Mail Order Bride- Springtime Page 7

  He was muttering something under his breath about clip-cloppin’ and caterwaulin’ when he was accosted by a gleeful Dr. Havers.

  “My turn,” he announced, smoothly intercepting the duo before they could resume their seats. “Come along, Mrs. Forrester. Let me show you how a real southern gentleman trips the light

  fantastic.”

  Astonished, Camellia could only glance back over her shoulder in dismay when, feeling as if this were a case of being shanghaied by some pirate, she was dragged back to join other enthusiastic couples who had just begun to gambol about to the sweet, slower notes of “Say Not Adieu.”

  “Ah, a lady to match my expertise,” murmured her partner, at one moment. “You enjoy dancin’?”

  “I do,” agreed Camellia. “But I’m afraid that Ben may not appreciate being in the spotlight, as he was.”

  “Oh, he don’t mind a fig about bein’ in the spotlight, him bein’ mayor and all. What he don’t like is dancin’ itself. Not much time for it, doncha know.”

  “Well, perhaps I can change his mind.”

  “Huh. That one? More likely to hit a mule b’tween the eyes with a two by four and get him to pay attention. No, I’m afraid your chances are slim on that score, darlin’. But you got nothin’ to lose by tryin’.”

  “That’s what I’ve always believed,” Camellia serenely agreed.

  The groom’s face wore an expression decidedly displeased when, laughing, chatting to those they passed, the two returned. “Took you long enough,” he pointed out, leaving Camellia to feel remarkably like a child being chastised. “Was it necessary to make a spectacle of yourselves by stayin’ out there for three dances?”

  “Spectacle? Oh, dear me, Camellia, were we makin’ a spectacle of ourselves?”

  “Not her, you dimwit—you. C’mere, wife. That’s ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ they’re startin’ in on, and even I can get my feet to work together for a waltz.”

  His feet, in their unaccustomed shiny black pumps, worked quite well together, as he demonstrated. But he spoke little, and he looked like a condemned criminal trudging toward the hangman’s noose. Clearly dancing was not one of his favorite pastimes. Nor likely ever to be, no matter what pressure Camellia might bring to bear.

  She had caught glimpses of her sisters now and then. They showed up like flowers in their fashionable gowns, wandering here and there or being propelled about by enthusiastic males in the area designated for dancing.

  In the midst of all this joviality, a stab of homesickness hit her. For the home and the safe life they had had to abandon, for what used to be, for everything familiar now gone the way of the dodo. After the excitement of the wedding had died down, after a routine had been established in the Forrester household, she hoped that she might escape occasionally to visit the girls in their new lodgings. Then they could talk over all the details of what was going on socially and domestically, just as they used to do.

  It was late enough by now, and the liquor had been flowing freely enough, that the celebration was becoming rowdy. In fact, Sheriff Winslow had already stepped in once or twice to calmly settle arguments or plunk a few miscreants into the city jail. One night wouldn’t hurt them, and in the morning they could be released with cooler heads.

  Camellia, suddenly feeling exhausted to the very marrow of her bones, was not disappointed when Ben quietly asked if she would like to call it a night.

  “Yes, thank you, I would. I believe I’ve reached the limit of my merrymaking quota for one day.”

  Farewells, mixed in with good wishes, congratulations, and felicitations, were lengthy. It seemed they simply could not get away without a few words from every person there. At last Ben was able to lift her, in all her bridal finery, into the buggy so they could make the slow plod back to his house.

  “It was nice, wasn’t it?” she asked sleepily.

  Even the moon was cooperating with the day’s festivities, sending down benevolent white rays that lit up the streets ahead but not a single cool unwanted breeze. Somewhere a dog barked; somewhere else an owl hooted. Despite the distant sounds emanating from the church yard, they two might have been alone in a deserted hamlet.

  “It was.”

  “I like your friends. The people of this town. They’re so friendly, and they did so much for us. All the work, just setting up tables and preparing food—!”

  “We’ll pay for it,” he told her dryly. “I expect the bills to show up on my desk this comin’ week.”

  “Oh. Well. But, still...”

  Camellia was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, seeing how many details had been involved in making arrangements, especially so last-minute. And much of the physical work had been considerately taken right out of her hands. As the Widow Semple had put it, when Camellia stopped by for a packet of thread to match her bridal gown, Turnabout had wanted to provide the couple with a gala, memorable event; and everyone had decided that Camellia herself had had plenty to deal with, as it was, just marrying the world’s most obstinate bachelor.

  Obstinate?

  “Dr. Havers seems a nice man. Have you known him long?”

  Staring off into the distance, Ben considered. “He blew into town about five years ago. Been a nuisance ever since. Likable enough, I reckon.”

  “He seems to know every little point that might upset you, and he goes for it,” she commented with amusement. “Do you always grab the bait?”

  At last, a small wry smile as he turned his head with that slow, considering glance set to survey. “It’s just the usual give and take, Camellia. Gabe likes to think he can get the better of me, so I let him. Guess we both win out.”

  An interesting perspective. As her uplifted gaze met his, she wondered if she dared rest her head against his shoulder, in true wifely fashion. She was feeling a bit lonely tonight. She was missing her sisters. She was wishing she had had a woman friend, already married, to consult, about taking her first steps into this new and rather frightening alien country.

  Whether he sensed her emotions, or whether he was just letting the companionable mood of the moment consume him, he slipped one arm around her shoulders in a close, comforting embrace. With a sigh, she snuggled into it. He smelled of a mixture of scents: the open air, crushed green grass from the church lawn, some sort of pine, pipe tobacco, and a top note of wool.

  “Benjamin.”

  “Ahuh.”

  Another sigh. “No. Never mind.”

  He snorted. “If it’s important enough to say my name, it’s important enough to talk about.”

  “Not really. I was just being—a rather flighty female...”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that, Cam. I wouldn’t expect any less. About the female part, I mean. Not the flighty. Seems to me you’re right steady on your feet, and we’ll get along just fine.”

  No doubt. After his initial doubts about joining their so dissimilar backgrounds, hadn’t he then assured her he was a man of his word?

  He hadn’t even really kissed her yet, unless you could call that split-second peck on the lips at the altar, after Rev. Beecham’s pronouncement, a kiss. She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to participate once his body, mind, and soul were equally engaged.

  They arrived at the house with the faraway noise of revelry still going on in the background. Someone had gotten hold of some firecrackers to light up; nothing daunted, someone else had actually fired off a few gunshots. Camellia hoped Hannah and her sisters had safely retired to the boarding house, and their own snug beds. Surely they had. Hannah was a good girl of common sense; she would be watching out for the younger ones.

  The buggy shifted a little as Ben climbed down and circled around behind to escort her inside. “Nice and quiet,” he said with relief, as he lit a kerosene lamp. “I’ll just take the rig over to the stable, then I’ll be back again in a few minutes. Okay?”

  Feeling suddenly struck dumb, feeling suddenly so nervous and apprehensive that every muscle began to tremble, she nodded.r />
  He paused for just a minute, as the light flared up to illuminate her shuttered face. Then he lifted one hard palm to her cheek in a clumsy but surprising caress. His voice was noticeably thickened when he spoke. “It’ll be all right, Camellia. You’re home now. Trust me. Everything is gonna be just fine.”

  Chapter Nine

  IT WAS AND IT WASN’T.

  Camellia woke early next morning to a room flooded by sunshine and birdsong but an empty space beside her in the bed. So. Ben was already up and away, and she had neither heard nor felt his departure. The gesture radiated consideration. Or stealth.

  Turning sideways from her face-down position, she took her time to wake and stir, all the while pondering the hours that had passed before.

  Her wedding night. Had any other bride endured that astonishing, somewhat undignified, possibly traumatic experience with her heart left untouched?

  Having never undergone “the talk,” she had had no idea what to expect. Or how to react. Should she have taken advantage of Dr. Havers’ offer to enlighten her, after all? Ben had been careful with her. Gentle, even, to the point of holding back when urgency seemed in order. Once their initial union was over and finished, he had apparently been left satisfied, despite the lack of cooperation on her part. Or maybe not, since the physical act had taken place twice more in the silent, entombing darkness.

  Camellia wondered if her sense of bewilderment, of being almost bereft, were normal in this situation. Would the discomfort he had inflicted eventually ease, with time and repetition? Would her restless, frustrated body ever find true pleasure and fulfillment in all that had been done? Or must she simply submit, with resentful grace, whenever this less-than-earth-shattering event occurred?

  More apt, where exactly had her errant husband escaped to?

  “Good mornin’,” he greeted her rather shyly, when, having quickly availed herself of the indoor facilities, sponge-bathed, and dressed, she appeared in the kitchen a half-hour later. He didn’t meet her gaze; he was busily frying bacon at the stove, and his back was turned.

  “Good morning.” She felt as shy and uncomfortable with him as he appeared to her.

  “Thought I’d fix us some breakfast, and let you sleep in a little later. You—uh—well, you seemed pretty tired, after all the hullabaloo yesterday, and I—uh—well, you—uh—well, with your—uh—accommodation, when I—uh—”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, I was very tired!” She needed to stop his rambling before he got out another word. Already her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment, and she longed to run and hide. Awkward, awkward—she felt like a ten-year-old girl instead of a grownup married woman!

  “Ahuh. Well, okay, then. Here—coffee’s ready. Help yourself.”

  She obeyed, as quickly as possible, staying out of his range of reach. Just in case. “You can cook?” she finally asked, from the safe distance of the table. “If that’s true, I’m surprised you advertised for a mail order bride.”

  “Yeah, I can cook—in a pinch, when I have to. Usedta take most of my meals at one of our cafes, though, or over the counter at my store. But bein’ handy in the kitchen ain’t the only reason a man takes him a wife.”

  He sent her a long, significant glance over his shoulder, one that set her blushing anew to the roots of her hair. Instead of answering, since her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, she took a piece of the bread loaf he had sliced and added butter.

  The bacon, transferred to a platter, had stopped sizzling; four soft-cooked eggs found themselves scooped onto the side, in savory juxtaposition. Joining her, Ben served up breakfast with a flourish.

  Camellia discovered she was surprisingly hungry, and dug in. “Ben, it was very thoughtful of you to do this for me. I promise not to be so lazy from here on. It’s only fair that I acquit myself at that monster stove of yours.”

  He had cut into an egg and was chewing busily. “You forget,” he drawled, after a minute, “that I’ve had the misfortune of samplin’ a couple of the meals you fixed. I wouldn’t say I got sick afterwards, but my insides felt twisted around some.”

  “Oh, you wretch!” Laughing, she then pretended to pout. “Kindly give me the benefit of the doubt. I was just learning my way around, if you’ll recall. Simply because the flapjacks were—”

  “—a runny, burnt mess.”

  “—not exactly to your liking, and the steak I fried—”

  “—couldn’ta been cut up with a hacksaw.”

  “—was a bit more well-done than planned, and the potatoes were baked—”

  “—nowhere near long enough. Hard as rocks, and cold in the middle, to boot.”

  Leaning back in her chair, she folded both arms over her front and challenged, “At least my coffee tastes fine.”

  He grinned at her, and the tone of his voice turned from teasing to husky. “Your coffee tastes downright delicious, Mrs. Forrester.”

  Thank heaven. This little bit of banter, back and forth, had dispelled that very uncomfortable feeling of both parties walking with two left feet. Gradually, she was learning. But she did wonder if they would ever be able to honestly discuss what had or had not happened in the bedroom.

  “It’s Sunday,” he finally commented, after finishing the mug of coffee on which he had just complimented her. “Wanna head over for the church service pretty soon?”

  Oh, dear! Appear in such a public place, the morning after the night before, so that everyone could look her up and down, whisper behind their fans, and smile knowingly? No, no, anywhere but church!

  Camellia’s tiny grimace of distaste was instantly gone, as if it had never been. “Perhaps—would it be all right with you if we—um—avoided going there, first thing?”

  Mercifully, he understood. “Sure. No call to let the parson think I’ve been converted to religion, just like that. We’ll take a buggy ride out in the country, instead, and I’ll show you around.”

  For a little while, then, beset by no great need for their schedule to be regulated by a clock, they lingered over their breakfast. Ben ate most of the bacon and three of the eggs and at least two bread slices spread over with strawberry jam while they talked of this and that. An ordinary couple, spending their first day of a new relationship together, each getting used to the quirks and foibles of the other.

  He wasn’t exactly handsome, Camellia thought, surveying her husband over the rim of her cup. His was a craggy, pleasant face, with plenty of living in the lines carved and creased into place.

  Tawny hair neatly combed, morning stubble already shaved away, a fine set of shoulders in their neat blue chambray cotton shirt—so neat that she realized he had deliberately dressed up, to please her.

  A little pang of something tugged at her heart.

  “That one of your outfits from St. Louis?”

  “It is.”

  Unsure of what to expect from the day, she had donned a cotton dress that was simplicity itself beside those exhibited by so many ladies. The color, a soft rose stripe, contrasted nicely with her shining black upswept hair; and its thin overlay had been decorated with pure white lace down both sides of the front, around the hem, and at the cuffs. It looked like what it was: an expensive piece, despite its deceptively inexpensive fabric, and every gusset and every fold had been designed to hug her slim figure.

  “Do you like it?” she asked timidly, after the drawn-out silence had grown uncomfortable.

  “Camellia, you’ve looked like an angel is everything you’ve put on so far, to my taste,” he told her frankly, in an admission that surprised her nearly to tears. “D’ you really need me to say such things?”

  “Yes, Benjamin. I do,” she admitted, in a low tone.

  “Ahuh.” After a minute of consideration, he reached across the table to lay his hand over hers and said, with a smile, “Then I’ll do my best to respect your wishes.”

  While Camellia volunteered to clean up the kitchen (her husband might be a competent cook, but he was certainly a messy one; far more plates an
d pans had been used, egg-stained and grease-smeared, than she felt was necessary), with the tart comment, “I am at least able to wash dishes,” Ben walked the few blocks in clear morning sunshine to the livery. All too soon he had returned to collect her, her parasol, her reticule, and anything else that might be useful for however long they might be gone.

  “Been meanin’ to buy a horse and rig of my own,” he confided, as he helped her and her slim skirts onto the step and inside. “Trouble is, my barn is too fulla Burton stuff to shove in anything else. A grand piano, to name one.”

  She flashed a look down at him. But the words held no sting, and, when his gaze met hers, in all innocence, the hazel eyes were twinkling.

  “I didn’t realize space was at such a premium,” she said with a sniff. “Pray do remember that I have a number of fine animals eating their heads off at the stable. You may have your pick of them.”

  “Why, ma’am, that’s almighty generous of you. I’ll have to do some thinkin’ on it.”

  Turnabout had been established nearly a hundred years ago in northeast Texas, near enough to a small meandering river called Juniper Creek to avail of its resources, far enough away not to be affected by the occasional flooding of its banks during spring rains. Sugarfoot settlers, moving ever westward from birthplaces becoming (to their taste) too crowded, had wearily stumbled upon this little bit of Paradise and decided to call it home. They unhitched their mules, unloaded their wagons, and put down roots.

  The road out of town, from the Forrester house along the edge, was made of well-beaten and well-used dirt that, much farther out into the country, became more of a two-wheeled track, depending on which offshoots meandered off in which direction. Now and then a fence could be seen, straggling past where a farmer or rancher had decided to experiment with cordoning off a portion of his land.

  Close to, the open fields held a mixed venue: rye grass, Buffalograss, and Gramagrass; blooming bluebonnets and Indian Blankets and sunflowers galore; here a grove of pecan trees, there young oaks and sturdy sycamore. Farther off, in the distance, ranged gentle rolling knolls; farther yet, the mist of purplish large hills that only in Texas would not be considered mountains.