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.
Delighted, Camellia sniffed at the air that seemed drunk with bee balm and floral display, like wine and honey stirred together into one fascinating concoction.
“It’s so lovely here; no wonder you’ve made the place your home. Your parents are still living somewhere in Tennessee, I believe you mentioned?” she asked, out of the blue.
“Yes, ma’am. Outside Memphis.”
“That’s a few miles away. Quite a few. Do you get home to visit them very often?”
“Naw. I ain’t been back after I come here. Must be—what, six years or so now.”
“Only six years?” A small reflective frown creased her brows. “Oh. For some reason, I thought you’d been here longer.”
His voice was completely without expression when he replied, “Prob’ly because I look like a town fixture. Good ol’ dependable, steady Ben Forrester, just part of the scenery, like onea them there pines you see. Anything else you wanna know?”