Читать книгу Harrigan's Bride - Cheryl Reavis - Страница 11

Of all the emotions he had anticipated when he went to ask Abiah to marry him, surprise wasn’t one of them—at least not on his part. And he had certainly been surprised. First, when she told him she had another suitor, and then, when she had been so unwilling to even consider his own offer of matrimony. But most of all, when he realized how much he minded on both counts.

It had all seemed so clear to him beforehand. He was honor and duty bound to take care of the last member of the Calder family as best he could. It was something he simply had to do. Now, through no conscious effort of his own, he was afflicted with the added burden of wanting it.

Thanks to La Broie and his machinations, Thomas had gotten away to see Abiah long enough to make his proposal, but since then he could only sit in the drafty, abandoned brick building where he’d been banished until the generals decided what they were going to do with him. He had no idea what this place had once been. Nothing comfortable, in any event. The room he had taken at the end of the hall had a window big enough to let in some light and lessen the dungeon atmosphere, but many of the glass panes were broken. It took all his physical energy just to stay warm.

He still had to pen a number of letters of condolence to the families of the men who had been killed at Fredericksburg, but he was too distracted to accomplish very much. He realized immediately that it was not just the cold that caused him to be so unsettled. No, indeed. His mental turmoil had come about because, whether Abiah had agreed or not, he absolutely did not want her marrying John William Miller. It irked Thomas a great deal how much he didn’t want it. He had no right and no reason whatsoever to object.

Johnny Miller was a traitor to the country, of course, but then, by her own admission, so was Abiah. Thomas had always thought Miller a decent enough sort. There was nothing about the man as far as Thomas knew that would keep him from being entirely suitable for Abiah. Besides all that, Thomas was supposed to be heartbroken over his failed engagement to Elizabeth. He had certainly felt heartbroken when her letter came. Now it seemed as if all that had happened to someone else.

It suddenly occurred to him that the only explanation was that he must have believed Abiah when she said she loved him, even if she had since taken great pains to behave as if she had no memory of having done so. Clearly, it was a decided character weakness on his part—to always believe women when they professed a fondness for him. He had believed Elizabeth. He still believed Abiah, in spite of her reluctance in agreeing to marry him. He kept thinking about that one particular moment when he’d asked her why she wasn’t making plans for her wedding to Miller. Thomas could almost feel the way her dark eyes had stared into his.

You know why not.

He supposed that that was as close as Abiah would come to mentioning the embarrassing incident—embarrassing for her, not him. At least not since he’d recovered from the initial shock of learning how she had planned to “trap” him into matrimony. Assuming she had been serious, he wondered if she had any idea what coming into his bed like that might have precipitated. He would like to think that he would have behaved honorably, but if he had had one too many brandies on the porch, he might have forgotten that she was his best friend’s little sister.

He gave a quiet sigh. Perhaps Abiah did know. If Guire had been so imprudent as to tell her about their adventures in a New Orleans bordello, there was no telling what else the rascal had taken upon himself to explain. In any event, this bold plan of Abiah’s would certainly give Thomas something to contemplate during the long winter nights to come.

He picked up his pen and immediately put it down again. The ink in the bottle had frozen. His cigar had gone out and his fingers were numb with cold. An abrupt gust of wind caused the smoke from what he optimistically called a fireplace to billow back into the cavernous room. He gave up all pretense of working, the full import of the predicament both he and Abiah were in making a jarring return. He had no patience left. He had to get this marriage done.

“La Broie!”

“Sir!” the sergeant answered almost immediately, his voice echoing in the outer hallway. Thomas suspected that La Broie’s staying so close at hand had less to do with efficiency and devotion and more to do with the fact that Major Gibbons had probably ordered him to do so—in case that wild Captain Harrigan went a-roving again.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Thomas asked when La Broie appeared in the doorway.

“Nothing, sir,” La Broie answered, giving no indication that Thomas had already asked him that same question a dozen times.

“Why is this taking so damn long?” Thomas said, more to himself than to La Broie.

“You know by now how the army works, Cap. It takes as long as it takes.”

Thomas gave La Broie a scathing look. He was not in the mood for any of the sergeant’s military truisms, sage though they may be. He was trying to take care of Abiah. She was ill, and gravely so. The doctors gave him absolutely no encouragement as to her chances for recovery from an illness they couldn’t even diagnose. Typhoid pneumonia, perhaps, they said. The problem was that Abiah had been examined well after the telltale “rose spot” stage indicative of the disease. She had a “continuous fever” to be sure, but no one would—or could—give it a name. The army hospitals were full of “continuous fevers,” which were fatal more times than not.

The best Thomas could do was to make sure Abiah had good nursing care, preferably by someone who understood the dangers of these fever-ridden illnesses. He felt an occasional twinge of guilt that the only person even remotely knowledgeable about these things also happened to be a camp follower. But, like everything else in this situation, he had had no choice but to bow to La Broie’s opinion of Gertie’s willingness and competency, and to hire the girl. So far Thomas hadn’t had cause to regret it—as far as he knew. Gertie seemed happy to have a paying job that didn’t involve throwing her petticoats over her head.

But he had precious little time left before Burnside began his redemptive push toward Richmond, and whatever time Abiah had, Thomas intended it to be as respectable and comfortable as it was in his power to make it. He knew exactly what had to be done, yet not one damn superior officer would tell him anything. How hard could it be to let him leave his quarters long enough to get married?

“La Broie!”

“Sir!”

“I want you to go see how Miss Abiah is this afternoon.”

“Sir—begging your pardon. Wouldn’t it be better for me to see Miss Abiah when I got something to tell her? If I go now and she’s awake, she’s going to ask me things I ain’t got the answers to. If I can’t say for sure you’re going to make it to the ceremony, it’ll just worry her. And she ought not to be worried, sir, I’m thinking. Besides that, she might have gone and changed her mind about marrying you. Maybe you don’t want to give her a chance to retreat before we even get on the field.”

Thomas had to agree, even if he was absolutely convinced now that La Broie had been given unofficial guard duty, and even at the risk of letting him have the last word yet another time. “You’ve got the chaplain ready?”

“Sir, I’ve got three chaplains ready. I’ve got a doctor ready if Gertie needs him—besides the one Miss Abiah’s already got. And I didn’t send off that telegram to your mother,” he added significantly, because, surprisingly, he didn’t approve of Thomas’s having changed his mind about notifying his family. “There ain’t nothing left to do but wait, sir, and that’s the sad truth of it.”

“You’re sure about the arrangements?” Thomas said, looking at the morning muster roll again and trying to get some idea of who was fit for duty—just in case he ever got out of this building and back to soldiering.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure. Zachariah Wilson has been well paid for the room and board—even if he wasn’t using the space nohow. He knows which lawyer will keep on paying him. So Gertie and Miss Abiah can stay right where they are while you and me and the army is gone on this here fool’s errand. Oh, and I been turning people down.”

“What people? For what?”

“People wanting to come to the wedding, sir. We got all manner of volunteers to stand witness for it—from both armies—plus a whole slew of bushwhackers and newspaper people and deserters. You know, it’s kind of hard to tell which is which when you get them all in a bunch. And then there’s some church folk from Falmouth and Fredericksburg trying to get invited. I’m thinking we might need a guard at the door. Miss Abiah ain’t well enough to have a bunch of nosy strangers gawking at her—and you—on account of she’s supposed to be ruined and not long for this world. I did tell all these hopeful guests they could send you and her a wedding present, though.”

Thomas looked up at that impertinence, but La Broie wasn’t in the least discomfited.

“Sir, I ain’t never been one to let opportunity stand around knocking on a shut door,” he said. “And while I’m at it, I reckon I need to be begging your pardon—”

The heavy outer door of the building slammed loudly interrupting whatever La Broie had been about to reveal.

“This is it, Cap,” he said instead. “That’s one of Sumner’s aides coming. The one with all them littlegirl curls.”

“Now how the hell do you know that?” Thomas said, trying to at least appear as if he wasn’t affected by the footsteps echoing briskly down the hall in their direction.

“It’s them prissy little silver spurs he wears. He’s the only one that jingles like that.”

It was indeed the aide-de-camp in question, an overly serious lieutenant, who knocked loudly and who snapped a salute when he was given leave to enter. Thomas was notoriously serious himself—but he chose to leave out the jingling and the posturing.

“Sir!” the aide barked, presenting Thomas with a folded piece of paper and causing La Broie to almost but not quite roll his eyes.

It was a pass, granting one Captain Thomas Harrigan a three-hour furlough in Falmouth. He read it over—twice—and then exhaled quietly in relief.

“No message from General Sumner?” he asked, without looking up.

“No, sir.”

“Then you are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

There was no jingling.

Thomas looked up. “Is there something else?”

“Yes, sir,” the aide said.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Well, I’m not in the mood to guess, I can promise you that—”

The outside door banged loudly again, only this time it sounded as if an entire company were advancing up the hall—singing.

“Sir!” the aide barked. “It is my duty to announce that your groomsmen have arrived!”

* * *

Abiah noted two things when she asked to speak to Thomas alone. That he had gone to a great deal of trouble to look presentable and that he wasn’t entirely sober. She was familiar with the custom of fortifying the groom with whatever strong drink his friends could find prior to the actual ceremony. Hardly any of the weddings she’d ever attended in her whole life had seen the groom not tangle-footed. She just hadn’t considered that this particular wedding would precipitate the ritual and the boisterous male revelry that accompanied it.

She had no illusions about why the marriage was taking place. How could she? Thomas had been nothing if not blunt about his motives. His military career. Her reputation. His obligation to, and his respect for, Guire and the Calder family. But regardless of the circumstances, here Thomas was, and he looked exactly the way a bridegroom was suppose to look. All spit and polish—except for the ink stains on his fingers. He was newly barbered and unsteady on his feet—and infinitely pleased with himself.

“You’re looking lovely this afternoon, Abby,” he assured her.

“You, sir, have had a lot more to drink than I first thought,” she answered.

He smiled one of his rare smiles.

“Only a bit, Abby. To keep away the cold. The boys went to such a lot of trouble to get it. It would have been rude to decline.”

“Is that the real reason?” she asked. “You don’t want to be rude?”

“It is.”

“Rude to them or rude to me?”

“To you?”

“Perhaps you need whiskey to get through this wedding, Thomas. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind but you’re too honorable to say so.”

He frowned. “I have not changed my mind. Have you?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” she said.

He nearly smiled again and pulled the one straight chair close to the bedside and sat down. “So. You recognize me, then.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t easy. You look so much prettier today than when I last saw you.”

He smiled genuinely this time. “I had a great deal of help, I can assure you. I’m especially partial to this very fine maroon-and-gold, nonregulation sash—I forget which of my groomsmen contributed it.” He opened his coat so that she could see it better. “But it’s not as fine as your ribbon,” he said, leaning closer to inspect the pink ribbon Gertie had meticulously twined into Abiah’s long braid and then tied in a dainty bow.

Abiah, too, had had a great deal of help getting ready for this event. Besides the ribbon, her plain muslin nightdress had been exchanged for a finely embroidered and tucked cambric chemise de nuit. It was quite beautiful, albeit too big for her. The sleeves kept falling over her hands. Of course, a pink ribbon and especially the chemise de nuit were hopeless gestures on Gertie’s part, regardless of Thomas’s compliment. Except for the sleeves, he wouldn’t even see the nightdress. Abiah was covered up well past her bosom by a borrowed gray velvet quilt placed under a crocheted “wedding ring” coverlet—something someone in the household—or in the town or across the river—must have thought would be appropriate. Clearly, when the bride was too ill to be dressed, then one must dress the bed instead. Enough pillows had been found so that she could be propped almost to a sitting position. Her beribboned braid hung artfully over her right shoulder. She was even lucid, so much so that she had no delusions about the way she looked, just as she had no delusions about the way she felt.

“Don’t,” he said after a moment, and she looked at him.

“I see the second thoughts running rampant, Abby. I don’t have any. I want you to put yours aside.”

“I’m afraid, Thomas.”

“Not of me, I hope.”

She shook her head. “No, not of you. Of being…” She gave a quiet sigh. It was so difficult to put into words. If she were well, she wouldn’t have all these misgivings. If she were well, she would have at least a fighting chance of keeping him from resenting her and a marriage he’d wanted no part of.

She sighed again. If she were well, there would be no marriage in the first place.

“I’m cursed with a conscience,” she said finally.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way, Abby.”

She realized immediately that he was teasing her. “Thomas, you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Of course I am—”

Someone rapped sharply on the door. “Chaplain’s here, sir!” a voice said on the other side of it.

“We’re worrying La Broie,” Thomas said. “Can we put him out of his misery?”

“He’ll just have to bear up,” she said. “I have a question.”

“It’s very improper for me to be in here, you know. Didn’t you see your landlady’s face when I came in here alone and shut the door?”

“My landlady will have to bear up as well.”

“Abby, we have to have this ceremony right now.”

“But we haven’t discussed…anything.”

“You’re alone in the world and you’re ill. And I’m going into God-knows-what with Burnside. We could discuss all manner of topics until kingdom come, but it would still come down to those two things. We have to concern ourselves with the present situation. Nothing else. We can’t worry about what might come along later.”

“Sir!” La Broie said, rapping at the door again. They both ignored him and the burst of rowdy laughter from Thomas’s groomsmen.

“Have you sent word to her?” she asked Thomas quietly.

He didn’t pretend not to know who she meant. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said after a moment.

“Not even to keep from being rude?”

“No.”

She watched him closely, trying to decide if that was really the case.

Yes, she decided. It wasn’t necessary for him to tell his former fiancée anything. And perhaps that was yet another reason why he wanted this marriage to take place.

“Your mother and grandfather? Do they know what you’re doing?”

“No,” he said again.

“Why not?”

“Because I anticipated this. Your uncertainty. It’s better if they know later, after it’s done.”

“I see. They’d disapprove that much.”

“I don’t know if they would disapprove or not. The point is I don’t have the time or the inclination to hear opinions, one way or the other.”

“You and I have nothing in common,” she said. “Besides the dire consequences of your bringing me across the river—and Guire.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Have you or have you not read Emerson?”

“Only because you insisted.”

“That’s not the point, either. You know his work. We’ve had some most interesting discussions about Emerson. And if I said George Tockner you’d know precisely who I meant.”

She tried to interrupt. The fact that she could recognize the name of a hallowed Harvard professor signified nothing as far as she was concerned. “Thomas—”

“And William Cullen Bryant,” he continued, undeterred. “You’ve read his work.”

“I’ve read Walt Whitman, as well, but I doubt anyone would see that as a basis for a marriage.”

That remark certainly got his attention. “You’ve read Walt Whitman,” he repeated, as if he wanted to make absolutely certain he had this right.

“I have,” she said.

“Leaves of Grass.”

“That was the title, yes. Your Mr. Emerson approved of the work, I believe.”

“Never mind that. How the devil did you get your hands on a copy of Walt Whitman?” he asked—demanded—and she tried not to smile. She found him entirely adorable when he was discomposed.

“Believe me, it wasn’t easy. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is the advisability of this marriage.”

“What matters is that I can see right now it’s going to take all my effort to keep you in hand. Leaves of Grass, indeed.”

“Thomas—”

“My sergeant is going to perish at the door,” he interrupted. “Can we not get on with this and save him—before it’s too late?”

“Can you make me one promise?” she asked.

“What is it?”

“Can you promise not to forget that I gave you the opportunity to escape?”

“And may every other Rebel I meet from here on out do the same,” he said elaborately.

She gave a sharp sigh. “And I was worried about me not being in my right mind.”

He laughed and leaned closer.

“Now, Abby?” he whispered, teasing her again. “Will you give me leave to open the door?”

She didn’t answer him.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said, serious suddenly. “I give you my word on that.”

His word meant a great deal to her. “All right,” she said finally. “Go open the door. Save La Broie and me both.”

Thomas left her to fling the door open. A number of people stood gathered in the hallway and kitchen beyond, most of whom were straining to catch a glimpse inside the room. There would have been a great rush to gain admittance were it not for Sergeant La Broie. He allowed Gertie to enter, and then Mrs. Wilson, the dour lady of the house, who had clearly come out of duty rather than desire. It was the first time Abiah had seen her in person. Heretofore, the woman had only existed in the form of the verbal admonishments constantly repeated by Gertie and the household staff. Mrs. Wilson was full of don’ts. There was no doubt that she ran a tight ship; she was making an inspection even now to see if Abiah and Gertie had done any injury to her domain.

Not one but three army chaplains followed Mrs. Wilson into the room. All three came to stand around the bed. Abiah glanced at Thomas, who winked.

Ah, well, she thought. Given the apparent magnitude of the scandal precipitated by Thomas’s rescue, they had best have the matrimonial knot firmly tied. The chaplains introduced themselves—Brothers, Hearst and Holmes. It was clear that they had already decided among themselves who exactly would do what when. The Reverend Brothers began the proceedings with a lengthy prayer. Abiah was grateful for the opportunity to close her eyes. She was very tired suddenly, and had to concentrate hard not to show it.

Someone knocked on the door. The Reverend Brothers prayed on. Finally, after the third knock, La Broie went to open it, and after a brief, whispered conference with whoever waited on the other side, he accepted an envelope of some sort and closed the door.

The prayer continued. Abiah opened her eyes enough to watch with interest as La Broie discreetly passed the envelope to Thomas, who glanced at it and put it into his pocket.

“If you would join hands, please,” the second chaplain—Hearst—said as soon as the prayer ended. He opened the small leather book he carried and adjusted his spectacles, looking around sharply at another outburst of raucous laughter from out in the hall.

Thomas moved the chair closer to the bed and sat down, so that he could take Abiah’s hand more easily. Hers was trembling, and he looked at her sharply when he realized it.

“I think they would both approve, Abiah,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Miss Emma,” he said. “And Guire.”

She looked at him a long moment, then nodded.

The Reverend Hearst cleared his throat. “May we continue?”

“Yes,” Thomas said, without looking at him. His eyes still held Abiah’s, and whatever indecision remained suddenly left her.

For better or worse till death do us part, she thought.

The ceremony began in earnest, but it was an obviously shortened version, to accommodate Thomas’s lack of time and her illness. Because of their proximity to the kitchen, Abiah could smell bread baking. She wondered idly if many weddings took place with the aroma of baking bread wafting through. She glanced briefly at the people who stood witness. Gertie, who looked sad enough to cry, and La Broie, who stood ramrod straight next to Gertie and watched her intently. Hardened soldier or not, the man was clearly smitten.

Interesting, Abiah thought. La Broie so enamored, and Gertie so oblivious to it.

Abiah glanced at Mrs. Wilson, with her longsuffering countenance, and made a mental note. Should she and Thomas ever actually live together as man and wife, she would not go around looking like that. She wondered idly if Mr. Wilson was somewhere at hand, too. She hadn’t met him, either, though Gertie had assured her when they first came to the house to stay that she wouldn’t want to.

Abiah turned her attention to the second chaplain.

How determined he is, she thought.

He had offered no call to the ceremony, no “Dearly Beloved…” He had asked for no declaration of consent, no “Wilt thou have this woman…” He had gone straight to the marriage pledge.

Repeat after me.

“I, Thomas, take thee, Abiah…”

Thomas’s voice was strong, unwavering. Whatever happened in the future, she would always remember that he’d said the words with a surety that belied the true situation.

Then it was her turn, and she hesitated too long—long enough to alarm Thomas and everyone else in the room. She abruptly squeezed his hand.

“I, Abiah, take thee, Thomas…”

The last chaplain, Holmes, concluded the ritual with a prayer, and suddenly it was over and done. Abiah immediately looked at Thomas, searching for some indication as to whether or not he was now filled with regret.

But he only smiled and shook everyone’s hand. Then he signed the marriage record and held the book for her to do the same.

“Are you all right, Abby?”

“Tired,” she said, trying to smile. She wanted to say something to Mrs. Wilson, to thank her for her charity and hospitality, but the woman had already opened the door and stepped into the hall. Abiah’s attention was taken then by Sergeant La Broie, who solemnly clasped her hand.

“I’m wishing you health and happiness, ma’am,” he said.

“You’ll watch over Thomas?” she whispered. “Keep him safe?”

“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Harrigan, darling,” he assured her. “I ask the same favor of you. You watch over our Gertie.”

Abiah smiled. The man was completely smitten, she thought again, and she certainly had a profound empathy for anyone in that state. “I will,” she said.

“Pete,” Gertie said. “Don’t let all those people come in here. Miss Abiah needs to rest now.”

He immediately went to stop any uninvited wedding guests from pushing their way inside.

“I forgot, Mrs. Harrigan,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “There’s a wedding present out here for you.”

“A wedding present?”

She looked at Thomas, who was reading the letter La Broie had given him earlier.

“It’s from Johnny Miller,” Thomas said.

La Broie was already bringing the gift in. She recognized it immediately. It was her own cedar hope chest, the one made for her fourteenth birthday by her grandfather Calder. Like most girls that age, she had immediately begun filling it with linens and quilts for that time in the seemingly distant future when she would marry. Seeing it again, when she’d thought everything in the abandoned house had likely been plundered by both armies, brought her close to crying.

“Johnny went to the house and got it,” Thomas said. “Then he bribed a civilian from Fredericksburg to bring it across the river. Put it here, La Broie, where she can see it.”

“How do you know that?” Abiah asked.

“It’s in his letter,” he said, holding up the envelope La Broie had given him. “The letter was for me. The chest, for you.”

“What else does he say?”

“He…wishes us every happiness.”

She smiled. “He was there—the day my grandfather gave the chest to me. And he and Guire teased me so about being an ugly old maid and not needing such a fine piece of furniture. And Mother was…” She stopped and took a quiet breath. She didn’t want to reminisce about the past, even if the past was likely all she would ever have.

The sound of laughter and loud singing burst forth again from the direction of the kitchen.

“I guess more people knew about the wedding than I thought,” she said after a moment.

“I dare say,” he agreed. He was standing so awkwardly, as if he wanted to take his leave, but wasn’t quite sure how to do it.

“I…have a gift for you, too,” he said, and he reached into his pocket—for his watch. He opened it to check the time and then looked at the door.

“If you have to go now, it’s—” she began.

“Sir!” La Broie said abruptly in the doorway, making her jump.

“You must overlook the sergeant, Abby,” Thomas said, taking the bundle La Broie tossed to him. “Believe me, he all too often comes and goes like that.”

He lay the bundle on her lap. “It isn’t much. There aren’t too many things here to buy.”

She took the string off and unrolled enough of the muslin wrapping to reveal a green book. The title was printed diagonally across it in gold leaf: The Scottish Chiefs. It was beautiful.

“The story of William Wallace, by Miss Jane Porter. I always wanted to read this,” she said. “There was only one copy at school. I never got the chance.”

“I thought maybe you’d had enough of men writers and you’d like a woman’s perspective for a change.”

She smiled, running her fingers over the exquisitely tooled designs in the green leather cover—ivy and oak leaves and acorns, an exotic bird with long tail feathers that curved down across the banner with the title. She looked up at him. She loved books—almost as much as she loved him. “Thank you, Thomas.”

“And the other thing…” He lifted a knitted white wool shawl with a delicate lace edge free of the muslin. “It’s…well, it isn’t much, but I hope you like it.”

She leaned forward so that he could drape it around her shoulders. “It’s beautiful. Thank you again. I wish I had something for you.”

“Not necessary,” he said, pulling the chair around and sitting down again. “There’s one more thing here.” He unfolded the muslin the rest of the way, and took out an envelope. “This is the name of my lawyer in Boston. And the one here in Falmouth who will take care of your expenses. I’ve included my mother’s address in Maryland, if you should need to contact her. And there’s a copy of my will.” He was very careful not to look at her. “There’s also a note with my proper address. I would like it very much if you would write to me if—when—you feel up to it.”

“You’re in the wrong army, Thomas. How…?”

“There’s a chance that a letter will get to me as long as Falmouth remains in Union hands.” He finally let his eyes meet hers.

So sad, she thought. Still so sad. She nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice and because she was so tired.

“I’ve brought your toddy, Miss Abiah,” Gertie said from the doorway, making a much less startling entrance than La Broie had. “And some very fine sipping whiskey for you, Captain Harrigan—from Mr. Zachariah Wilson, you might say. A little something to mark the occasion.”

“Does Mr. Zachariah Wilson know how generous he’s being, by any chance?”

Gertie laughed. “Well, sir, if you run into him on your way out, I wouldn’t thank him for it, if I was you.” She set the tray down on the table by the bed and quietly left.

“What is this, Abby?” he asked, handing her the flowered teacup.

“Hot milk, honey—and brandy. Every three hours, just like clockwork. I’ve been promoted from chicken broth.”

“Well,” he said, lifting his glass to her. “It could be worse.”

They both drank. She was more used to her beverage than he was to his.

“I’m going to have to have help getting on my horse,” he said.

“I guess that’s what groomsmen are for.”

“Well, not these groomsmen. If I have to depend on them, I’ll surely have to walk.”

She smiled, feeling the awkwardness between them growing by leaps and bounds.

My husband, she thought. Then, Thomas, what have you done?

He didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. The silence between them lengthened as the revelry in the kitchen grew louder. Laughter. Singing. The smell of bread. She was glad someone found this a merry occasion. She and Thomas might as well be the chief mourners at a wake.

A log fell in the fireplace. The clock ticked quietly on the mantel.

“Thomas—”

“No more talking,” he said, taking her cup away. “Rest. Go to sleep, if you can. I’ll sit here by you until I have to go.”

“Thomas—” she began again.

“No more talking,” he insisted. “This wedding was supposed to be for your good. I don’t want it to make you worse.”

“I’d like to see inside the cedar chest. Could you open it?”

“There’s no key.”

“Force the lock, then.”

He sat for a moment, then did as she asked, first trying to open it with his bare hands and then the edge of the shovel from the fireplace.

“This is going to ruin it, Abiah,” he said after a moment.

“Please, Thomas. Open it.”

The lock finally gave, with a minimal amount of the wood splintering. She raised up on one elbow to look inside. Everything appeared to be there, even the gray uniform jacket and the saber she’d packed away on top. She realized that Thomas was looking at them.

“Guire’s things,” she said, and he nodded. She lay back against the pillows suddenly and closed her eyes, more exhausted than she realized. Thomas closed the chest.

When she opened her eyes, he was once again sitting by the bed.

“Abby,” he said, when he realized she was looking at him. “If you should hear from my grandfather, don’t let him bully you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything for your grandfather to bully me about, Thomas—except perhaps my politics.”

“Oh, the judge would find something, believe me.”

“Then I promise I’ll be every bit as obstinate as you would be.”

He looked at her a moment, then abruptly smiled.

“Go to sleep, Abiah,” he said again, the smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“No,” she said. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep later. Talk to me.”

“Are you warm enough? Shall I put more wood on the fire?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t remind me that I’m an invalid. Talk to me the way you used to when you came home with Guire.”

“Shall I take the book away?” he asked, still intent on being solicitous.

“Thomas!” she said in exasperation. “Tell me about…about your family.” It wasn’t what she meant to ask at all. She had meant to ask about the woman he had really wanted to marry, but at the last moment, she lost her nerve.

He gave a resigned sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“I don’t know ‘everything.’ The Winthrops aren’t like the Calders. There’s no openness, no…”

“What?” she asked, when he didn’t go on.

“I was going to say affection. But I supposed there is some. We’re just very careful to keep it hidden—as if caring for someone was some kind of weakness in our character. The judge does care for my mother—at least I think he does, in his way, or he wouldn’t have let her come back home.”

“But he doesn’t care for you?”

“No. Never for me.”

“Why not?”

“I did the unforgivable.”

“And what was that?” she asked, determined to get whatever information from him she could.

“I was born. I am my father’s son. That alone is sin enough.”

She looked at him, and she made no token protests. It would be presumptuous of her to try to talk him out of his conclusions about the judge. Thomas understood the situation far better than she did. She had only to look into his sad eyes to know that. She wondered if he ever heard from the father who had abandoned him—but she didn’t ask about that, either.

“What is the house like? The one in Maryland,” she asked instead, turning to at least some of the things she’d always wanted to know.

“Big. Ostentatious, actually. Very much in keeping with the judge’s idea of his status in society. It’s always full of luminaries of one kind or another. The judge is very fond of holding salons. Everyone who is anyone strives to be invited, I believe—which is understandable. He is much more agreeable to the strangers who come to his house than he is to his family.” Thomas was looking away from her when he said it, seeing again, she thought, that big—and lonely—house in Maryland.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He looked at her. “Don’t be. My family is what made me appreciate yours so. Miss Emma and Guire. I will miss them all the rest of my life.” He suddenly reached out and took her hand. “Go to sleep,” he said pointedly. “I can see how tired you are.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “Truly…”

But she must have been. When she opened her eyes again, the room was dark except for the glow from the embers in the fireplace. The chair where Thomas had been sitting was empty. The room had grown cold. There was no smell of burning wax. The candle had been out for a long time.

She struggled to sit up in bed, trying hard not to cry. She had wanted to be awake when Thomas left. She had wanted to tell him…

No. Perhaps it was better this way. No awkward goodbyes. No…anything.

She was still wearing the shawl he had given her, and she hugged it closer to her and lay back against the pillows. What if she never saw him again? What if—

She turned her head sharply at a sound on the other side of the door—a heavy thump, as if something or someone had fallen against it. She raised up on her elbow, listening intently, and just when she was about to lie down again, she heard a voice.

“Please!”

A woman’s voice. Gertie’s voice.

There were more scuffling noises—and a man speaking in muffled and angry tones. Abiah could hear him, but she couldn’t understand the words.

“Gertie?” she called, growing more alarmed now.

She jumped at another loud thump against the door. The doorknob rattled.

“Gertie!” Abiah yelled. She shoved back the heavy quilt and slid her legs over the edge of the bed. The room swam around her. She had to sit there until the dizziness subsided.

And all the while the struggle outside the door continued.

Abiah slid to the floor and went directly for the cedar chest, flinging it open and tearing through the starched linens and dresser scarves inside.

“Where is it?” she whispered, throwing piece after piece onto the floor. “Where is it!”

If it was gone, she’d take Guire’s saber—if she could lift it. She’d have to.

Abiah abruptly stopped looking. Gertie was crying. She could hear her plainly.

Dear God, what’s happening!

Abiah was frantic now, running her hands among the remaining sheets. Her fingers finally touched cold metal. She dragged Guire’s Colt revolver out, carrying it with both hands to the fireplace—the only source of light—so she could see. She had hated the thing, hated when Guire insisted that she learn to shoot it because he was away at school and she and their mother were isolated and alone.

She felt so weak suddenly, and she went down on both knees on the hearth, breathing heavily. The revolver slid out of her hands. She stayed where she was, her head bent low until she could pick up the gun again. Then took a deep breath and held it closer to the firelight, where she could see. It was still loaded.

She forced herself to her feet again, holding on to the furniture and then to the wall to get to the door. She didn’t hesitate—she could hear Gertie sobbing still. Abiah opened the door wide and stepped unsteadily into the hall. The too-long sleeve of her nightgown kept sliding down and covering the Colt.

There was no one in the hallway now.

She heard Gertie give a muffled cry somewhere to her left. Something fell and broke. Abiah went in that direction, holding the revolver with one hand and leaning heavily against the wall with the other. She had to keep stopping to rest, but she was determined to go on.

The man had Gertie down on the kitchen floor, and he was so intent on what he was doing that he didn’t hear Abiah. She brought the revolver up and pulled back the hammer. It was that noise that got his attention. He abruptly looked around. Only one lamp had been lit, and she couldn’t see his face distinctly.

“Move away from him, Gertie,” Abiah said, stepping closer to the end of the kitchen table so she could lean against it.

Gertie tried to stop crying, tried to cover herself. She made an attempt to scramble aside, but the man caught her wrist and struck her hard.

“Stop it!” Abiah cried.

He didn’t stop. Gertie was struggling, he hit her again.

“Stop it! I mean it!”

When he raised his hand the third time, Abiah pulled the trigger. The revolver misfired. She gave a soft cry of alarm and fumbled to pull back the hammer. Her sleeves were in the way. Her hands were shaking, but she held on.

The revolver misfired again.

“I never knew whores stuck together,” the man said, still holding Gertie down.

But then he was getting slowly to his feet. Abiah didn’t dare take her eyes off him.

“What are you going to do now, whore?”

“I’ve got…four more chances…to send you to hell,” Abiah said. Her entire body trembled from the physical strain. “If you don’t get out of here, I intend to use them…all.”

“She owes me, damn you!” the man said. “Come to think of it, so do you.” He lunged suddenly in Abiah’s direction, taking her completely by surprise, but not before she pulled the trigger again. There was a loud roar this time, and the man reeled away from her and fell heavily on the floor. Gertie screamed, and Abiah collapsed against the rough kitchen table and slid to her knees. The heavy revolver tumbled out of her hand. She had to cling to the edge of the table to keep from falling on her face.

“Oh, Miss Abiah! What have you done?”

Abiah found Gertie’s question entirely beyond her comprehenion. She still held on to the edge of the table, trying hard to stay upright, trying to stop trembling.

It was raining again. She could hear it.

How strange, she thought, that she should take note of that.

Happy is the bride the sun shines on today.

And she suddenly thought she heard Guire’s voice.

“What?” she whispered.

I mean it, Abby. Don’t you ever aim this gun at anything if you don’t mean to kill it.

“What?” she whispered again. “What did you say?”

“Miss Abiah, stand up! We have to get out of here!”

“No, I can’t, Gertie—”

“You have to! Get up! Now!”

Abiah tried to do what Gertie wanted. She pulled hard on the edge of the table in an effort to get to her feet. The man was no longer lying on the floor where she had seen him fall. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to understand. She didn’t know what was real anymore. And at this point, she had no idea which would be worse—to be out of her head again and to have imagined it all—perhaps even her marriage to Thomas—or to have killed a man.

She looked up at Gertie. One eye was bruised and swollen nearly shut.

Not a dream then.

“Is he…dead?” Abiah asked, her voice trembling.

“Carl says not,” Gertie said.

“Carl?”

“He’s the hired man. He came when the gun went off.”

“I…really shot someone?”

“Close enough.”

“Where—where is he?”

“I don’t know. Come on, Miss Abiah. We have to get out of here.”

“No, we have to let somebody know what happened. Mr. Wilson, or his wife. Somebody needs to know about that man.”

Gertie gave a sharp sigh and stopped pulling on her arm. “Miss Abiah,” she said in exasperation, “Zachariah Wilson is that man.”

“What?” Abiah said, no longer trying to get up.

“You shot our landlord, Miss Abiah. Not that anybody is going to believe that even if you tell them—not with the likes of me standing right here beside you.”

“But—”

“Miss Abiah, there ain’t no use talking about it. We have to get out of this house. We don’t wait until the rain stops. We don’t even wait until the sun comes up. We go. Understand?”