by Sierra Rose
Then there was herself, stuffed into something whose satin of a deceptively virginal pale pink belied her new-found curves.
Ben hadn’t minded. Once she had descended to the parlor, he had nuzzled the side of her throat and told her how comely she looked. Like a little girl, he claimed, all togged out for the royal ball in a grown-up’s dress that held some lace pillow underneath.
Next to arrive, almost in a convoy, was the Rev. Martin Beecham, chatting with Oliver Crane;
then Mrs. Florence McKnight in the company of Grace Ellen Tucker and her husband, Sam; Jimmy Dunlap and Elvira Gotham, from the store; and, finally, that rarely seen, elusive master entrepreneur, Linus Drinkwater. Trailing along behind came an ebullient Gabriel Havers, at the side of Abigail Fitzsimmons, who stood resplendent, once inside the door, in Christmas red satin.
For a while, all was cheerful confusion: this guest greeting that one being greeted by the Forresters; coats and wraps and shawls being removed and carted into Ben’s study for storage; food and drink being offered and cups of eggnog being handed out. Most of the men remained standing, in groups, while the ladies settled themselves and their expansive, elegant attire upon chairs and ottomans.
With so much color clustered in one room, and so much shimmery fabric bunched together, it seemed that a flock of butterflies might have floated in, drifted down from the ceiling, and lighted like thistledown upon some designated flower.
“A toast,” proposed Ben, as party-giver, holding his cut glass cup high. “To good health and happiness for all our family and friends.”
“Hear, hear!” “Huzzah!” “God bless us, everyone!” echoed through the room, in response.
Immediately, the Tucker girls joined in, one to present silver salvers of things to nibble and things to taste, and the other with pitchers to offer a choice of beverage. All around them swirled fragments of party talk.
“I declare, Camellia, your house is decorated so nice,” gushed Grace Ellen, from a coveted position on the settee. Doubtless she had taken possession of that comfortable spot and would be impossible to dislodge. “It’s easy to see you’ve got real Christmas spirit around here.”
“Why, thank you. I can’t take a lot of credit, I’m afraid; my sisters helped me so much.” Smiling, she sipped at her own serving of eggnog—hmmm; Ben had used a heavy hand with his alcoholic additions—and glanced about with a great deal of satisfaction. How nice to see everyone enjoying each other’s company, having a good time, spreading peace and goodwill throughout.
“And just what is wrong with electing the first black Congressman, I’d like to know?” came a strident feminine voice from near the fireplace.
Oh, dear. Perhaps not spreading so much peace and goodwill, after all. Camellia leaned forward to peer around the substantial shoulders of Florence McKnight. What on earth was going on? Then, ascertaining, she sighed. All right, she might have known. Hannah, of course. And her antagonist—none other than Gabriel Havers, with a cigar in one hand, a glass of rich red wine in the other, and a smug smile plastered on his face.
How he did take pleasure in goading her! Camellia, piqued, decided she would have to have a few private words with the contentious doctor later.
“I didn’t say anything was wrong,” he asserted, when he could get a word in edgewise. “And, not surprisingly, you have your facts a bit helter-skelter, Missy. Mr. Hiram Revels was the first black Congressman; Mr. Joseph Rainey, honorable as he may be, is only the second. From South Carolina, I do believe. I’m just sayin’ that—”
“Careful, don’t let your prejudice show.”
“Prejudice? Not a’tall. But with the War only finished a few years, you still must—”
“Oh, yes, the Johnny Rebs and their refusal to take an oath of loyalty. I’ll have you know—”
Without making a move or uttering a sound, Camellia managed to catch her husband’s eye, glanced toward the altercating couple, and glanced back. In that wordless communication which worked as a kind of shorthand between married pairs, Ben nodded and detached himself from his own group of happy-go-lucky revelers.
“Here, Gabe, you ole hoss thief, wanna talk to you about somethin’ brought up at our last town meetin’. Got a minute?” Taking hold of the doctor’s elbow, he forcibly removed his friend from the line of fire.
All the way, winding in and out between knots of people, Gabriel protested such cavalier treatment. “C’mon, Ben, I was just gettin’ a good start. How’s come you have to drag me away when I merely was lookin’ to—”
“Gabe. I realize exactly what you were lookin’ to.” Safely depositing his friend somewhere around the kitchen corner, Ben let out a soft groan. “You know better’n to get into an argument with Hannah. First of all, you’ll always lose. Second of all, she can argue anything. She has a talent for it.”
“I will be on my best behavior.”
“This is a party. My wife tends to get unhappy when things ain’t goin’ smooth around her; and, believe me, I’d sure rather not have her get unhappy. ’Cause it makes for trouble in the household, and in my bedroom. Understand?”
The doctor gave him a charming smile. “Benjamin, you take all the fun outa my life. But Lord knows I don’t expect to cause problems b’tween you and Camellia, so I’ll behave from here on. You might wanna give your sister-in-law the same warnin’.”
Crisis averted—for the moment. Who knew what else might crop up during the rest of the evening, especially given two such volatile personalities?
Toasts, appetizers, supper itself—all came and went with a minimum of fuss. To their mother, Camellia praised the very able assistance of the Tucker girls, and mentioned several times how much she appreciated their taking over so much of the serving. Small tables had been set up, with proper linens and essentials, so that everyone could easily, comfortably, dine.
It was, for the main, a convivial group, chosen by Camellia for just that reason. (With hopes that Hannah and Gabe could be kept apart.) Conversation ebbed and flowed, while candles sent up fragrant plumes of flame, and the fire, regularly replenished, carried on a snappy dialogue of its own. Once the punch bowl of eggnog was empty, wine bottles were opened and shared, mellowing the mood still more.
The good reverend had proven himself adept, over the years of his ministry and his residence in several wide-ranging parishes, at mixing with his congregation, both after services and at social events. He did so now, speaking with authority on a number of subjects that involved an interesting back-and-forth with his table-mate, Oliver Crane. In fact, the two of them, newspaperman and preacher, had often shared such discussions—sometimes philosophical, sometimes practical.
A bachelor, intelligent as well as sensitive, Martin was also adept at fending off the advances of well-meaning but amorous church women, who asked for nothing more than to launder and press his crisp Sunday shirts and sit, utterly enchanted, at his knee while he expounded. Thus far, he had managed to avoid embarrassing entanglements.
The bouillon had been presented and consumed, to rave reviews. Once the miniature bowls had been cleared away, the guests took turns serving themselves from the main courses arranged, buffet-style, on the tastefully furnished kitchen table.
Rev. Beecham, who had called down a blessing from above upon the assembled group, and the meal itself, was pressured to be first in line, even before the ladies could take up position. He protested, to no avail. “What a marvelous feast, Camellia,” he lavishly complimented her, as he forked up a healthy chunk of the turkey’s dark meat. “And how wonderful of you and Ben to share it with all of us.”
Trust a man of the cloth to put such a positive slant on the Forresters’ good deed.
Guests filled their plates, wandered away to sit and chat, wandered back to take second helpings. Camellia, ensconced in her favorite chair while Ben fetched and carried for her (on his own initiative), caught snatches of chitchat as people drifted to and fro.
Reese was bragging about how smart his new puppy was.
>
“I swear, that boy can just about open and close a door on his own,” he was saying, in response to Paul’s question about their recent acquisition. “He mighta been the runt of the litter, accordin’ to Abel, but Letty sure did get the pick, as far as I’m concerned.”
“And what prompted you to get a dog?” Molly, spreading a napkin over her silken skirt, wanted to know.
From across the table, Letitia smiled at her husband with the adoring eyes of a very recent bride. “He told me the family had owned a dog, when he was a boy, and he missed having one around. That was all it took.”
“Yeah, Buddy is with me every step of the day. I even take him down to the Mercantile.”
“Ben doesn’t mind?”
“Nope.” Reese grinned. “Said if he’d thought about it, he’da got himself one, too. But he figures a new baby in the house will be about all the changes he’ll be able to handle, for a while.” Soft laughter and a few chuckles followed this frank observation.
“I heard that,” said his brother, reaching for Camellia’s cup. “If you recall, I added that we’d look into gettin’ us a good dog once the youngster is old enough. I think you maybe are startin’ a trend, Reese. Reckon Paul will be next. In fact, I’ve caught him headin’ over to the stable a couple times, wantin’ to see them pups.”
Someone asked Letty if she were still working with the doctor, her being a new wife and all. The intimation was that surely she would have enough to do, taking care of a house and a husband, without traipsing around dealing with nasty sick people.
“Oh, yes,” she assured the questioner—Grace Ellen, as it turned out, who ought to have enough to do herself, what with running a family and the Ladies’ Aid. “Gabe wants me to keep working in his practice, and I’ve learned so much. I’m really grateful that he’s been willing to help me progress as far as I have.”
From an area near the open kitchen, Gabriel, hearing this, snorted and replied to the company at large. “No helpin’ about it. She just barged right into my office one day and laid out her proposition, and I didn’t have no choice in the matter. These Burton gals—they are a handful.” He wasn’t looking in Hannah’s direction when he spoke, but he might as well have done.
“That’s a fact, all right,” agreed Reese, grinning at his own Burton gal. “Yep, sure bent on gettin’ their own way,” said Paul, clasping Molly’s hand. “Yank the bit between their teeth, and they’re off and runnin’,” was Ben’s response, with a wink for Camellia.
More laughter, more banter, as these Burton gals found themselves the center of teasing attention. Thanks to Gabe, once again.
From there, the talk turned to idle gossip about the town: quizzing for the Mayor as to this or that relevant issue (the subject of going “dry” on Sundays having been tabled indefinitely); concerns expressed about the physical and mental state of Lawrence Pope, whose funeral for his wife and baby had taken place some three weeks prior (with Doctor Havers fearing aloud that the man seemed to live halfway between exiling himself at the farm as a hermit and frequenting every saloon in town as a falling-down drunk); inquiries about the time set for special church services during the Christmas season. More importantly, questions about which items would be on sale at Forresters’ for gifts and goodies.
“Nothin’,” said Gabe, tongue in cheek, “like gettin’ in a little free advertisin’.”
Sam Tucker, a quiet man who managed the stagecoach line (and occasionally drove one leg of the trip between Roundabout and Manifest), mentioned that a couple of robberies had been executed within the last few months.
“Just wonderin’ what the law is doin’ about it, Sheriff? Won’t have nobody takin’ the stage if they have to worry about safety.”
“We’re workin’ on the problem, Sam,” Paul said. In his calm, stolid way, he continued diligently applying himself to a healthy portion of peas in mint sauce. No matter how exercised on the inside he might be about some criminal problem, his exterior remained the same. “Got some leads that my deputies and I have been followin’ up. As I told you the last time you asked.”
“Yeah, come on, Sam, this is a party, remember? We ain’t gonna discuss anything serious. Who wants more wine?”
Linus Drinkwater cheerfully lifted his glass. The hotel’s owner had come prepared to join the nearest thing to high society of which Turnabout could boast, in a rich paisley smoking jacket and charcoal gray flannel trousers. “I do believe I shall partake.”
“Well, there you go, then.” Even wearing dress shoes, Ben couldn’t help clumping across the floor as if still he were still in his everyday heavy boots. “Anybody else?”
In the lull, while extra servings were poured for everyone who wished them, Hannah, seated with both the Tuckers and Abigail, finally was able to mention the subject of that strange name she had turned up—without divulging its location, or purpose.
“Ualraig?” questioned Abigail doubtfully. “Not something I’m familiar with, I’m afraid. In reference to what, Hannah?”
“Oh, just something I ran across somewhere.” With a sip of the excellent claret, her answer was deliberately vague. “I was just wondering if anyone had ever heard the word before.”
“I’m not even sure how anyone would pronounce it.”
“Walrick.”
Abigail turned toward the table a short distance away, where Gabriel, with an air of extreme innocence, was chomping away at his cranberry relish. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s how it’s pronounced. It’s a man’s name—Gaelic. Where did you say you’d seen it?” He swiveled sharply to Hannah, and their gazes locked with such sudden intensity that a fistful of lightning bolts seemed to gather force in the pit of her stomach to send electric sparks shooting out along every nerve.
“Uh—I didn’t say, actually. Just something listed at the newspaper.”
“Huh.” He looked her up and down for a moment, seemed about to say more—in dispute of her word, probably—then abruptly subsided and went back to his salad.
“So.” Abigail, in an attempt at playing peacemaker, smiled. “There you are. Walrick.”
Mystery solved. Hannah, having been served her portion of fruit cake and macaroons for dessert, picked up a fork. As far as she was concerned, she had had all the interaction with Dr. Havers for one evening that was tolerable. No need for more.
Except that, when everything was finished, and everything had been cleared away, and more wine was being passed around (and beer for those few with a more plebian palate), Molly decided a singalong of Christmas carols was in order.
“I’ve no piano available,” she admitted, dimpling, “but I can certainly help get us all started.”
In point of fact, lyrical Molly possessed an excellent voice, and stage fright had never bothered her. With professional training, she might have pursued a career in music; as it was, she was well served by amateur status. Under her enthusiastic leadership, a few brave souls took up the tune of “Deck the Halls,” while Gabriel, using a wooden spoon as baton, set up a clumsy but energetic beat. Others joined in for “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful,” Mendelssohn’s “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “We Three Kings of Orient Are,” and even “Jingle Bells” and “Up on the Housetop.”
The overall mood was one fitting to the season: benevolent, generous, and kindly.
And Hannah, who somehow found Gabriel standing next to her during all these melodic songs, was able to smile at him as he grinned at her.
A few of those present might be considered in the same range of talent and ability as Molly herself. Linus Drinkwater, for one. His mellow baritone voice provided solid support for the rest of the unrehearsed choir; and the first few bars that issued forth from his capable throat drew a surprised, pleased sideways glance from Abigail. A “Well, what have we here?”
It was when their rendition of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” was nearly finished that someone said, in hushed tones, “Oh, look. It’s snowing.”
Indeed it was.
/> Just small, light flakes, brightened by winter moonlight, that drifted down like a sweet benediction upon the silent earth.
That seemed to be the signal for the party to break up.
Molly, yawning, dragged her husband away, as did Letty; the Tucker family (table service quietly washed and the kitchen restored to order by their conscientious daughters) departed en masse. Rev. Beecham, who had had, he assured his hostess, a divine evening and so appreciated the invitation, wandered off through the powdery white streets toward the manse, in company with Oliver Crane, who would return to his own bachelor quarters, and a cheerfully half-sober Linus Drinkwater on his way to the hotel.
Those who had had little to say for public discourse throughout the evening had taken advantage of the Forresters’ hospitality, relaxing, chatting easily with fellow party-goers, and sampling from the wine cellar (actually a shelf in Ben’s study). Thus, Jimmy, more than slightly under the influence of free-flowing intoxicants, went away arm in arm with Elvira on one side and Florence on the other, all still humming something tuneful like a trio of tipsy sandpipers.
The last guest ready for departure was Gabriel, pledged that he would safely return Abigail to her dwelling-place above Table of Contents; he lingered at the front door long enough to retrieve a canvas haversack that had been deliberately tucked away with his overcoat.
“A little Christmas thank you,” he explained, handing out small wrapped boxes all around to the ladies, all around. “One for you, gracious Camellia, and please give the other two to Letty and Molly, if you would. And these, as well, to my good friend Abigail and Miss Hannah, here.”
Those for the three married Burton sisters were compact and of a similar size, everyone noticed; those for the two spinsters in his company proved to be larger, and more gaily beribboned.
“Curryin’ favor, are you, Doc?” Ben, one arm providing support not only in the physical sense but that also of devotion for a wife who was nearly falling-down exhausted, inquired jovially.
