Читать книгу An Inconvenient Marriage - Christina Miller - Страница 14

Chapter Three

“I won’t have it!” Cousin Absalom slammed his fist onto Grandmother’s fine mahogany table, eyes blazing like the flames in the fireplace opposite him. “Clarissa will twist this whole situation to her advantage, and I wouldn’t put it past you to help her, Duncan. Now that she’s married the Fighting Chaplain, he will too. I’m calling in another attorney to examine this will, and I’ll pay him whatever it takes to defend what should be mine.”

Any shred of hope Clarissa might have held for a quick, easy end to this calamity now faded in the span of a heartbeat. Her cousin truly would fight to the death for their grandfather’s property, even if that death was Grandmother’s rather than his own. Which, despite her attempt to appear calm and unaffected, could happen if her current angst caused her health to deteriorate as it had after Grandfather’s passing.

In a sudden flash of clarity, Clarissa recalled a moment earlier that day, when Grandmother had offered her wedding dress to Clarissa. She’d pressed her wrinkled hand to her chest as if her heart palpitations had returned. Thinking back further, Clarissa remembered seeing the same gesture even before that, when her grandmother realized she’d mistakenly caused the parson’s dilemma.

Had her heart malady come back?

As this possibility sunk in, Clarissa clenched her teeth before her fear could steal her determination. Losing Camellia Pointe would be heartbreaking. But losing her grandmother would be almost as bad as...

She drew a halting breath as a tragic, long-ago night invaded her thoughts. A night before they’d left Camellia Pointe, before they lost Grandfather, before the War. A night that had formed her future. For a moment, she lived it again: the labored breaths, the little involuntary cries of pain, the goodbye kisses on soft, feverish skin—

Her vision blurry with tears of remembrance, Clarissa set her gaze on the family portrait over the mantel, painted during the last days they were happy. For the first time in two years, she focused on the dark hair, much like her own but longer, thicker, and the soft lips that would never kiss her again. It was true—losing Grandmother would be almost as hard as losing Mother.

No matter the cost, Clarissa couldn’t allow it. Not if she could somehow prevent it. She hadn’t been able to avert the tragedy of her mother’s death or the heartache that followed. But perhaps she could somehow find a way to shelter her grandmother, keep her healthy.

The only way to do that was to hold on to Camellia Pointe.

An idea suddenly coming to her, she whisked away her tears and turned to her cousin. “Absalom, you never were sentimental about this home, and certainly not about Good Shepherd. Let’s divide the Camellia Pointe land. I’ll keep the house and five acres, and you can have the other twenty-five. Build on it, sell it—do what you want with it—and we’ll somehow divide Good Shepherd too.”

“You think I’m going to settle for a mere twenty-five acres of useless ground and half of a worthless tenement, leaving you with everything else? I’ll knock every inch of stucco off this house and tear it down brick by brick—and go to jail for it—before I’ll accept an agreement with you.” Absalom shoved back his chair and shot to his feet, thickening the air with his tone and the weight of his words.

“It’s all I can offer. This is a country villa, not a plantation. You know our acreage lies in the Delta.”

“By all rights, I should get half of that too.”

“By all rights,” Joseph said in that threatening tone he reserved for unruly clients, “I should record your statements and conduct so they can be taken into consideration at the end of the year. And if you continue, I’ll do it.”

The Reverend Montgomery stood and positioned himself behind Clarissa, one hand on the back of her chair. “I’ll be watching every move you make—you and your family. Keep that in mind if you take a notion to start swinging a sledgehammer.”

“You’d better hope I don’t swing one at you,” Absalom muttered under his breath.

“Simmer down and listen. He hasn’t finished reading the letter.” Joseph looked at Absalom with unveiled contempt, the kind only the very aged could get away with in polite Natchez society.

Samuel continued. “‘My grandson will make any needed repairs to the main house. My granddaughter will repair and restore the gardens, landscaping, bridge, sanctuary, gazebo and pergola. All work must be completed one month from today. The pastor of Christ Church of Natchez will determine whether each party has successfully completed the task.’”

“This isn’t fair.” As Absalom bellowed his outrage, the heat of his breath hit Clarissa in the face. “She has an advantage, marrying the parson. He’s supposed to be an unbiased party in this contest.”

Joseph gathered his documents into his ancient portmanteau and stood, cloaked with the dignity of a man who’d spent sixty years advising the best and the worst of Natchez aristocracy. “Adams, you have a nerve. Waste your money on another attorney if you like, but it’s not in your best interest to insult your cousin or the reverend. You know the Fighting Chaplain’s reputation, and Clarissa has made herself invaluable in Natchez during the recent hard times. She’s a favorite among the citizens. Better keep your bitter opinions to yourself if you hope for a fair judgment in this town.”

“What’s she done that’s so great?”

“Besides helping to stabilize the church after it lost its founding pastor, overseeing her grandfather’s waterfront mission for the poor, keeping the city orphanage running and caring for her grandmother?”

Absalom kicked his chair, sending the Duncan Phyfe antique sailing against the wall, and stormed toward the door. “None of that will make a bit of difference. I intend to have this property, Clarissa. You might as well get used to that—in fact, don’t even bother moving back in.”

As his thundering footsteps pounded down the center hall toward the front entrance, Clarissa fought the urge to head out the back. This was her wedding day, and she’d scarcely looked into her husband’s eyes since the ceremony ended. It was also the first day of her year-long contest with her cousin, and she wished she hadn’t seen the vitriol in Absalom’s face, heard it in his words. At the moment, it seemed the year would never end.

Upon remembrance of Grandmother’s hand pressed against her chest, she realized the year might end too soon, cutting short Clarissa’s time with her.

“Don’t worry about Absalom. He talks big but it’s mostly blustering.” Joseph turned to the reverend, an expression of sympathy flitting across his eyes.

Well, Clarissa felt sorry for Reverend Montgomery too, considering the mess she’d brought him into.

“He won’t hire an attorney, but I’ll let you know if he does. Stay as far from him as you can, which won’t be easy while living in the same house.” Joseph made for the hall then stopped in the doorway and smoothed his magnificent white moustache. “And his wife, and his stepson. I don’t trust them any more than I trust Absalom.”

Yes, Absalom’s family was no more honest than her cousin himself. Suddenly the coming year felt more like ten.

“I’ll let myself out,” Joseph said. “And best wishes on your marriage. May it be long and happy.”

Joseph’s footfalls sounded in the center hall, then the front door opened and closed, leaving Clarissa alone with her husband. Sitting across from her, he looked anything but happy. His Adam’s apple bobbed a bit as if he were swallowing back some dark emotion—anger, fear? Regret?

He turned his deep brown eyes on her then, and something there made her wish she hadn’t done it, hadn’t married him out of convenience. For that instant, his eyes reflected the vulnerability she’d seen in the church parlor just before he’d proposed marriage. Did he long for a woman’s love? If so, she had stolen that dream from him, taken away his hope of romance. She was now his only chance for that and, of course, she couldn’t bring that dream to pass. Even though he was a minister, he was still a man—and men couldn’t be trusted.

The parson tugged at his lapels as if his coat had suddenly shrunk and was cutting off his breath. Then he took a long look around the room, first at the Duncan Phyfe sideboard, scarred now with what looked like sword slashes from the house’s days of Yankee occupation. Next he gazed at the faded, dusty, gold draperies and smudged paneled walls, and his expression changed, took on a more disapproving air. “This home...”

His appraisal startled her more than her grandfather’s strange will. What Southern estate had escaped marring from the Yankees’ hands? Certainly none in Natchez. “I know it needs a good cleaning, some repairs...”

His brown eyes radiated concern as he pulled his gaze back to her. “I meant no criticism of its condition but rather its opulence. I have always lived humbly. You see, my grandfather taught me that the manse should be the pastor’s home. But to fulfill the will’s conditions, it appears we must live here.”

We must...but Clarissa would have said we may. Before this morning, she’d all but given up hope of living in her beloved Camellia Pointe again. But now she would, because of Reverend Montgomery. She owed him her gratitude, and she’d make sure he got it. “If only Absalom didn’t have to live here too.”

“Indeed.”

“I need to find my grandmother and tell her of the new development in the will.”

“And I need to inform Emma. She’ll be overjoyed to learn this will be her home for a year. She loved Camellia Pointe from the moment she saw it.”

Just a year? “Of course, she will be welcome to stay here until she marries.”

His expression changed quicker than an eighth note. “Not without us here.”

“But we’ll be here. I intend to win the contest and inherit this estate.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you do, and we’ll keep it as long as we can afford its upkeep and taxes.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But after the year is up, we must move into the manse.”

What was wrong with him? Didn’t he understand how much Clarissa needed to live here, in this house? Then she realized he couldn’t know, because she hadn’t told him. “I couldn’t bear to live in it for a year and then move away. And what of my grandmother?”

“She’s welcome to live in the manse with us.”

Clarissa suppressed a sigh as she realized her new husband also didn’t know about their current living arrangements or why they’d moved from Camellia Pointe. She could hardly expect him to make the right decisions until he did. “We need to have a long talk—”

The front door squeaked open, and then light footsteps and the tapping of a cane sounded. Within moments, Grandmother Euphemia appeared, clutching the handle of her cane as if it would otherwise run away. Samuel stood and seated her next to Clarissa. “Was it good news or bad?”

“The worst.” Clarissa braced herself for Grandmother’s oft-repeated lecture on how charity believeth all things.

To her surprise, it didn’t come. “Whatever it is, tell me, so we can decide what to do next.”

“We have to live here for a year. With Cousin Absalom.”

Grandmother’s hand fluttered to her chest. She hesitated. “Is there no way around it?”

“Joseph thinks not.” Clarissa leaned closer to her grandmother. “Is your heart bothering you again?”

She dropped her hand to the table and scowled for a second. “Not so much that I can’t hold my own with that renegade grandson of mine. He gave your grandfather and me so much heartache that, when he was reported dead, I felt a measure of relief with my grief. And now here he is, resurrected, so to speak, and no doubt ready to cause more trouble than ever.”

Reverend Montgomery opened his mouth but got no chance to speak. Instead, Grandmother shifted her gaze to him, a defiant glare in her hazel eyes. “And don’t you lecture me. You’d feel the same if you’d lived through his backstabbing and treachery as I have. I hardly know whether to call him Absalom, Lazarus or Judas.”

“In light of that parade of biblical troublemakers—well, other than Lazarus—I won’t give you a sermon on love this time. But next time, I will.”

Clarissa sucked in a breath of horror. If there was one thing Grandmother hated more than tardiness—or early arrivals—it was receiving a personal sermon. Or correction of any kind. Even Grandfather Hezekiah hadn’t gotten away with that.

The smirk on Grandmother’s face took Clarissa back. Her grandmother was enjoying being threatened with a sermon? Clarissa glanced over at the reverend, who sat with brows lifted and a hint of a grin on his face—a friendly warning.

And Grandmother let him do it.

Before she could fully grasp this new side of her grandmother, the older woman straightened, eyes snapping. “You’re more like your late grandfather than I like to admit. However, we haven’t time to discuss it. Everyone needs to get settled in.”

“You’re right,” Clarissa said, although her grandmother’s tone told her she simply didn’t want to keep talking about any of this. “I assume you want to keep your old rooms, but where would you like to put Absalom and his wife? And what about his stepson?”

Grandmother was on her feet and halfway to the door before Clarissa could stop her. “Where are you going? I need you to tell me where to put these people.”

“Figure it out yourself. Put them anywhere you like.”

Clarissa scrambled to keep pace with her grandmother, who was now in the hall. The reverend caught up with them at the front entrance.

“I’m not staying. I barely survived the last time he lived here.”

Clarissa clasped her grandmother’s arm. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“It’s not.” Grandmother snatched her arm away and opened the door. “You were young, and we didn’t tell you everything.”

“Then tell me now.”

“I don’t have time. I have to make arrangements to leave town.”

What was she thinking? “Where will you go?”

“Back home.”

“The Delta?”

“No, I’m going to my home. To live with Cousin Mary Grace.” With the tip of her cane, she pushed open the already-ajar door and stepped onto the front gallery. “As soon as I can get the money together, I’m buying a steamer ticket and moving back to Memphis.”

* * *

“Grandmother, you can’t—”

Missus Adams slammed the door hard enough to make the case clock chime.

Samuel glanced over at his new wife as the surprise on her face quickly gave way to fear. Then she yanked open the door and ran onto the gallery. “Grandmother, come back inside.”

“I’m not leaving yet. I want to think. Alone.”

“Fine.” Clarissa strode inside and toward the back door. There she gestured for Samuel to join her at the six-over-six detached sidelights. “If she truly wants to think, she’ll sit under the pergola. But when she wants to pray, she goes to the sanctuary.”

Samuel peered out at the vine-covered, open pergola in the garden, perhaps a hundred yards from the house. “Then I’m glad I don’t see her in the pergola, because she needs to pray about leaving us. But if she wanted to pray, why didn’t she say so? And where’s the sanctuary?”

“She thinks private prayer should be just that—a private matter, not to be spoken of. And you can’t see the sanctuary from here.” She grasped the double door’s knob, turned and pulled, but this door was stuck too.

“Let me try.” When she’d stepped back, Samuel took the knob and applied his strength to the door. When it finally flung open, he stood back so she could exit first. “I’ll make sure Absalom has these doors fixed first thing, Miss—Missus...” He shook his head. Veronica had insisted he call her Missus Montgomery, and it would be wise to keep an emotional distance in his new marriage as well. However, she should be the one to decide. “What do you want me to call you?”

Her tinkling laugh—guileless, melodic—took him aback. He should have expected her to have a beautiful laugh, since she had such a sweet-sounding speaking voice. Nevertheless, he was unprepared for it. Of a sudden, he couldn’t wait until the next choir rehearsal so he could hear her sing. He couldn’t keep a smile from his face. “What’s so funny?”

“You are, with your formality, although it will help you fit into our church and our town. You haven’t been here long enough to know, but Natchez is the strictest and most conventional city on the River. Or in the entire South, for that matter, including Charleston.”

No, but he’d been here long enough to believe it.

“Grandfather used to tell me stories of Grandmother Euphemia calling him ‘Reverend,’ even when they were alone, until long after they sent my uncle to boarding school.”

“And what did he call her?”

“Ducky dearest.”

He could just imagine the dowager’s response. He grinned at Clarissa, hoping to draw her sweet laugh again. “Hmm...it has possibilities.”

As her laugh tinkled, the warmth in Samuel’s heart shot him a grim warning, reminding him that romantic love was not for him. Sure, the dark-haired beauty before him was his wife, but only because she needed to hold on to this home and he needed to keep his pastorate. So from now on, instead of enjoying the sound of her laugh, he would need to steel his heart against it. He couldn’t treat her as if they had a real marriage, a real relationship. She didn’t want it any more than he did.

“I think we’ll leave Grandfather’s terms of endearment in the past.” Oblivious to the darkness of his thoughts, of his heart, she stepped outside to the weedy brick courtyard and the sprawling, equally weedy terraced gardens beyond. “Custom dictates that I call you ‘Reverend’ in public, and you refer to me as ‘Missus Montgomery.’ But at home, please call me Clarissa. As may Emma.”

“And please call me Samuel.”

She smiled, settling this issue, if nothing else. Although the arrangement seemed too casual, too intimate, for a wife who would never truly be his wife.

“How long have you been a widower?” she asked with a hint of compassion in her voice, unlike the deacons.

“Almost four years.” As painful as it was to discuss Veronica and his marital failure, he needed to get the conversation behind him. Clarissa had a right to know. In fact, she had a right to know the whole story of Samuel’s failure, although he didn’t have the courage to reveal it. “My first marriage was an arranged union. My father wanted me to move up in our denomination, and Veronica’s father was assistant to our national superintendent.”

She stopped and turned to him, her hazel eyes bright green in the sunlight. Or had her natural empathy colored them so vividly? “Did you have a happy marriage? It’s rare for marriages of convenience to lead to true love.”

“We did not.” Something in Clarissa’s demeanor—perhaps the sad little droop of her lips—made him long to tell her all about his disastrous first marriage. But even more, he dreaded seeing pity in those most expressive eyes. However, Clarissa was his wife now, and she deserved to know as much of the truth as he could bear to tell. “Emma was born a year after we were married, and her birth was our only happy moment. Unfortunately for me, Veronica was in love with another man and had been for some time before our wedding.”

Clarissa’s dainty hand fluttered to her chest and then he saw it—the pity he hated. If he didn’t tell her the rest of his story now, he never would, and that wasn’t fair to her. “Her beau, Reuben Conwell, was a businessman and heir to the Southern Bank of Louisiana and Mississippi. Conwell had a reputation as a swindler with an uncanny ability to spot and exploit his competitors’ weaknesses. The man was ruthless, heartless. Veronica’s father felt he was not good enough for her.”

“So her father promised you advantages within the denomination if you would prevent her from marrying Conwell.”

“He promised my father, not me, but yes. But in time, I loved Veronica intensely.” At least, he’d thought so at the time. He gazed out over the expanse of lawn and gardens. His late wife had never taken walks with him, had rarely had this much conversation with him. She’d seemed barely able to tolerate his presence. What a change to have a wife who wanted to be with him. “I thought I could make her love me. I did everything I could think of to make her happy, to make her like me, let alone love me.”

He should probably tell her the rest, lay bare his heart and confess the event that had sealed their marriage’s failure. Though he couldn’t uncover the wound to share it, he relived it now—the moment he’d realized his love for Veronica. Six years ago, as they were about enter the elegant Burnett Hotel ballroom, where the district’s dignitaries and guests had gathered to witness his appointment as presbyter. His tender confession of love, the kiss he’d tried to give to seal his newfound affection...

Her shocked response, her acerbic laugh. Reverend Montgomery, do you mean you love me?

His stammered response, her back as she’d fled the room.

Her shrill laugh as he’d discovered her alone with Conwell minutes later, betraying Samuel with her mocking voice, regaling his rival with her story of Samuel’s confession of love. The realization of his failure as a family man.

The withering of his heart as his love for Veronica died.

“Were you able to win her love?” Clarissa’s sweet voice mercifully brought him back to the present.

He shook his head. If only he could forget those words he’d heard all those years ago. But that would never happen, and besides, it was time to change the tone of this conversation. It was his and Clarissa’s wedding day, after all. She should have some measure of happiness today. “But I have Emma. Other than the Lord, she’s the delight of my life.”

“I’ll help you with her.” Clarissa laid her hand on his arm, her voice a whisper. “I’ll do everything I can.”

How could he respond to that? He’d placed all his hopes on Clarissa to help him rebuild his family—on her and on the Lord. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what would.

They moved through the gardens, the cool evening air settling upon them as the sun lowered in the clear sky. Clarissa waved toward the west, shifting the tone as if she wanted to sweep away his disappointment in himself. “There’s my grandmother—just where I thought she’d be.”

Samuel looked beyond the expanse of flower beds with pink and white buds popping out here and there, past the pond with its arched white bridge and nearby gazebo. The entire estate held an air of grandeur faded to a dismal shabbiness, from the chipped paint on the bridge to the unkempt herb garden. Then he spotted a crumbling brick walk leading to a small stone chapel in the Greek temple style, its front open and supported by four white columns. Clarissa’s grandmother sat on a stone bench next to a statue of a bowing angel, facing the diminutive altar.

“My grandfather built the sanctuary,” Clarissa said, lowering her voice, “as a memorial to God’s faithfulness in healing him and Grandmother of the illness that took my mother.”

For all its compactness, the little chapel was as dignified and classic as its occupant.

They turned and started toward the pergola to give Missus Adams her privacy while keeping an eye out for Emma, who was likely curled up somewhere, reading her book. And Absalom. As much as the man annoyed Samuel, he’d rather have him where he could watch him.

“I think Grandmother is serious about going to Memphis, if she can scrape together the money for a steamer ticket.”

The concern, the pain in those big hazel eyes, could have melted Samuel’s heart once. Before Veronica, before his mistakes, before he’d known the power of guilt—and that he didn’t deserve a second chance at love. Didn’t deserve more than a marriage of convenience, a loveless union, a wedding sham.

But even though this marriage was based on necessity rather than love, he now had the responsibility of Clarissa’s family. He mentally reviewed his financial state, including the modest inheritance from his parents. “I’ll be glad to cover the cost of her ticket.”

Clarissa’s eyes turned cloudy, like a thunderstorm on the river. She hesitated, glancing toward the sanctuary and the feisty woman sitting there, holding her cane like a spear at her side.

She faced Samuel again, fear in her countenance. “Must we help her leave me? She’s all I have.”

He might have thought he understood, since Emma was his only living relative. But Clarissa’s pained silence told him her story may have been more complex than his. Perhaps he understood less than he thought. “What happened to the rest of your family?”

Clarissa gazed into the sky, the waning sun setting fire to the gold flecks in her eyes. “When I was twelve, yellow fever hit the town just after we arrived in the spring. My father came down with it first, then Mother.”

Her voice dropped, and he leaned toward her to catch every nuance. “Then she went away to heaven.”

Her sigh came from someplace deep within, a slight duskiness now shadowing the tender, fair skin under her eyes. Samuel shifted a fraction closer to hear her low voice. “And then what?”