. It was a prosperous place, with a few shoppers still strolling the boardwalks, and a few drays still rumbling into Turnabout with their loads of grain or saddles. One of the wagons, Camellia noted, was stopped in front of Forrester’s, and Ben’s two clerks were carrying boxes and crates in and out at a brisk pace.
“I’ve missed all of you, too,” she told them. “So much so that I thought we could visit for a bit.”
“But where’s Ben?”
“He left, very early this morning, for a buggy ride to Manifest.”
Again the chorus of soft feminine voices, this time in disbelief. “Why?” “To where?” and, most demanding, “But why didn’t he take you with him?”
They had reached the busy little café, where customers and noise abounded. A man just about to enter, somewhat dazedly accosted by a bevy of young lovelies dressed in colors like a spring bouquet, tipped his hat and opened the heavy door for their convenience.
Once seated, their orders placed, Camellia could explain about Ben’s absence. She shaded the explanation, to be sure; no point in letting her family know how upset she’d been (and still was) and in what an obstinate, tyrannical, and pigheaded way her new husband was treating her. That was her cross to bear. At least, until he returned, and they could finally indulge in a frank discussion—or, if need be, a knock-down, drag-out fight.
“But what are you doing to keep yourself occupied?” Letitia wanted to know.
Camellia’s laugh sounded weary and resigned. “Oh, quite a lot, so far. Cleaning, mostly. And rearranging. I want to bring in from the barn some of those few household things we saved from the auctioneer, and add them to the mix. Now, do tell me, how have you settled in at Mrs. McKnight’s?”
The younger girls exchanged glances over their glasses of cold sweet tea.
Finally Hannah admitted, “It’s pleasant enough, Cam. But I think all of us want to get out as soon as we can—although, for the life of me, I can’t see where. Boarding is not—it is not—”
“Boarding is simply loathsome,” Molly frankly interrupted. “I thought it would be an improvement over that dreadful wagon trek south. And it is. Just slightly. But so many rules!”
“Nothing belongs to you,” confided Letitia. “Everything belongs to Mrs. McKnight. And she’s very strict about how you use it. No candles or lamps lit after nine o’clock. No in-between-meal snacks.”
Molly, feeling aggrieved, chimed in, “Our beds must be made and our rooms kept neat for inspection, at all times. As if we were military cadets!”
“And,” Letitia dramatically lowered her voice, “we must empty our own—um—conveniences!”
Clearly that was the last straw, in their opinion.
It was certainly an adjustment for these girls who had lived with servants at their beck and call, who had done little more strenuous than occasionally fold an article of clothing, or ring a bell enjoining someone to run the bath. It was a comedown. They had endured far too many traumatic changes in their lives, these four Burtons. They were doing their best to persevere. But sometimes one’s best is not good enough.
Camellia was nonplussed. “Oh, dear. I wasn’t aware—”
“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.
It was when she and Miss Gotham sat down for that promised serving of tea that Camellia needed to bite her tongue against any criticism. However appealing his stock, visible to customers, he took little care or pride for his workers. The storeroom was a dusty, cramped space, filled with an overflow of masculine items, and her fingers positively itched to clean the cobwebs off the one small window.
And that was just the first item that must be changed.
However, she and Miss Gotham had themselves a nice chat, with Camellia showing interest in her as a person and not just a clerk.
“And you have an invalid mother to care for? How difficult that must be for you. Who watches over her while you are away at the store?”
“I have a lady who comes in for a few hours each day,” Miss Gotham replied primly and offered the china plate of shortbread. “But, yes, you are absolutely correct...things can be—difficult...”
“Especially financially, I am sure,” was Camellia’s sympathetic answer. And made one more mental note: After cleaning out and freshening up this pathetic little space, she must get Ben to discuss salaries with her. She would only have to decide how to go about doing it.
Before she departed, some time later, she had been able to pry more information from Miss Gotham: the name and location of a laundress, a recommendation of which restaurant no one should patronize, and the time when Sunday services were held at the Church of Placid Waters. Then, feeling quite satisfied with her outing, she offered her utmost gratitude to both and slipped out the door.
Strolling home, with her parasol in play, she hoped that neither of those faithful employees had seen her as a spy, come to scout out problems while the boss was gone, in order to report any infractions to him upon his return. She wanted only to know more about the business, to be able to particip
ate in future decisions, to stand in equal partnership with the man who had worked so diligently to put all this together. She wanted to help him achieve his dream. If he would let her.
Of course, if he wouldn’t, realized Camellia, with a resentful tilt of the nose, it would only reinforce her opinion of his bullheadedness that she had been harboring for nearly two days.
She passed any number of townspeople and farm folk as she wandered, exchanging nods and smiles as each went about his legitimate business. Some to purchase goods, some to see their lawyer, some to visit their doctor, some to withdraw funds or deposit cash with their banker.
Two were none of the above.
Her hand was on the gate of the low picket fence surrounding her home when she heard her name being called.
Puzzled, she turned. Only to see two tall, hulking men in rough gear approach her.
“Mrs. Forrester, right?”
Camellia drew herself erect. Their property lay at the outer fringes of town, with the few neighborhood houses, empty at this time of day, still more than a block away. But she would not feel apprehensive. Not yet. “Yes, I am Mrs. Forrester. Have we been introduced?”
“Oh, not formally. Your husband ain’t about to let the likes of us come in contact with a delicate flower like you.” The man smirked. “I’m Earl Putnam, and this yere’s my brother, Eli.”
They looked to be more than brothers. Twins, most likely. The same greasy, slouched hat pulled down over greasy, lank hair; the same gritty, unshaven faces, with hard jaws and hard eyes; the same baggy, stained overalls. Neither prepossessing, by any stretch of the imagination.
From their stance under the trees, they had clumped forward to stalk several steps nearer. Too near. Camellia, feeling the pointed wood of the fence pressing into her back, wanted to take a stick and shoo them away, like chickens. Except they weren’t chickens. They were more like vultures.
“You must excuse me, gentlemen,” and she used the word without even a tongue in cheek. “I have duties calling me inside.”
