The Reluctant Bridegroom

The clock ticked on, yet Rebekah found no solution. Hopelessness pressing upon her, she sank to her bed. She was still there when her mother came to see her later that afternoon. Susan Van der Geld floated into the room in a cloud of gray silk and claimed the chair across from Rebekah.

“I understand that Councilman Nash came by the house today,” her mother said.

Rebekah pulled herself into a proper sitting position, smoothed out her skirt and wiped her eyes. “He did.”

“And you did not see him?”

“He did not ask to see me.”

“Of course not,” her mother said. “A proper gentleman would seek to speak only with your father, but you should have been gracious enough to greet him. Your father is very disappointed that you did not.”

Disappointed. How often Rebekah heard that word? He was always disappointed with her in some way, and he always let it be known. What punishment would she receive this time?

“I am sorry, Mother. Truly I am. I am just so—” Dare she say it? What good would it do to admit she was afraid?

Her mother gave her a knowing look. “You do not wish to marry him, do you?”

Hope sparked inside Rebekah. She understands! Perhaps there is a way out of this after all! Perhaps she will speak up on my behalf! “No,” Rebekah said. “I don’t. I don’t love him!”

“Of course you don’t,” her mother said expressionlessly. “You must learn to do so.”

The spark died. I must learn? “Mother, how can I—”

Susan stopped her with an upturned hand. “This is the way it is done, Rebekah. This is the way it was for me, for your grandmother and for her mother before her.”

And you are miserable, Rebekah desperately wanted to say. Just once, won’t you intervene?

Her mother stood and brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. “Things will go much easier if you simply accept this,” she said. “Your father has firmly decided the matter. He will not change his mind. Now wash your face and come downstairs. You know how he dislikes tears.”

Yes, I know. They only make him angrier. Resignation washed over Rebekah in suffocating waves. So this is to be my lot in life: a politician’s wife. I must mind my tongue, create an appropriate home and play the gracious hostess at all gatherings, just like you. And as for the children, his nieces and however many more may come in the future... I must manage them accordingly, for the voters will be watching.

Anger roiled inside her, and so did hurt—two emotions she realized she must master. Rebekah had seen what those same feelings had done to her mother. For twenty-four years, Susan Van der Geld had pined for the affection of a hard-hearted man. Continual disappointment had withered her, and as a result, she’d grown cold and aloof to her own children.

Rebekah steeled her resolve. I will not do so. I will not let him change me. I may be forced to give Henry Nash my life and my youth, but I will never give him my heart.

* * *

Henry did his best to forget all about Rebekah Van der Geld as he rolled toward the Baltimore Harbor. Long before her father and his had stirred up such trouble, Henry had intended to spend the day visiting his constituents.

He hoped sticking to his original plan would take his mind off the unfinished business with the Van der Gelds. He made his rounds along the wharf. Then, upon reaching Eutaw Street, he stopped at the Branson Boarding House. Two Federal soldiers stood idly by the front steps. Henry acknowledged them, then knocked on the door. The proprietor’s daughter, Maggie, a young woman of about twenty or so, answered. Henry had spoken with her once before.

“Good afternoon, Miss Maggie. Is your father home?”

“I’m afraid he is not,” she said, “but may I help you?”

Henry explained why he had come. When Miss Branson learned he was willing to listen to her complaints, she invited him inside. A boarder had taken up residence in the formal parlor, so she offered Henry the dining room. Once they were seated, she wasted no time.

“Can you do anything about those soldiers?” she asked.

“Which soldiers, miss?”

“The ones outside. There are always two or three roaming about. Martial law hasn’t been good for business, you know.”

Miss Branson’s family, as well as many others, had been forced to contend with the presence of scrutinizing Federal troops since the beginning of the war. Most of the soldiers Henry had encountered were honorable peacekeepers. There were always a few bad apples in every barrel, though, and knowing that, he was concerned for Miss Branson.

“Have the soldiers been harassing you?” he asked.

“Indeed so!”

He listened as she recounted a host of irritants, none of which, however, crossed the bounds of illegality or impropriety. Thankfully, it seemed the men were simply an unwanted nuisance, a sentiment shared by many in the city.

“Their presence drives away potential boarders,” she said. “They make it appear as though something treasonous is going on in this house. The war is over. They should move on now.”

“I should think a great many changes will be occurring in the future,” Henry said, “although I wouldn’t expect the troops to vacate anytime soon. I will speak to my fellow council members about your concerns, however.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I would appreciate that. I will let my father know you called.”

“Please do, and tell him that if he has any other concerns, he should contact me.” He handed her his card.

Miss Branson smiled. “Thank you, Councilman Nash. My father will be pleased to know you stopped by. He voted for you for city council. He hopes you will run for state legislature.”

Henry appreciated the compliment. Wishing Miss Branson a good day, he stepped outside. The soldiers she had complained about were nowhere to be found. Satisfied, Henry continued on.

He visited several other citizens that day. Some were cheering General Grant’s victory. Others were anxiously awaiting the return of sons who had joined the Confederate army and were currently being held as prisoners of war. All, however, seemed eager to put the war behind them.

As he returned to his carriage, he caught sight of a familiar face. Henry was fond of the theater, and one of his favorite actors, John Wilkes Booth, was just about to cross his path. He’d had the privilege of meeting the man early on in the war at a social gathering.

“Mr. Booth,” Henry called out, “How good to see you again.”

It took the actor a second, but when he recognized Henry, he smiled. “And you, sir. Are you managing to keep the local leadership in line?”

Henry only laughed. “Are you in Baltimore for a performance?” He wasn’t aware of any such productions, but perhaps as busy as he’d been with his nieces, he had simply failed to notice the advertisements.

“No,” Booth said. “I only came for a visit.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Henry said, remembering. “You are from Maryland, aren’t you? Harford County, is it?”

Booth nodded as if pleased he knew such a detail. He reached up and shook Henry’s hand. Two women made eyes at the debonair, mustached man as they passed. Booth noticed them, smiled somewhat flirtatiously, then returned his attention to Henry. “As of now, I am on my way back to Washington.”

“Oh? Then may I offer you a ride to the train station?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He climbed inside the carriage, and Henry urged his horse forward. They chatted about the theater. Booth had taken time off due to illness but was planning to return to the spotlight very soon.

“I am very pleased to hear that,” Henry said. “I have enjoyed your performances, especially Julius Caesar.”

“Ah, yes,” Booth laughed theatrically. “Beware the Ides...”

The traffic grew heavier as they neared the Camden Street station. Family members waiting for loved ones clogged the road, and those who would soon be passengers were hurrying for the ticket windows. Henry pulled up as close as he could to the station so Booth could disembark.

The actor smiled. “Thank you, Councilman Nash.”

“It was my pleasure, sir.” As Booth started for the train, he couldn’t resist calling after him. “Your next performance, sir...what role will you play?”

Booth looked back and offered a proud smile. “You’ll soon find out,” he said. “Rest assured, my name will make all the papers.”

Henry couldn’t help but laugh at the man’s answer. He would look forward to reading the reviews.

But for now, I have more pressing matters...

He needed to get home. Hannah would have supper on the table soon, and he didn’t want Kathleen eating alone. Henry hoped his niece would sleep well tonight, for his sake and hers. More than once since her arrival, she’d woken crying for her mother.

As he made the turn on to Charles Street, he thought again of Rebekah Van der Geld. Tomorrow was Good Friday. Henry planned to approach her father following the church service and request a private meeting with him. He did not wish to prolong this matter.

He wanted to observe a quiet Easter Sunday with his nieces—prayer and perhaps an egg hunt with little Kathleen. A restful, peaceful day with no unfinished business hanging over his head—that was exactly what he needed.

* * *

On Friday morning, silent and somber, Rebekah filed into the church pew just as she had done every other time the sanctuary doors were open. Immediately following her were her younger brothers, Joseph, Austin, Gilbert and Teddy. Their mother then claimed her place. Last, Rebekah’s father took up residence beside the aisle. As usual, they had arrived a good fifteen minutes before the service was scheduled to begin.

As a child, Rebekah used to think they did so simply because her father was eager to attend worship. When she grew older, however, she realized the truth. He came early because he wanted to be seen by his fellow parishioners as they arrived. He wanted the voters to take notice.

Inwardly she sighed. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been on display. I’ve been told what to wear, where to stand, what to think and what to say. Once again, here she sat, polished, pristine, every bit the exemplary charge of a would-be governor. Inside she cried out for freedom.

What would happen if I suddenly caused a scene? What if I had the audacity to bolt to my feet and declare to my father that I most definitely will not marry Henry Nash or anyone else he thinks will be of advantage to him? What if I then run for the door and keep running until I leave the city long behind?

Rebekah again sighed, knowing full well that no matter how much she wanted to flee, she would not do so. She would not dare disrespect her father. She knew the consequences such behavior would bring.

Her mother’s words echoed in her ears. “This is the way it is done, Rebekah... Things will go much easier if you simply accept this.”

Behind her, the congregants were arriving. Rebekah wondered if Councilman Nash was one of them. She did not turn to see. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was eager for his attention.

Her father had not spoken to her about the impending marriage since he had first called her into his study, although she knew he was well aware that Councilman Nash had tried to speak with him. Her mother’s disclosure that Rebekah had disappointed him by not greeting Mr. Nash was evidence of that. Rebekah wondered if her father would speak with the man after the service today. Would he require her to speak to him, as well? Her stomach knotted at the thought. It was troubling enough to deal with such matters in private, but here, in front of everyone?

At precisely noon, Reverend Perry, her minister since infancy, stepped to the pulpit and began the service. Rebekah wished to focus her attention on the hymns and prayers, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Even the agonizing details of Christ’s trial and crucifixion failed to pierce her thoughts. Her mind was just too full.

Just as she feared, the moment the service dismissed, Councilman Nash came to her father. Rebekah dared not look in their direction, but she strained to hear their conversation. She knew they were discussing her. Even at the far end of the pew, she could catch words in snatches.

“Out on business...my apologies...time to discuss... Saturday morning...”

Beside her, six-year-old Joseph, fidgety as always, had taken to tapping his fingers on the pew railing in front of him. Rebekah stilled his hands at once, hoping both to save him from a stern parental rebuke and to hear what else she could.

It was to no avail. Her father had concluded the conversation. Councilman Nash stepped back, allowing her father to lead his family from their pew. Heart pounding, Rebekah chanced a glance in the man’s direction as she moved into the aisle. He nodded to her. The expression on his face was hardly cold or disapproving, but the look was still a far cry from loving.

Rebekah did her best to maintain her composure, although inside her emotions were swirling. She could tell herself that she’d protect her heart from hurt, that she’d accept her lot, but the pain of imagining a loveless union still stung.

She followed her family to the foyer, down the steps and then outside. While Teddy and Gilbert mounted their horses, Rebekah climbed into the barouche alongside Austin and Joseph. Her mother and father claimed the seat facing opposite them. The open-air carriage offered a good view of their surroundings. It also allowed them to be seen.

At her father’s command, their coachman, Brooks, urged the horses forward. The carriage began to roll. The family traveled the length of two blocks in silence. Then her father spoke.

“Councilman Nash plans to pay a call tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock,” he said, leveling his stern gaze on Rebekah. “I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly.”

You mean you expect me to accept his formal proposal, she thought, and do so eagerly.

Her eyes drifted to her mother, silently appealing once more for her intervention. Susan simply looked aside.

“Is that clear?” her father asked.

“Y-yes, sir,” she said, giving him the answer he expected. “I will do so.”

He nodded curtly to her, then commenced smiling and waving at the potential voters passing by on the street.

Rebekah swallowed back her tears. I must face facts. There is no changing the circumstances. Tomorrow I will become engaged to a man I do not love. I will go from one prison to another, and I must bear it with endurance, strength and fortitude.

Much to her surprise, however, the encounter with Mr. Nash was delayed, but in a way she never would have imagined. When Rebekah woke the following morning, she learned the man himself had postponed the meeting due to urgent official business with the city council. The nation was in mourning and accordingly, Rebekah’s father immediately ordered his entire household to put on black.

President Abraham Lincoln was dead.

Chapter Two

Henry still could not believe the news.

The president has been assassinated! How can this be? And shot during a performance at Ford’s Theatre? His wife seated just beside him?

He didn’t know what sickened him more—the thought of the slain leader or the fact that less than forty-eight hours ago, he had shaken hands with the perpetrator of the crime. The ride to the train station with John Wilkes Booth replayed through his mind over and over again.

“Rest assured, my name will make all the papers.”

Indeed it had, for now every press was churning out the details.

“He leapt from the president’s box...”

“...from the stage he shouted to the crowd...”

“Wielding a blood-smeared dagger, he then fled...”

A Federal manhunt was now underway. Those suspected of aiding Booth were quickly being rounded up. Henry nervously wondered if the provost marshal would soon come calling for him.

I drove him to the train station... I shook his hand...

Fellow councilman George Meriwether nudged Henry, jolting him back to the business at hand. “Your vote, Nash,” George whispered.

Fearing bloody reprisal in the wake of the president’s death, the mayor had suggested that saloons be closed and the entire city police force be put on alert. Henry agreed.

“Aye,” he cast.

The measure passed. With business concluded, the council then dismissed. In a daze, Henry slowly made his way home. Is it really true? Is the president really dead, or is this some horrible nightmare from which I will awake?

But every step he took toward home dripped with reality. Already the church bells were beginning to toll. They would continue to ring until noon. The patriotic bunting that had draped the government buildings all week in celebration of victory was now being replaced by black crepe. Flags were lowered to half-mast. Nearly every person he passed on the street wore a grief-stricken or confused expression.

Henry didn’t know whether to weep or clench his fists in anger at the enormity of the country’s loss. While he hadn’t voted for Lincoln, or agreed with all of his policies, he had believed the president truly wanted what was best for the nation. In the end, Lincoln had wanted peace, and had died just as it was achieved. What a cruel and senseless conclusion to the man’s life.

What will this mean for our country now? he wondered.

Upon reaching home, James, his manservant, met Henry at the door. Already he wore a black mourning band on his upper left arm. Taking Henry’s greatcoat and hat, he said, “You had a visitor earlier. I told him you weren’t here.”

“Who was it?”

Before James could answer, Henry’s father stepped from the parlor. “That’ll be all, James.”

Henry shot his father a disdainful glare as James exited. He didn’t like how Harold ordered his servants about.

“You could have let him answer,” Henry said.

“You’d better be grateful that James didn’t ask your visitor to stay.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Detective J. E. Smith is the one who paid the call.” His father offered the calling card for proof.

Fear slowly snaked its way up Henry’s neck. He’d had dealings with this particular provost marshal detective before. Last year, a city council member had been investigated on accusations of bribery and extortion. The man was not guilty, and eventually his name was cleared, but not before his entire life had been turned upside down by Smith and his men.

Does Smith know of my encounter with Booth? Henry wondered. Is that why he came to see me?

Harold was well aware of the interaction with the detective, and he knew the fear it stoked. He added fuel to the fire. “You’ve another matter with which to be concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

He encouraged Henry toward the study. On his desk was a copy of the day’s paper. Picking it up, his father explained, “A man by the name of Lewis Paine is now under arrest for the attempted murder of Secretary of State William Seward. They say he spent time here in Baltimore.”

“I never shook his hand,” Henry said, more for the easement of his own mind than that of his father.

“No,” the older man conceded, “but you did grasp the hand of his hostess.”

“His hostess?”

“Apparently this man was a boarder at the house on Eutaw Street as recently as last month.”

“You mean the Branson Boarding House?”

“I do.”

Harold tossed him the publication. Henry quickly read. According to the Free American, twenty-two men and women from the Branson Boarding House had been taken into custody by the provost marshal and were presently being questioned for possible involvement in Lincoln’s death and the conspiracy to murder Secretary Seward.

The paper also noted that this was not the first time the boardinghouse had been under scrutiny. As Henry read the next paragraph aloud, a chill spread through him. “Miss Branson, a former volunteer nurse, was questioned in September 1863 by the provost marshal. She was suspected of helping a rebel prisoner, Lewis Thornton Powell, also known as Lewis Paine, escape from the US General Hospital here in Baltimore. No charges were filed then.”

“And you visited that same boardinghouse,” his father reminded him, “listening to that same woman complain about Federal soldiers prowling about her door.”

Henry raked back his hair. His mind was racing. Those soldiers saw me enter. The boarder in the parlor saw me, as well. He probably heard our very conversation.

He told himself he hadn’t done anything wrong—certainly not anything illegal—but he knew that didn’t matter now. The nation had just endured four years of war. Suspicion still ran high. Henry had entered the home of a Southern sympathizer. That was all the proof some men would need to declare him guilty.

I’ll be linked to the scoundrels who conspired to kill the president and his men. God help me, he thought. What do I do now?

“You need to keep your wits,” his father reminded him. “You need to protect yourself.”

Anxiety pulsing through him, Henry made the mistake of asking how.

“Van der Geld’s daughter. The man has the army in his pocket, you know. You can use that to your advantage.”

Henry immediately dismissed the idea. He’d already made the mistakes of listening to the complaints of rebel sympathizer and shaking hands with a murderer. He wouldn’t make another by marrying a woman he did not love, even if her father did hold considerable sway over the authorities of this state.

“No,” he said flatly. “I told you, I don’t want any part of that.”

His father scowled. “When are you going to learn that this is the way it is done? Crowns are won or lost this way.”

Henry had no desire for a crown. He never had. He told his father so. “I only want to do what is right.”

“Right or wrong has nothing to do with it. It’s about power...about how much of it you have over your enemies.”

“I don’t have any enemies.”

At that, his father laughed. “I wouldn’t tell Detective Smith that next time he comes calling. You had better claim a few enemies—namely John Wilkes Booth and the rebel army.”

Again Henry raked his fingers through his hair. Of course he wanted Booth brought to justice, but Lee and his army had surrendered. The men in gray were no longer his enemies. Some, in fact, like his brother-in-law, John, never had been. Henry grieved the loss of life their war of rebellion had brought, but he didn’t want retribution. He wanted restoration. He wanted to be part of the reconstruction efforts, to see his nation, his state, his city healed.

His father eyed him shrewdly. “Detective Smith will return. Just what exactly are you planning to tell him?”

“I will tell him the truth.”

“The truth will earn you a jail cell.” Harold reached for the paper and quickly flipped to another article. “The actors from Ford’s Theatre are already there.”

“What? Why? What did they do?”

“They were there that night, and Booth was there. Son, the president has been assassinated. Mark my words, this nation won’t rest until every last person connected to Lincoln’s death, no matter how trivial the role, is brought to justice.”

All Henry could offer in response to that was silence. He knew his father was right, and although he believed the truth would eventually prevail, he wondered just how long it would take.

How long must I sit in a jail cell before Detective Smith believes my encounters with Booth and Maggie Branson were purely coincidental?

He had seen what prison could do to a man. He’d visited returning veterans who had been held captive in rebel prisons. Many were starved, sick, withered.

Would a Federal prison have the same effect on me? Could I endure it?

And more important, what would happen to Kathleen and Grace if he were imprisoned?

They’ll end up in the care of the man standing before me. The man my sister rejected as a guardian. And he will not offer them any affection or comfort. Henry was certain his father would ship Kathleen and Grace off to a home for foundlings at the first opportunity.