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residence, I, too, am quite happy with my own. This is a subject we shall
certainly have to discuss, along with your curiosity as to my particular
personality traits.
Given all this, I do believe it is time we meet in the flesh, so that all these
matters may be taken into account.
I shall plan to visit your town of Turnabout two weeks hence. Since arrival
dates can be uncertain, due to the unpredictability of travel, I hope to be
able to see you, and introduce myself, approximately the middle of February.
Do I dare to presume that such an arrangement will meet with your approval?
Faithfully yours,
Ualraig
Her first thought, upon reading and dissecting this surprising missive, was, “He finally replied!
Thank goodness, I finally received a reply! I haven’t been left along the wayside by some uncaring, inconsiderate brute!”
Her second, with a snort of disdain, was, “Huh. It certainly took him long enough.”
Which reaction perfectly described her feelings about this whole mad adventure.
Her third was, “I wonder if he sounds like such a pontifical dandy in real life as he does in his letters?”
All three of her sisters, not wanting to pour salt into an unhealed wound, had wisely decided to refrain from asking for any updates on Hannah’s love life. No questions, no comments, no pointed criticisms of the errant suitor.
So, she resolved, she would just keep this little tidbit to herself for a while.
The tidbit lay growing, like a kernel of corn exposed to the elements, somewhere deep inside. It was surrounded by uncertainty. How would they meet? What would he be like? Would he approve of her appearance, her personality, her snappish temper? Was her mood of qualm and misgivings similar to what her sisters had experienced, before her? Would he be as handsome as her doctor? Would they have very much in common? She wanted a man who would share her dreams and they could talk for hours, a man that could make her smile. She had paid little attention then, as to whether each had sailed through or passed sleepless hours worrying and fretting. Now she could understand the situation, and all the complex emotions involved, much more easily.
It was true, that old saying: Walk a mile in my shoes...
In the doldrums of winter, with spring a distant too many weeks into the future, Letitia organized a ladies’ book club. Those who were able might purchase the monthly selection at the Table, where the meetings would be held on each first Saturday; those who were not could borrow from the Turnabout Library. Grace Ellen Tucker had already eagerly signed up and promised to bring in a few more members, as did Abigail, always happy to generate new business, herself.
Molly, too, had acquired a new interest in life. Now that the remodeling work at Fourteen Cedar Lane had been completed to her satisfaction, she was planning a housewarming, with the date set probably for mid-March. Warned that a conflict in schedule might arise, since Camellia was expected to give birth anytime during the six weeks after that, Molly had pooh-poohed the very idea. No one would dare interfere with her schedule, not even the greatly anticipated niece or nephew.
They would just work it out.
Of course her proposal was fine with Paul; just about anything she did or wanted to do was fine with Paul. Hosting a roomful of guests stood quite low on his list of things to take care of, right now, anyway. He was more interested in catching the stagecoach bandit to be hauled in for trial.
So far, according to the victims, nothing serious had occurred during these robberies, other than loud threats, a waving about of weapons, and the theft of passengers’ cash and jewelry. But Paul wanted to get this stopped before someone got hurt.
There was no why nor wherefore as to the timing—it might be the Monday run or the Thursday run; it might be ten miles out of town or on the way to Manifest. Even with two deputies, other duties pressed the law office, and one could not be watching all entrances and exits every day of the week. Without more information, Paul feared apprehending the criminal would be a stroke of pure luck.
Wit
h each passing week, Camellia grew less agile, more ungainly, as the baby’s increasing weight filled her front and swayed her back. She was still able to joke about various physical aspects of her pregnancy, but the sounds of her huffing and puffing up the stairs and an infrequent little moan of something not working right were beginning to deeply worry her husband.
In private, he cursed Gabriel’s mother for deciding to call the doctor away at such a crucial time, and then he cursed Gabriel, as well, for deciding to go. He consulted with Letitia on matters of anxiety, and Letitia, the novice medico, could only page through the medical journals and offer what little knowledge and reassurance she had.
Despite her occasional foul moods and unsurprising irritability, Camellia never spoke one word of blame; she had wanted this child as much as her husband did, and was willing to endure whatever unpleasantness—and downright affliction—necessary. Still, Ben couldn’t help feeling guilty. So, like many first-time fathers, he did what he could to ease the burden on his wife.
