Mail Order Bride- Fall
Page 14
Fortunately, upon young Reese’s arrival in Turnabout, he had been blessed with the unexpected support of a whole loyal cadre of kith and kin. The slightest dip of his mood (which rarely happened, as he had also been blessed with an equable and accepting temperament), and someone was always available to buck him up.
To prevent his brother from dwelling too much on the momentarily unfixable, Ben put him to work at the mercantile. There, Reese was proving to be an able lieutenant, having both prior experience and business acumen. More to the point, he was well-liked by the customers and staff.
Ben had cannily made the important announcement early one morning, knowing full well that the news of his and Reese’s relationship would spread through town like wildfire. He would keep his chosen “Barclay,” as a slight added firewall protection against repercussions; anyone having the audacity to question why the dissimilarity in their surnames would be met with a blank stare. An expression and attitude with which Ben was not only quite comfortable, but quite practiced.
Meanwhile, the statement emphasized that Jimmy would retain his title of assistant manager; Reese was just an ordinary employee, and was to be treated as such.
However, with mayoral duties calling him away from the store more and more frequently, Ben felt quite confident in the knowledge that his brother would be helping to man the fort.
An added help was his bride-to-be. After consulting with Dr. Havers, who had earlier mentioned various remedies to lessen the effect of scar tissue, she had purloined his entire supply of lavender oil. The concoction was to be massaged into the affected area several times a day, without fail, and she would be, Letty assured him, delighted to take on the responsibility.
She had set up shop in the Forrester kitchen (the current catch-all and gathering place), since Reese, upon his brother’s insistence, had given up lodging at the Drinkwater and moved into the spare room upstairs. While Reese deeply enjoyed her ministrations, he complained loudly and frequently about smelling like a goldarned French bawdy house.
After she had suffered through several sessions of this flagrant verbal abuse, Letitia tightly informed him that they could certainly stop using lavender, if its fragrance upset him so. They might use raw honey, instead. And he could endure the consequences. Or the juice of fresh lemons, did he care to pay for them. Even apple cider vinegar, whose odor, were he to recall, could be as pungent as the inside of a livery stable.
From then on, the complaints were made neither so persistently nor so vehemently.
He drew the line at allowing her to apply tinted rice powder over the visible scar.
“Dang it all, woman,” he expostulated between his teeth, pulling away from fingers already prepared with jar and puff. “I thought you claimed you didn’t mind seein’ my symbol of bravery, that it didn’t bother you a’tall.”
“It doesn’t,” she assured him in like fashion. “But I understand there might be some slight interest by less-than-reputable outsiders, due to a certain wanted poster, which specifically notes this defect in your otherwise handsome appearance. Or am I mistaken?”
With a sheepish grin, he backed down. “No. At least not about my handsome appearance.”
The date of November Fifth was fast approaching. As was mid-April, for different reasons, though not so quickly. With their men engaged in the usual occupations, the Burton ladies took some time for themselves and upcoming events.
Wednesday of the following week had been chosen as wedding preparation day, to be indulged in and savored at the Forrester house.
Molly’s gown was finished, down to the very last thread, and ready to wear.
Much of Molly’s everyday existence here had been blighted with scandal, spread by the gossip-mongering tongues of residents who apparently didn’t have enough to do. The townsfolk were shocked that she had not immediately donned full mourning attire, from veil to gloves to parasol, to grieve the sudden death of her (worthless) husband; they were equally shocked to hear that she would be remarrying so quickly, ignoring the requisite year of quiet and seclusion when no single man should even be allowed admittance to the house.
Those same busybodies would topple right off the edge of normal society when they first got a glimpse of the color this freshly widowed widow had chosen for her gown.
Molly had pledged Mrs. Semple, her seamstress, to absolute secrecy concerning any details about her wedding dress. Since no one had angrily confronted the soon-to-be bride in the street with recriminations, it was to be assumed that that pledge had been kept.
With Letty’s help, Molly slipped into her finery and wafted down the stairs and into the parlor, to a chorus of oh’s and ah’s of admiration. Made of amethyst brocade, the slight shawl collar plunged daringly far past where it should, and the tightly fitted bodice and long skirt with train had been trimmed with several poufy organza roses. It was a beautiful dress, a stunning dress, of Molly’s own design, and it suited her vibrant personality to a tee.
“What do you think?” She turned slowly, allowing for full impact. “Will Paul be impressed?”
“Honey, his eyes will just about fall out of his head,” said Camellia. Then she giggled.
Hannah’s opinion was, as always, more practical. “We’d better keep a bottle of smelling salts on hand, just for his use. Can’t have him fainting dead away before your wedding night!”
Then all four Burtons began to laugh hysterically.
Soon, with Molly changed back into her everyday attire, they moved into the kitchen and got down to serious business. Her sisters, who would be serving as attendants, could, she assured them, wear any pretty dress they liked. As long as the color didn’t clash with her own.
“Huh,” said Letty, disgruntled. They were partaking of Camellia’s favorite Earl Grey tea and nibbling on a delicious nut bread while plans were being made; Hannah, as secretary, was industriously making notes as needed. “So. No blue? No green? No red?”
“Purple isn’t the easiest shade with which to coordinate,” agreed Camellia thoughtfully. “I suppose we might try yellow. Or pink.”
“I do have this smashing orange outfit,” teased Letty.
Then there was the question of flowers. Any favorites? And did Molly want some sort of reception afterward, in the church hall? Come to think of it, how many guests was she inviting? And which ones? And were she and Paul going away somewhere, once the festivities were over?
Camellia interrupted the general discussion to disappear silently but suddenly out the back door. Concerned, Hannah raised one brow. “Did we offend her?”
“Morning sickness,” offered Letitia, with an air of having knowledge the others did not. “She told me she’s been sick now and then for the past couple of months, usually before she can even get out of bed. But it’s tapering off now, and not happening so often.”
“But—that can’t be good for her! No wonder she’s looking thinner. If she can’t keep her breakfast down, she must be losing weight.”
“It’s perfectly normal.” Once her sister had made her thrilling announcement, Letty had pored over the doctor’s medical journal for information, and then had taken her puzzlements to Gabe for explanation. “Her body is having to get used to the baby, that’s all. She’s also been very tired. But her second trimester should be less difficult.”
Both girls stared with amazement. This was a new, different Letitia, one they hardly recognized. Who could follow just where her path might take her from here? After she had settled in with Reese—or Cole—anyway, whenever that might be. All of the immediate family was privy to the details of the past and the present concerning Ben’s brother; all would do what they could to lend assistance and support.
Camellia, looking wan and pasty, reappeared as silently as she had left. “My apologies, girls.”
“My dearest.” Hannah rose to envelope her sister in an unaccustomed but fervent embrace. “I had no idea what you’ve been going through. Please, Cam, when things get to be too much, please let us know. We’ll
do everything we can for you.”
As always, the close-knit clan came together for one of its own in travail or one in trouble—it mattered not which. That was what being part of the family meant. It’s what a family was for.
The rest of the day was spent, not just in making arrangements, but in girl talk, the easy ebb and flow which filled their hearts and lives to overflowing. It helped so much, reflected Letty, looking around the kitchen table at those so similar in appearance and personality, that they could live here within such a short distance of each other. How would she have survived the continuing tension of her days right now, without their nurturing presence, otherwise?
The waiting time extended for another week.
When nothing can be done about external affairs so deeply affecting your way of life, you simply put your head down and barrel your way through, however you can. A special brand of courage is required, and both Letty and her beloved were discovering new depths to be plumbed.
Paul sent a reminder telegram to his counterpart out west; the marshal replied in a taut,
slightly miffed tone. Have a little patience, please, he urged. Rome wasn’t built in a day. A complicated case, four years gone, requires a good deal of digging. In case Sheriff Winslow hadn’t noticed, there were other pressing San Francisco matters to deal with.
Not very encouraging. And, no, Sheriff Winslow hadn’t noticed. Had Marshal Westley noticed how far northeastern Texas lay from his own city?
And meanwhile, as the trite phrase says, life goes on.
In local news, the town council had finally decided to approve the construction of two new horse troughs, at each end of Main Street, to replace the wobbly, saggy, leaky receptacles installed at the beginning of time. Hoorahs were appended.
The owner of the Sarsaparilla Café, Wilber Knaack, was interviewed for an article in the Turnabout newspaper. In it, he announced that he had purchased an adjoining property and was looking to expand his business soon. Oh, and, by the way, he was running a special all this month on beef stew and corn bread for only fifteen cents (thus shrewdly inserting a bit of free publicity, as well).
Now that temperatures had cooled off, a new roof was being installed atop the three story mercantile. Laborers of every kind were free to apply; anyone afraid of heights was not.
During the day, while Reese was working at the store, Letty continued her studies with Doc Havers. She also occasionally provided company and ran errands for Camellia, who, once daily chores were finished and dinner on the stove, found herself alternating between the privy (to empty her stomach) and the settee (to rest her feet).
Since Hannah had put many of her flower and vegetable gardens to bed, her inexhaustible energy needed an outlet. She sought out the Turnabout Gazette’s editor, pleaded her case, and walked out the door with a gleam in her eyes and a secretive smile on her lips. Not an hour earlier, Sam Cooley had quit in a huff over “misuse of his talents,” according to the last hurled insult as he slammed away. Hannah Burton was now officially a reporter.
As for Molly, her current function was as decorative object, and that was just fine with Paul. Serving as sheriff not just of Turnabout, but of the surrounding county, he had been called away to investigate a cattle rustling ring and would be absent for at least several days, if not more. Much as he had hated to depart, he had had no choice. This was business. For the duration, Austin Blakely had been given charge of the jail and its duties, with Colton Bridges as backup.
Whatever could be done to Paul’s bungalow of painting and papering and preparing its premises for the occupation of a female householder had been done. All under Molly’s close supervision, of course. Her personal belongings and a few bits and pieces of furniture had been settled in chosen spots; the house was as ready as could be for her to move in.
So Molly, left now to her own devices, and with every detail well in hand for the November Fifth date, felt well justified in occupying Mrs. McKnight’s spacious verandah and simply look beautiful. Which she did very well.
A week later, about mid-October, a new arrival came into Turnabout. He made his way to the Firewater, this man with skin like old cowhide; and, as was customary, wet his whistle while he turned his back on the bar to survey the room’s dim and musty interior and its occupants.
Strangers passed through town on a regular basis. Bachelors, heading southwest to Dallas; families, leaving straitened circumstances behind to seek a more advantageous environment; a veiled damsel, that rarity, alighting from the stage to rent a room at the hotel before visiting one of several saloons in search of employment. A few visitors stayed; most moved on. The dusty road along Main Street led to a number of established towns, in a number of directions, any one of which might prove to be more financially appealing.
Still, there was something about this individual just a tad disquieting.
Or so said Abel Norton, who had stopped over during his dinner hour for a snort and a chat with whichever boon companions happened to be around. Maybe it had something to do with the watchful look around the visitor’s eyes. Or the whipcord lean strength of his frame.
Whatever it was, Firewater’s patrons drew a sigh of relief when the man paid for his drink, nodded to the barkeep, and ambled quietly out the door. A later report would find him at the Sittin’ Eat, consuming a late dinner; later yet, it was said, he had taken a tour through town, then he had watered his horse and ridden out of town with as little fanfare as he had entered.
Certainly he had initiated no friendly overtures, nor had he received any. And he was, besides, apparently anonymous. Just one more nameless outsider, here and gone. Making hardly a ripple in the big pond that was Turnabout.
Chapter Eighteen
ALMOST BEFORE THEY knew it, November Fifth was upon them.
Molly had had no need to cross off dates on a calendar page; the countdown seemed to be indelibly stamped in her brain. Fourteen days left; thirteen days, twelve, and so on.
And here it was.
Dawn stole softly in from east to west, brightening the night sky with luminescence, highlighting the tangled grasses wet with dew, stealing across the back yard to shorten and shrink the leftover shadows. Molly awakened early, in the boarding house room the Burton sisters shared, to the most perfect weather—cool and crisp, with just a hint of autumn in the air that combined such scents as apple cider and some crunchy colored leaves and a slight mist wafting in from Juniper Creek.
For a few minutes she simply lay in her bed, arms stretched out overhead, face turned toward the fragrance of line-dried pillow slip, smiling as she luxuriated in the silence and the sweetness. The smile reflected utter happiness; in fact, she could barely contain her joy at what this afternoon—and its aftermath—would bring.
Molly’s first wedding had been hole-and-corner, almost as if both parties were ashamed to be participating.
Today’s wedding would be a glorious affair.
A bird suddenly burst into a wild, frenzied warble from the giant oak tree outside. Her smile broadening, because it could not be contained, Molly slowly pulled herself upright and glanced toward the window.
There stood, to peer down with interest, a nightgowned and barefoot Hannah, who immediately asked softly (out of respect for a still slumbering Letitia) why she was awake so early.
“Oh, I can’t sleep, Hen. This time is so different from before—so incredibly much better!”
Hannah’s smile matched her own. “I’m not surprised you feel that way. Happy the bride the sun shines on, Molly, dear. You have so much to look forward to.”
From there, the hours flocked together, gathered up wings, and sped on.
Ben, taking pity on his pregnant (and, in his own opinion, overworked) wife, dispatched Reese to the Sarsaparilla (of slightly higher quality cuisine than the Sittin’ Eat) for whatever ready-cooked meal he could bring back for dinner. He also insisted that he and his brother would clean up afterward so the ladies could make themselves beautiful for this grand event.
Letty only questioned what he meant about making themselves beautiful.
Grinning, Reese slapped his intended lightly on the rump. “More beautiful,” he amended. “Right, Benjamin, my lad? More beautiful.”
Ben would do his best to make any hay he could from this situation, no doubt storing up good will against possible future entanglements. “Just remember,” he adjured his wife, “how thoughtful I am bein’ today.”
It might be expected that Molly, seated with the others around the dinner table, would not be able to swallow a single bite of food. Not so. She ate with good healthy appetite, albeit with a soft, dreamy, faraway expression that put roses in her cheeks and stars in her eyes.
“Better’n usual,” Reese, making great strides in his serving of roast chicken, fried potatoes and gravy, corn pudding, and fresh peas from someone’s garden, approved. “Hardly oversalted, a’tall.”
While he then, whistling happily, began collecting everything used, with little regard for its content (a separation of glazed pottery from cast iron skillet, for example) to be dumped helter skelter into a sink full of hot soapy water, the women flew upstairs to change. Ben, too, was on a mission: he betook himself to Norton’s for the buggy held in reserve, already cleaned and brushed and ready to roll for a wedding.
The sanctuary of the Church of Placid Waters had been decorated within an inch of its life by hordes of autumn flowers, to the point of looking like a maiden’s bower. And the Burton sisters themselves only added to the effect, with Camellia, as matron of honor, carrying her few extra pounds of weight proudly in a deep violet gown, Letitia in golden yellow silk, and Hannah in carnation pink.
The bride couldn’t have looked more regal, more stunning, more beautiful. Surely her slippered feet barely touched the floor, as she drifted, light as thistledown, toward the altar. There her groom, safely returned from his county-wide investigation, waited with an expression of such blazing happiness that Camellia, watching, blinked back tears.