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Ambitious, to say the least. Some dishes could be made ahead of time, others would be last-minute. For this, for serving guests, and for clean-up after, Camellia had decided to hire the two teen-aged daughters of Mrs. Grace Ellen Tucker, president of the Ladies’ Aid Society at church. It seemed an arrangement that would work out well for everyone.
Every room spic and span? Check. Holiday adornments in place? Check. Foodstuffs arranged and table linens organized? Check. Now it was just a matter of choosing something fabulous to wear.
“Oh, look at that!” moaned Camellia, as she turned from side to side in front of the big cheval bedroom mirror. “I’m as big as a house!”
The weather was, not surprisingly, inclement, on this winter day, with volleys of wind and rain splashing about and trees flinging down matted wet leaves to impede the path of any unwary passerby. Concerned, Camellia had sent Ben to retrieve Hannah and her incidentals, with plenty of time to dress and take care of any last-minute details before the party started.
“Of course you’re not,” Hannah soothed from the security of her own slender figure, clad in party attire of sinuous sapphire velvet. “Why not just wrap yourself in that beautiful Spanish lace shawl Mother left you, and fasten it with her cameo pin?”
“Yeeesss...” Dissatisfaction in the tone. “How did I get so caught up with everything else that I didn’t plan my own outfit?”
“Because, Cam, dear, you’ve always been more concerned for the pleasure of family and friends than for yourself. Now, hush, and let’s go downstairs. Guests will soon be arriving.”
“I remember that gown of yours, Hen,” Camellia realized, as they started into the hall.
“You should. Papa let me buy it for my sixteenth birthday.”
Another critical but fond look. “How fortunate that you’ve not gained weight since then. The dress fits like a dream, and you look beautiful.”
Ben, all gussied up in his wedding suit, was already playing host—to himself. That is, he was sampling the eggnog. A slight flush of his freshly shaven face indicated that this wasn’t his first sampling.
“Did you find the taste satisfactory, my love?” asked Camellia, with a quiver of amusement.
“Yup. ’Specially after I added a trifle m
ore whiskey. What?” He feigned innocence. “Somebody had to make sure the stuff passes muster.”
The girls, Anna May and Phoebe, as alike in their country cream freshness and pigtailed blonde hair as twins, stood giggling in the kitchen, waiting for instructions. Time for the festivities to begin.
Chapter Seven
AS IF THAT CUP OF SPIKED eggnog were a catalyst for the evening, a soft west wind swept away the rain—at least temporarily, enough for the invited guests to make it from their surreys to the front door without being drenched to the skin. The women, in their finery, certainly appreciated a slight interruption of cold moisture.
Molly and Paul came hurrying in, laughing, their outwear sparkling here and there from a few derelict raindrops. The young Mrs. Winslow, emerging from her heavy coat, revealed a confection of peach shot silk, gussied up with scallops and pleats, bertha trimming, and a skirt rendered so full from its hoops that she could barely make it through the door. Camellia, greeting the couple, wondered not too facetiously if Paul had somehow come into possession of a private fortune, so that he could afford his wife’s extravagant (but oh so becoming) wardrobe.
Letitia and Reese hurried in right behind them. Letty’s party dress, unwrapped, was neither new nor expensive, but extremely flattering, with its shimmering emerald, flat-paneled skirt, and low-cut bodice covered in creamy lace.
Camellia was struck by the thought that the Burton sisters had been singularly blessed. With such a milk-and-roses complexion and such black curly hair, each could wear nearly any color and appear quite ravishing.
Consider Hannah, for instance, clothed in the birthday sapphire, sprinkled all over with bits of silver like fairy dust, and cinched in at her slender waist with wide velvet ribbon. Seven-years-old, that lovely outfit, and slightly out of fashion; yet by hue and by design it might have been made for a princess.
Then there was herself, stuffed into something whose satin of a deceptively virginal pale pink belied her new-found curves.
Ben hadn’t minded. Once she had descended to the parlor, he had nuzzled the side of her throat and told her how comely she looked. Like a little girl, he claimed, all togged out for the royal ball in a grown-up’s dress that held some lace pillow underneath.
Next to arrive, almost in a convoy, was the Rev. Martin Beecham, chatting with Oliver Crane;
then Mrs. Florence McKnight in the company of Grace Ellen Tucker and her husband, Sam; Jimmy Dunlap and Elvira Gotham, from the store; and, finally, that rarely seen, elusive master entrepreneur, Linus Drinkwater. Trailing along behind came an ebullient Gabriel Havers, at the side of Abigail Fitzsimmons, who stood resplendent, once inside the door, in Christmas red satin.
For a while, all was cheerful confusion: this guest greeting that one being greeted by the Forresters; coats and wraps and shawls being removed and carted into Ben’s study for storage; food and drink being offered and cups of eggnog being handed out. Most of the men remained standing, in groups, while the ladies settled themselves and their expansive, elegant attire upon chairs and ottomans.
With so much color clustered in one room, and so much shimmery fabric bunched together, it seemed that a flock of butterflies might have floated in, drifted down from the ceiling, and lighted like thistledown upon some designated flower.
“A toast,” proposed Ben, as party-giver, holding his cut glass cup high. “To good health and happiness for all our family and friends.”
“Hear, hear!” “Huzzah!” “God bless us, everyone!” echoed through the room, in response.
Immediately, the Tucker girls joined in, one to present silver salvers of things to nibble and things to taste, and the other with pitchers to offer a choice of beverage. All around them swirled fragments of party talk.
