“Oh, just the usual thing. Naïve young woman makes an ill-advised bad marriage, immediately gives up instead of working to make it better, runs home with her tail between her legs. Given the description I heard of her condition, her husband must have taken a stick to her.”
How could she have forgotten that the gossip mill that had run so rampant back home through busy, thriving St. Louis streets would also be hard at work here in small-town Turnabout? Especially fueled and fed by someone as vicious, as eager to spread hurt, as Henrietta Blankenship? Mrs. McKnight, friendly soul, of boarding house fame, had once offered a quiet, tactful warning about this particular individual; Elvira Gotham, solid acquaintance from the store, had been neither quiet or tactful in her own advice.
“Tongue like an adder,” Elvira, snipping away at a cut of yard goods as if she would prefer to use her scissors as weapon, had opined. “Many of us have prayed for years that she would move herself and her righteous Christian judgment to the other side of the world, but no luck. You’d do well to keep as far away as possible.”
“What you heard was incorrect,” Camellia said now. At least the part about the stick, so she wasn’t being entirely untruthful. “My sister had a—a sudden bad fall on the property, and of course it made perfect sense for her to recuperate here.”
“Indeed? And her husband hasn’t been around to see how she’s doing? I find that odd. Very odd. But, of course, I wouldn’t recognize the man if I saw him, since I wasn’t invited to the wedding.”
“It was a very small wedding, I assure you,” said Camellia desperately, “just the immediate family. And Quinn has wisely decided to leave Molly alone, to rest and recover, while he’s out looking for work.”
“Oh, really? Hardly what has been going around the—”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Blankenship,” Camellia gracefully rose, to show the interview was ended, “I have a lot to catch up on, and I’m sure you do, as well. Let me just show you to the door. Oh, and thanks again for the pie.”
The pie. That dastardly pie. With the door firmly closed behind her unwelcome guest’s hasty—if exceedingly reluctant because forced—exit, Camellia glared at the large dish as if it were personally responsible for her bad mood.
What was she to do with it?
And how could she possibly quell the nasty tittle-tattle that was, apparently, already consuming the interest of everyone in Turnabout?
“Please, please, don’t let any more well-meaning but nosy neighbors stop by!” she implored of the Great Beyond.
The next order of the day was to check on Molly. If the silence emanating from her room were any indication, the girl had, thanks to her physician-administered narcotics, slept a substantial fourteen hours. She ought to be needing some relief and some sustenance about now.
Molly was indeed, semi-awake, and making movements toward putting her feet on the floor and returning to semi-normalcy. A hint of color had washed into her abraded face, and she was regaining her sense of self. Perhaps feeling safe from harm—however temporary—had helped.
“Do you think she might have poisoned the pie?” Molly asked with a hint of her old spirit, upon hearing the story of Mrs. Blankenship’s visit.
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t put it past her. The old harridan. Perhaps I can persuade Amazin’ to bury the contents in our back yard. I’ve brought a tray for you, Mol, with tea and fresh buttered bread. While you eat, I’ll brush your hair, and you can tell me what you feel like doing today.”
“Anything,” the girl said quietly, “that doesn’t involve any effort. It’s strange—I have no energy, Cam. I want to just lie about, because it pains me too much even to shift position.”
Camellia eyed her with sympathy, understanding, and a heart that felt oddly full to overflowing yet close to breaking, all at once. “And no wonder, with what happened. You rest as long as you need to, sweetheart. Your sisters and I will take care of you. Are you—can you—will you—oh, Molly, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” the girl, flashing back to painful memory, murmured in a dull, dead voice, “He—he did such—such horrible things to me, Cam,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. “I never realized that—that a man might hurt his wife so badly, and—” a rough swallow, and a gasp for breath, “and seem to—to enjoy it...”
“Oh, Molly—dear—!”
They wept quietly together for a bit, the soft, silken, cleansing tears that ease distress and promote healing.
Their next visitor was Dr. Havers, who stumped into the parlor conveniently just about dinnertime. Dampened by the light rain that had started misting down from the leaden clouds, he handed her his shabby black felt derby and set his bag onto the floor, out of the way of traffic.
“Sorry, Cam, I meant to get here sooner, but the cook—you’ve met Silas Overton, haven’tcha?—over at Sittin’ Eat got splashed with a whole pot of boilin’ water.”
“Oh, dear, that sounds dreadful. I can’t imagine how much pain the poor fellow must be in. How does one treat something so severe?”
“Lemme tell you, I’m havin’ a run on my morphine tincture. Beyond that, a paste of wheat flour and cold water, applied several times a day, should take care of him. He’ll be all right, but looks like he might end up with some scars on his arm. I told Silas it would just make him look more manly for the ladies.”
“My, how compassionate.”
The doctor shrugged. “Yup. Goes with the territory. Lissen, Camellia, much as I enjoy jawin’ with you, I actually came to see my patient. Okay to head on upstairs and check in with her?”
“Give me just a minute, Gabe, to make sure she’s presentable.”
She should have been. After some tidying of her person, and the bed in which she had slept, Molly had, mindful of afflictions, carefully slipped into one of her nicer wrappers and opened one of the books waiting to be perused. Gabriel spent a half hour or so behind the closed door, and a murmur of voices assured any listener that the girl was at least talking.
“Well, now, lookit that.” He appeared to be just noticing the hour, when he rejoined Camellia in the kitchen a little later. “Got anything around here to eat?”