It wasn’t until everything had been consumed and the plates scraped clean that each of those males, now stuffed to the gullet, could loosen the first button of his trousers and slip arms free of suspenders. At an evening gathering, this would now be the time that they disappeared into Ben’s study for cheroots and something home-brewed, popularly known as Ol’ Red-Eye, and sold at Forrester’s.
Except that Camellia, who had put aside clearing and dish-washing for the moment, was waiting for her update.
The kitchen, under her expertise, had been transformed into a remarkably cheerful, welcoming room. The colorful rag rugs and printed tea towels, the slow heat of the fire, the appetizing aroma of fresh coffee, the slow run and drip of raindrops down the glass of each window—all her doing (except for the precipitation). Whether or not Ben mentioned it often enough, in so many words, he deeply appreciated this lovely, capable woman who had transformed his life, as well.
As promised, the doctor was first to report. Molly’s physical condition was gradually improving; internal and external injuries were already beginning to heal, and would continue to do so, with rest and good care. The state of her mental and emotional health was another matter entirely. She had actually smiled a few times, while talking with him earlier; and that was encouraging. But, clearly, the harm she suffered had gone far beyond the tangible.
“Me, I’ve just been kinda roamin’ around town all day,” Paul, pausing for a sip of coffee, contributed. “Makin’ sure nobody untoward approached your house here, or your sisters’.”
“You see anything of Hennessey?” Ben was scraping up the last bite of apple pie before reaching for his own cup.
“Caught a glimpse of him, talkin’ out in the open with Linus Drinkwater. He was lookin’ for a job, from what Linus told me later. Guess he’s took him a room at the hotel, though how he can afford it is anyone’s guess.”
“Especially since he was more than willing to abandon poor Molly at that hovel in the woods,” Camellia tartly observed.
“She—uh—expressed any interest in havin’ a chat with me?”
Camellia’s bright blue eyes widened just a little. “Why would she?”
He gave her a look halfway between impatience and forbearance. “About the ongoin’ investigation, Miz—Camellia.” There. That should sweeten her mood. “Like to have a few more facts under my belt b’fore I run into Mr. Hennessey again. Next time, I mean to make my case.”
“With me pressin’ charges, I hope,” was the doctor’s comment.
“I’m holdin’ that in reserve, Gabe. Want all the ammunition I can get.”
An expression of doubt crossed Camellia’s vulnerable face. “I don’t know, Paul. She’s still so exhausted—and afraid. But I can go ask her.”
“I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”
“Meanwhile,” Gabriel pushed back from the table with a satisfied groan, “I reckon I better get back and see what’s goin’ on. Bound to be some patients waitin’ for me to make an appearance.” Rising, he reluctantly refastened the trouser button and snapped his suspenders back in place.
“Huh.” Ben sent him a glance that was slightly disgruntled. “Gonna just eat and run, you ole pill-pusher? Gonna just leave this mess?”
“Why, Benjamin, my boy,” the doctor sounded surprised by this reaction, “it’s what I do. B’sides, you two are still newlyweds enough that I have no doubt you’ll enjoy helpin’ Cam clean up things in the kitchen. I wouldn’t dream of interferin’. Thanks for a grand meal, my dear. The Café Rouge couldn’ta put out one better.”
Chapter Thirteen
BY WEDNESDAY, WITH the skies still colored a depressing gray and everything green dripping moisture into puddles on the ground, Molly was feeling strong enough to put on one of her oldest, most comfortable outfits—a simple white cotton shirtwaist whose front formed shapely pleats and somber navy button-down skirt—and descend to the first floor.
It was mid-morning, although, given the dark and gloomy inclement weather, the hour seemed more like early evening. Camellia almost wished it were. The past two days had been busy ones, and she would be relieved to put housekeeping and familial c
hores aside, just to relax with a book, her husband’s company, and quiet conversation. And would a nice hot cup of tea, brewed by someone else’s hand, be too much to ask?
Visitors, expected and unexpected, appreciated and not so appreciated, had been making their way to her door at odd hours since Henrietta Blankenship had broken the ice on Monday. By now, she was about to plead with Ben that they might take an extended trip somewhere—anywhere—just to leave the hullabaloo behind.
Following Mrs. Blankenship’s lead, several other ladies had stopped by to express their concern about dear, sweet Molly Burton—oh, but it was Hennessey, now, wasn’t it?—press forward some sort of food offering, and send prying glances into every corner of Camellia’s downstairs. Elvira, too, had arrived, but for only a tactful ten minutes or so.
And last night both Letty and Hannah had come to supper, that they might have a brief chat (neither so frank nor so prolonged as might be anticipated) with their sister. The girls were, naturally, shocked by her appearance, entirely sympathetic as to her ordeal, and absolutely supportive in supplying any of her wants or needs. A book? Certainly. A game of whist? Of course. A box of chocolates? Done.
Today, after Molly had been satisfactorily settled with a tray of soup and sugar buns and sweet hot tea, it was time to take care of neglected household chores.
Determined to catch up, despite the weather, Camellia scrubbed and swept and mopped the kitchen within an inch of its life, then dusted the parlor and ran her carpet sweeper over the floors. In between, she also managed to brush aside the invalid’s heartfelt apologies; no, no regrets—when Molly’s health was back to full bloom (as if it were the state of her health in question!), she would be more than welcome to housekeep as much as she desired. Until then, sit, relax, rest.
Camellia was gathering up the basket of laundry in readiness for Mrs. Ruth Tidwell’s call, to take everything away for washing and pressing, when a knock sounded at the front door.
“Oh, bother,” she muttered, stuffing down a last pair of Ben’s long johns to join the rest. Perhaps she could get a Quarantine sign from Gabe to scare away any prospective callers. He owed her that much, anyway, and it would be one way for him to pay off the bill for all that good cookin’ he had taken advantage of lately.
The young man waiting on their verandah was one she had never met. What she could see of his face looked moist with rain and slightly flushed. What she couldn’t see was hidden by a huge bouquet of flowers. So many that she could almost see a whole hive of bees swarming around overhead.