“Well, I’ve met quite a few very nice people in this town. And a fair number of single young ladies who must have just been dying to get a shot at the eligible mayor. That’s you, Mr. Forrester. I’m surprised you didn’t select one of them.”
“Didn’t want onea them. I’ve found out, over the years, that they darn well bore me almost to drink. I wanted me a wife who’s intelligent. Knows a bit about the world, and can discuss things on an even keel. That counts to me more than anything else.”
“Oh.” Well, she could choose to be irritated. Or she could choose to be flattered. She went for the latter, taking his words as compliment. “And you got that, just from our correspondence?”
“Yep.” He reached down for the cup of cooling coffee that had joined his hat on the floor. “And from your lawyer.”
“My lawyer! Mr. King?” Now she was insulted. “You were checking up on me?”
“Naturally.” He gave her another of those straight-on looks with an edge of lightning behind it. “And your Mr. King was doin’ the same towards me, on your behalf. Marriage is a serious business, Miss Burton. You end up stuck with one person for a good number of years. It better be somebody you can get along with, doncha think? Somebody who’s a partner, who’s honest and loyal and won’t stab you in the back. Seen too many of those.”
She hadn’t. One spouse or the other had always died at a young age.
The distaff side of the idle rich could certainly not be accused of living a difficult life—no more so than ordering a maid to bring breakfast on a tray and retrieve a certai
n outfit from the closet for wearing, or sending a menu down to Cook for the next day’s meals, or ordering the coachman to be ready with a vehicle for whatever excursions might be planned away from home.
Once divested of everything material and substantial, however, Camellia had found her life to be very difficult. Tedious. Exhausting. Worrisome. Just as it would be for one of the lower classes. Poverty-stricken, which was where she now found herself.
As a young, attractive, and sociable woman, she wanted to enjoy a little more lightheartedness, which had been sadly lacking for so long. While this marriage between the lovely Miss Burton and the apparently sought-after and eminently suitable Mr. Forrester might be arranged, between two consenting adults, she still wanted to be courted. She craved romance.
Surely she was not to go from the deadly dull hardscrabble routine of St. Louis to the same sort of troubled existence here in Turnabout? Surely it couldn’t be wrong to expect more than the bare survival minimum before old age came along, and death?
Among his other fine attributes (of which she was certain there must be many), was her husband-to-be possessed of a sense of humor? Could he smile? Did he grin? Would he ever let loose with a full-fledged belly laugh?
Up until now, she had seen little evidence of any joy, and that troubled her. He treated her with as much distance and respect as if she were his maiden aunt: a careful palm to her elbow, for guidance; an opening of every door; an immediate stand upon her entrance. Impeccable manners, she was pleased to note. If reverence for her womanhood provided a cornerstone for their relationship, could liking and loving be far behind?
The man was courteous to a fault, and, apparently, given Llewellyn King’s stamp of approval, dependable and financially solvent and steady as string.
But, oh, she didn’t want steady! She wanted wild exuberance, and physical contact, and the sheer bliss of being together. Even with Owen Riley, for all his faults, she had been able to share amusement, taking delight and pleasure in the silliest of occurrences.
“I’m so fortunate you approved of me,” she said dryly. Thinking, all the while, you don’t know the real Camellia Burton in the least.
“Prob’ly,” he serenely agreed, neither hearing nor sensing any irony. “Works both ways, don’t it?” And then, amazingly, he waggled his brows at her.
In that tiny gesture lay the inducement Camellia had needed to go ahead with their plans. Perhaps, God and all His angels willing, they might make a success of this venture.
“Mr. Forrester. I do believe I will meet you at the altar, after all, come mid-May.”
“Good thing.” His breath was coming a little more quickly, and his voice had roughened. “Otherwise I think you might’ve found yourself kidnapped, and held for ransom until we got this thing squared away.”
With that, they had proceeded, each detail, in order, following the other. A visit to the Rev. Martin Beecham, to reserve the church and receive any pastoral advice normally handed out. A general notice posted, inviting the town at large. An arrangement with the local restaurants to provide a big outdoor meal, after the ceremony, on the church grounds. A request to church members that they gather, cut, and organize a whole garden of flowers as decoration.
In the meantime, Ben wanted his house back. He had no intention of returning from the church and the aftermath of celebration to a wedding night bedroom with three giggling girls just down the hall. Something must be done about this situation. He wasn’t pushing, mind you, during the single brief discussion he had with Camellia. He merely stated his case and let it rest.
Camellia was torn. While she had known this day was coming, she had hoped to stave it off as long as possible. Which she had done. Now what?
Hannah herself had provided a workable option. Not the best, of course. But certainly feasible.
If they could leave most of their bulky belongings in place, (especially that awkward, unwieldy grand piano!), she suggested that she and the younger girls might board temporarily at Mrs. McKnight’s lovely old three story home on the edge of town.
With a sigh of relief, Camellia accepted the offer. “But only until we can make more permanent arrangements,” she had promised.
With an unseen nod of satisfaction, Ben also accepted. It seemed his future sisters-in-law might be the malleable sort, after all. A good start to future relations.
Briefly Camellia, overcome by curiosity, peeked into the sanctuary through a small opening of the double doors. At the front of the church, Molly was too intent upon her expertise to notice any other detail. But plenty of others paid attention, feeling, perhaps, that this was their entertainment for the day. They’d known the groom for years; they’d recently met the bride. All felt entitled to attend, and all were welcome.
Small-town weddings generally fell into the free-for-all category.