Cheryl Reavis (4 page)

“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.”