Trinity: Bride of West Virginia (Amercan Mail-Order Bride 35) (7 page)

“It’s all right. I’m sure people are curious.”

“I thought you were married to Mr. Nathanial Witherspoon.”

“What?”

“At the party. I didn’t realize it was the elder who was your husband. I saw you dancing with Nathanial. He’s not lived here for a good while. He left to go to school. Now he’s a solicitor in Boston.”

“He danced with me because his father was unable. They wanted to please me. It’s a shame to dress for a ball, if you can’t participate.”

“True. You made a fine couple.”

“Who?”

“You and Nathanial. I thought you to be a couple.”

A twinge of unease rippled through me. “Yes, well, he was only being kind.”

“I had a crush on him growing up.”

“Pardon?”

“We’re neighbors, you know. I inherited the house after my parents died. I remember many summers with great fondness. Nate was quite the prankster. We used to run around with a small group of friends, stirring up trouble. My mother would let me out to play, but only after I put my worst dress on.” She smiled wistfully. “He was my first kiss.”

Tiny needles of jealousy pricked away at me. “Truly?”

“We’d hide in haystacks, catch lightning bugs, and run around in creeks. It was marvelous. Then he grew up.” She shrugged. “He was two years older. He left for school, and I met and married Jason.”

“That sounds like a lovely way to grow up.” I had never been able to run around with friends, having lived most of my life in an orphanage. We had chores allotted to us, keeping us busy the entire day. Then, when I was older, there had been some schooling, but not enough.

“You know,” she toyed with a beaded necklace, “I’ve been observing Nathanial for quite a while. I’ve seen him chase girls too. I was never of interest to him in that way, despite the kiss we once shared. He fancied Rebecca Croft. She was the Mayor’s daughter. He tried to court her, but her father had a disagreement with Mr. Witherspoon and prevented the union. It was a bit of a scandal a few years’ back.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Rebecca married someone else and moved away.” She shrugged. “They all got on with their lives.”

“He’s happy in Boston, from what I hear.”

“Yes.” Her gaze drifted over me. “We’re waiting for him to marry. I’ve never met Victoria Peterson before, but I hear he’s courting her.”

“That is what he said.”

“But for how long.”

“What?”

“It’s been more than two years. We’ve given up expecting to hear of an engagement. It’s a bit strange, don't you think, to court someone for that long?”

“I don’t know. I’ve little experience with it.”

“I married Jason as soon as we could arrange the wedding. Waiting would have driven me mad. When you’re in love, why wait?”

“True.”

“You must be deeply in love with Mr. Witherspoon.”

I nearly choked on the tea. “Pardon?”

“You married with all due haste.”

“Yes.”

“There you have it.” She grinned. “True love abounds. Isn’t it glorious?”

“Oh, it most certainly is.” I cringed at those words … knowing I had just lied.

Chapter Nine

Packages came to the house, all of them from the Ladies’ Emporium, the dresses Nathanial had chosen for me. In addition, gloves, stockings, and garters arrived with nightgowns and robes as well. I hadn’t recalled picking those out, frowning, as I unwrapped each package.

I stood with Mrs. Dexter in the bedroom, lifting up a pair of bloomers. “Perhaps they sent this to the wrong house. I didn’t choose these.”

“I’ve a list of items here.” She held up the paper. “The bloomers are on the list. Everything seems to be accounted for.”

“He bought these without my knowledge. Don’t you think that’s strange?” I had voiced my thoughts. “He even chose corsets and camisoles for me.” I fingered the material, the fabric soft.

“Well, I suppose he felt you needed them.”

“I suppose.”

“This is for you too.” She handed me a small velvet pouch.

“What is it?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

I opened the bag, pulling out a silver chain, a locket dangling from the end. “Now, I know this isn’t mine. I didn’t buy this.”

“Well, it’s on the list.”

A floral design had been engraved into the front, with a patchwork quilt engraving on the back. “It’s very pretty.” I opened the locket, which revealed a small, folded piece of paper. “I wonder what this is?” Unfolding the paper, I glimpsed a tiny drawing of a heart with an arrow through it. “Strange.”

Mrs. Dexter hadn’t seen the drawing, but she stared at me. “It’s quite pretty.”

I closed the locket with the paper inside. “Can you put it on?”

“Of course.” She came behind me, attaching it easily.

“Thank you.” My mind drifted to the night of the party, and how it felt to be in Nathanial’s arms. I thought of the embrace we shared that first night as well. He had comforted me when I had been at my weakest.

“Shall I put these away?”

“If you like.”

“Yes, Mrs. Witherspoon.”

I wandered out to the balcony, staring at the lawn, its greenness a thing of beauty. The chill in the air did not bother me, my mind wandering to another time and place.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

When she returned, she brought a tray, with an envelope resting near the teapot. “Here you are.”

“I’ve correspondence?”

“You do.”

I took the letter, glancing at the sender. “My stars.” Nathanial had written me! I felt a moment of pure, unexpected joy. I opened the lettersheet eyeing an elegant scrawl. I sank into a plush chair reading.

Dearest Trinity,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I wanted to apologize again for our first meeting. In retrospect, I behaved boorishly. I am sorry for putting you ill at ease. That was not my intention. You are now my father’s wife. I should therefore offer you the respect you so rightly deserve.

I wish I had stayed longer at the house. I left too soon. I find my mind will not rest for all the questions rambling around in it. I want to know about your past, where you’ve been, what you’ve seen, but I am not there to ask. Perhaps, you will do me the honor of enlightening me with a letter of your own. If my questions are not topics you wish to discuss, I will understand.

I purchased a few extra things for you. While you were with the seamstress, I asked Mrs. Barney to include several of these items. I hope you are not offended. Forgive me for taking such liberties. The locket, I thought it pretty. You may ignore the paper inside. That was … a moment of weakness.

I shall close now. It’s late here. I only wanted to apologize again for my behavior. Do forgive me.

Yours,

Nathanial Witherspoon

I read the letter again and again, my eyes admiring the handwriting, the elegant, manly scrawl. He wanted me to write him. I would, but I did not have the time at the moment, needing to ready myself for morning callers. Mrs. Dexter sent Penny to me, the maid braiding my hair and arranging it artfully on top of my head. I held the letter, reading it as she worked, Nathanial’s words sinking into my consciousness.

Since marrying Mr. Witherspoon and coming to live in West Virginia, I had grown used to the luxuries of the mansion, the transition being far too easy. If I were to return to the boarding house, such a change would be traumatic now. I felt like a queen, my needs anticipated by the servants at every moment of the day.

Yet, although my life had transformed overnight into something most would consider a dream, I felt strangely empty inside—exactly the same as I had felt before. The desire to be connected to another, a deeper spiritual and romantic union, well, this eluded me completely. In the middle of the night, after I had left my husband’s bed, I found myself alone, sleeping in cool sheets, the evenings growing colder and colder. My head lay upon the pillow, my heart yearning for something—someone else.

***

Nathanial and I communicated regularly by post, a steady stream of letters arriving and departing, like ships crossing in some dark channel during the night. Anticipating his correspondence oftentimes drove me to emotional extremes. If Mrs. Dexter brought a tray in with no mail, I would be decidedly vexed about it, behaving unpleasantly. If she produced a letter, I quelled the desire to jump for joy, privately tearing open the correspondence to read what had been written.

I wrote him one afternoon, after having succumbed to a crying spell, my heart feeling as if it bled.

Dearest Nathaniel,

You have outdone yourself, sir. A package arrived earlier today containing the most magnificent gown I have ever seen. You must stop this. Every stitch of clothing I own has been in your hands. I hardly know what to think anymore, or, perhaps, you have missed your calling. Should you have been a dressmaker? I tease you, sir. But you needn’t send anything new. I won’t be able to fit into them anyhow soon.

Mr. Witherspoon asks when you will return. I ask too. I adore the locket. I won’t ignore the paper inside. I do believe I know what it means.

Yours truly,

Trinity

Several days later, I received a response.

Dearest Trinity,

I adore dressing you. I imagine exactly what each outfit might look like, how it might cling to your curves like a second skin. I do wonder at that comment you made. Why will you not fit into your clothing soon? The only reason I can think of is pregnancy. Are you with child? I am at work at this instant, needing to concentrate on a legal brief, but you occupy my mind, as usual. Even from a distance, you are a distraction.

On other matters, I have not spoken a great deal about Miss Victoria Peterson. I am expected to offer for her. It has been far too long now, and her family is, well, her father, is applying pressure. I had supper with them the other night. He pulled me aside to lecture me on keeping his daughter waiting so long. I dare say; I might have to offer for her. I have been dragging my feet. I wanted to tell you this now. I don’t want you to hear about it from the paper or from one of my father’s friends. I wish to spare you that shock.

Please clarify the statement I asked about earlier. Are you with child?

Yours truly,

Nathanial

I sat in the parlor with the letter, my fingers trembling. I had written a few words, and he had all but guessed at my condition. Doctor Watson had confirmed it a few days ago, saying I was in the early stages of pregnancy. Now Nathanial will ask Miss Peterson to be his wife. The pleasure I normally derived from his letters vanished, my eyes filling with tears. Feeling weary and aggrieved, I ventured to my room, where I lay on the bed sobbing, my emotions once again in turmoil.

Mrs. Dexter came upon me a moment later. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Trinity.”

“What?” I glanced at her. She had to know or guess at my distress or, perhaps, she was truly in the dark.

“Supper is nearly served. Mr. Witherspoon is asking about you.”

“I’ll come down.” I pushed myself to a seated position, staring glumly at the pretty bedroom.

“Are you all right?” She glanced at the letter. “Did you receive bad news?”

“I don’t know. It was … nothing.”

“Being in your condition, some women feel melancholy. I can make you chamomile tea, if you like.”

“Thank you.” I had to gather my emotions into some sort of order quickly. I should be happy for Nathanial. I had no right to claim him in the least, having married the father. If only … if only
he
had been the one to put out the ad. “I just need to wash my face. Tell Mr. Witherspoon I shall be down in a moment.”

She smiled sympathetically, eyeing the open letter upon the bed. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

I joined my husband a few minutes later, rallying up good cheer, although I still felt terribly low. He sat at the head of the table, a grey-haired man in a suit. He stood as I approached, pulling out a chair.

“You look handsome this evening, my dear.”

“Thank you.” I eyed the plates, the china having come from France. “I believe the cook made ham tonight, with potatoes and … and some sort of vegetable.”

“That sounds delightful.”

He had every right to look happy, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. The confirmation of my pregnancy had led to an impromptu celebration, my husband opening an expensive bottle of champagne.

Now, he eyed me, admiration shining in his eyes. “You’ll want to decorate a nursery, I presume.”

“That would be lovely.” The candles on the table flickered, casting light upon polished silver forks and knives. “What room will I use?”

“The nearest bedchamber.” He sipped wine, as a servant brought out domed dishes, the food kept warm inside. “Are you all right? You look a little peaked.”

“I did feel a touch queasy earlier, but I'm fine.”

It was imperative I gain the upper hand over these unruly emotions. My dreams had come true—far better than I could have ever hoped for, yet I mourned as if someone close to me had died. I had to make peace with this situation—but how?

Chapter Ten

I refrained from writing Nathanial for more than a week. I so desperately wanted to communicate with him, but I stuffed the lettersheets in a drawer and locked them away, even giving the key to Mrs. Dexter. Now that I was with child, my energies needed to center on the new nursery and pleasing my husband, which wasn’t difficult to do. I had spoken to him about the sleeping arrangements, preferring my own bed to his, because my clothes and things were in my room. He agreed that I would visit him at night, at least until the pregnancy prevented such activities.

Waking in my own bed was a joy, but a persistent unhappiness lingered, like the feeling that I had lost or forgotten something somewhere. I knew exactly what it was, but I tried so badly not to think about it.