Free Camellia by Diane T. Ashley

her. When Mrs. Dabbs, the present owner of the house, decided to open a school for young girls, she decided to use the original name.”
    “How romantic.” Camellia leaned forward and stared out of the window as though counting the minutes until their arrival.
    Wouldn’t she be shocked to discover the other side of her romantic headmistress? Jonah ran through the code phrase to make sure he would not stumble when the time came to alert the woman to his identity. He hoped she was more experienced at this spying game than he. If not, the North was in serious trouble.

    The last one out of the carriage, Camellia put her hand in Jonah’s and caught her breath.
Tranquil … tranquil as the surface of a pond.
The mantra helped her present a calm face even though her heart felt as though it was about to jump out of her chest. The quick squeeze he gave her gloved fingers did not help matters. What was it about this man that affected her so? Why did her cheeks burn in spite of the cold wind swirling through the quiet neighborhood?
    As soon as her slippers touched the raised sidewalk, she pulled her hand from his and looked around, determined to minimize the contact. In an effort to regain control, she focused on the ornate iron fence surrounding the school property. “Is that a snowflake design?”
    “Oui.”
Mrs. Thornton touched the gate with a gloved hand. “The story is that Mr. Hand’s young wife was from New York, and she missed the beautiful winters of her youth. So he ordered the fence to ease her homesickness.”
    Jasmine had been quiet all the way to the school, but she brightened at Mrs. Thornton’s explanation. “How romantic.”
    A grunt from Jonah showed his lack of appreciation for Mr. Hand’s gesture. Typical.
    Camellia couldn’t resist adding her own interpretation. “When a marriage is based on mutual love, such wonderful gestures become commonplace.”
    Lily nodded her agreement, but Jonah rolled his eyes before opening the gate for the ladies.
    Lacy iron formed arches between the black columns that framed the first-story porch and the second-story balcony. They reminded Camellia of picture frames. She could see herself standing on the balcony. Her soldier-fiancé would have an arm around her, and they would be facing each other as they exchanged sweet words of love and devotion.
    A jerk on her arm ended the pleasant daydream. “Are you going to stand out here in the cold all morning?” Jonah’s frown was like a slap.
    “Of course not.” She lifted her skirts and climbed the steps to the front porch, her head high. How dare he criticize her? This was her time. She was not going to let him destroy her anticipation.
    A black woman wearing a dark dress and a fancy white apron met them at the front door. Mrs. Thornton introduced herself and explained the reason for their arrival, handing her calling card to the servant.
    While they waited for Mrs. Dabbs to send for them, Camellia looked around the stylishly appointed foyer. A silver tray filled with other calling cards rested on a small table to her right. Above it was a rococo mirror. Several chairs lined the wall next to the table, a place for visitors to sit while they waited to see if the lady of the house was receiving guests.
    A door opened farther down the hall, and a tall, spare woman appeared. She was probably about the same age as Aunt Dahlia, but that was the only similarity Camellia could find between them. Mrs. Dabbs moved more slowly than her aunt would, her hands folded at her waist. Her hair, parted in the center, was very dark except for a stunning stripe of snow-white tresses beginning at the V of her widow’s peak. Each step she took was small and deliberate, conveying her authority and self-confidence.
    “Bienvenue, monsieur and mesdames, á mon ecôle.”
Her accent was as impressive as her entrance. Camellia wondered if she had spent time in France.
    “Merci
, Madame Dabbs.
Me permettre d’introduire….”
    The words washed