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—”