Free Camellia by Diane T. Ashley Page B

don’t ask him to stop this war, how can I expect him to grant my dearest wish?”
    “How indeed?” Lily looked impressed by the lady’s calm logic. “Perhaps all of us should follow your example.”
    Mrs. Dabbs nodded in agreement. “I encourage all of my students to do so.”
    “Do you really think your letters reach Mr. Lincoln’s desk?” Jasmine’s eyes were wide at the thought.
    “I am sure of it. I grew up in Maryland, you know. It is not so far from the White House. And I got to see one of the debates between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas a few years ago. He struck me then as a man who is very approachable.” Then she seemed to add as an afterthought, “As does our own president, Mr. Davis.”
    Lily pulled on her gloves. “Well, I hope one of them pays attention to any pleas you send. I am afraid there will be no winner in this war.”

Chapter Seven
    T wo large beds filled the room, and a banked fire pulled dampness from the air and made the space feel warm and inviting. Camellia’s trunks were nowhere to be seen, and she wondered where they might be. A large wooden desk took center stage in the room, with several books stacked on top of it and a pair of ladder-back chairs tucked on either side. A rocker filled another corner, but there was still plenty of room to move around.
    Camellia looked for the girl she had caught a glimpse of as they came upstairs. Was she going to be her roommate? Pushing the question aside for the moment, she removed her gloves and hat, tossing them on the nearest bed as she moved into the room.
    Mrs. Dabbs cleared her throat. “You must not get in the habit of scattering your belongings about. At least a dozen young ladies will be attending classes this spring term. You’ll want to avoid the possibility of mixing up your things with someone else’s.”
    A blush heated Camellia’s cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
    With a wave of her hand and a quick smile, the older lady excused her actions.
    Camellia snatched up her hat and gloves and looked around for a better place to put them.
    “I had closets installed in all of the bedrooms last year.” Mrs. Dabbs took Camellia’s hat and walked to a bank of doors on the far side of the room. When she pulled on them, they parted, folding back like the spines of a fan.
    Camellia’s jaw dropped when she realized several of her new outfits hung from a bar inside the wooden box. “How ingenious.” Her skirts looked ready to be worn. They were not crushed from lying on top of one another.
    Mrs. Dabbs laid her hat and gloves on a shelf at the top of the closet before turning and dusting her hands together. “There. That’s much better. One of the first lessons most of my girls learn is how to take care of their clothes. During these uncertain times, you must learn to fend for yourselves.”
    Camellia didn’t understand the other woman’s logic. She would never have to do without slaves or servants. But she was not going to start the term with an argument. She nodded and won an approving smile from Mrs. Dabbs.
    “Jane Watkins, your roommate, arrived late last night. Like you, she comes from Mississippi. I’m sure you’ll get along famously.” Mrs. Dabbs moved to the door. “I’ll ask her to come up and help you settle in before dinner. We won’t start classes until tomorrow, as two of the local girls won’t be here until this afternoon.”
    Removing her cloak, Camellia started to toss it across the foot of her bed. But then she stopped and looked toward the door. She would be a model student, learning everything Mrs. Dabbs offered whether she agreed with the lady or not.
    Walking across the room, she pushed on one of the closet doors. It didn’t budge. She stepped back and considered the problem. Did it act like a fan? She looked toward the floor but saw nothing except wooden planks. Raising her gaze slowly upward, she spied a pair of depressions—one on each door. She placed her fingers in one and tugged, her lips curving upward