An Inconvenient Marriage

“That is a topic for another day.” And that clearly settled the matter, because Grandmother had decided so. “The more important question is the whereabouts of your wife.”

At the sound of a sharp intake of breath, Clarissa turned to Emma. The raw pain in her face had overtaken all traces of her earlier hardness.

“Forgive me.” Reverend Montgomery nodded toward Emma. “I neglected to introduce my daughter, Miss Emma Louise Montgomery.”

“And this is my granddaughter, Miss Clarissa Euphemia Adams.”

“I’m delighted.” The parson turned his brown-eyed gaze toward her for an instant, the smile in those eyes telling her he meant it.

“This church endured a great scandal when it called a young, single man after my husband’s passing. The bylaws now state the pastor must be married. And I won’t approve your call if you are not.” Grandmother tapped her cane on the carpeted floor. She did have a way of shredding any scrap of joy, especially in church. “Your wife, Reverend. Where is she?”

His face paled and he glanced upward, as if seeking divine help. “The truth is, she—”

The vestibule door swung open and banged against the wall with a force that shook the gasolier.

“Stop this meeting!” A vaguely familiar, barrel-chested man took the aisle at a clip, his long, curly salt-and-pepper hair as oversize as his stovepipe hat.

Glaring at him, Grandmother muttered, “Will all of Natchez come dashing into this church today, demanding we stop what we’re doing?”

“Adams, if you cannot slow down and act civilly inside the church, you can find another attorney.” Uncle Joseph Duncan followed at a pace more sedate but still lively for a man of his advancing age. He smoothed his famed white moustache, his old-fashioned top hat in his hand. “And take off that outlandish hat in the house of the Lord. Even for a stovepipe, it’s ridiculous.”

Grandmother’s gaze hardened as she took a step toward the man who’d ignored Joseph and left his giant hat on his round head. “Absalom Adams.”

Cousin Absalom. Of a sudden, a fog of confusion settled over Clarissa’s mind. Absalom had died in the Battle of Lookout Mountain...

“I heard the rumor about my death,” he said. “I see you did too.”

“I also heard Joseph tell you to show respect in this church.” Grandmother Euphemia lifted her cane and swung it at Absalom’s hat, knocking the monstrosity to the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing? This is a thirty-dollar hat.” Absalom let out a string of curses that should have brought the roof down on his now-uncovered head.

At the sound of the man’s foul mouth, Reverend Montgomery stepped toward him until he stood inches from Absalom’s face. “Another such word and I’ll escort you out.”

The low growl of the reverend’s voice must have instilled some well-deserved fear into her cousin, judging from his wide eyes. “Who are you?” he asked, backing away.

The preacher closed the gap again. “I’m the Reverend Samuel Montgomery. I won’t tolerate your contempt in my church.”

Absalom’s face paled. “The Fighting Chaplain?”

The reverend remained silent, quirking one brow, threatening him with his dark glower.

Absalom broke away and retrieved his hat from beside the nearest box pew, muttering about the unfairness of life.

Clarissa shook off the fog and stepped toward her cousin. “What do you want? You caused enough trouble before you went to war. Why did you come back?”

“When you didn’t show up for our appointment, we came to you.” The hat trembled in Absalom’s hand as he moved a good distance from the preacher. “We need to talk about the old man’s will. About Camellia Pointe and his tenement down at the landing.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. He left the Yazoo ground to Father and Grandmother, and Camellia Pointe and Good Shepherd Dining and Lodging to me. And Good Shepherd isn’t a tenement—it’s a respectable hotel.” Clarissa turned from her rogue cousin toward Joseph. Her attorney’s downcast gaze shot a jolt of fear through her until she glanced at Grandmother and saw her pallor. Then the jolt grew to a thunderbolt. “Tell him it’s true, Uncle Joseph.”

At the tremor in her voice, her cousin smiled an oily smile. “I want the Fighting Chaplain here as a witness when you do.”

Emma announced she would sit in their carriage and read, leaving the others to start down the long hallway to the pastor’s study. Entering it, Grandmother poked her cane at Absalom’s ribs. “Why exactly are you not dead?”

“That’s harsh, Grandmother, even for you.” In the cypress-paneled room, Cousin Absalom pulled a cigar from the pocket of his mulberry-red frock coat and clamped his teeth around it, looking for all the world like a riverboat gambler. Which he could be, for all they knew.

“Considering how you left your entire family for dead during the yellow fever outbreak, I’d say it’s a question worth asking.” Grandmother rubbed the handle of her cane. “We thought we were finished enduring your treachery.”

“I was captured at Lookout Mountain and sent to the Johnson Island prison in Ohio, where they kept Confederate officers,” Absalom said around the fat cigar. “I stayed until Lake Erie froze over, then I escaped by walking across the ice to Canada. The Yankees reported me as dead.”

He had to be joking. “Cousin Absalom, that’s the most fanciful tale I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re lying, as always.” Fire shot from Grandmother’s eyes and she lifted her cane again.

The pastor cleared his throat and picked up his black Bible from the desk. “In the book of Ephesians, the apostle encourages us to speak the truth in love. I suggest we heed his exhortation and get on with our business, telling the truth and speaking it in love.”

Finally—a voice of reason in this emotional chaos. Fighting Chaplain or not, flaming evangelist or not, the new pastor had just silenced both Clarissa’s renegade cousin and her indomitable grandmother with one Bible verse. Could he be just what Christ Church needed?

“I agree. Let’s get this over with, before I make good on my threat to retire to Saratoga.” Joseph set his brown leather portmanteau atop the pastor’s walnut desk. “Whatever the circumstances, Absalom is here, and we need to read the alternate will.”

How could this mistake have happened, leaving them to think Absalom had gone to his eternal reward—or punishment? Admittedly, Clarissa hadn’t grieved overlong for her much-older cousin. But who would, considering how he had disappointed and hurt the family as long as she could remember?

Of course, Clarissa didn’t wish him dead, but neither was she elated to see him. To say so would be a lie.

And now perhaps they’d learn Grandmother and Papa no longer possessed the Yazoo Delta plantations, Clarissa didn’t own Good Shepherd Dining and Lodging—and her beloved Camellia Pointe...

After this meeting, everything would change. If Absalom wasn’t mentioned in Grandfather’s will, Joseph would merely have informed him that he’d receive nothing but the wind blowing through Camellia Pointe, and Absalom would have gone his way.

But he hadn’t. Instead he stood there like a pudgy, arrogant crown prince, waiting to become heir to his kingdom.

Suddenly eager to hear the worst so she could think through her options, Clarissa took a seat beside Grandmother on the wine-colored settee near the window. Cousin Absalom pulled the fireside wing chair into the center of the room and plopped all his plumpness into it. Between them, the reverend stood alert, eyes narrowed, as if hoping Absalom would make a wrong move so he’d have the pleasure of throwing him out.

Joseph sat at the desk and removed stacks of papers from his portmanteau. “Because we had word of Mister Adams’s demise—”

“That’s Major Adams.” Absalom puffed out his chest, making himself look even more pompous. “I was the most highly regarded officer under General Bragg’s command.”

Grandmother huffed at the outright lie, but Joseph didn’t bother to look up from the paper in his hand. “Mister Adams was reported as killed in action. Therefore, I divided the Reverend Adams’s assets according to his wishes. However, since Mister Adams is obviously alive, we will now revisit the terms of the will.”

Clarissa folded her arms over the tremor in her middle. She glanced at Grandmother, whose flinty expression hid whatever emotions ran through her at the news.

But her fingers visibly tightened on her ivory-handled cane.

Grandmother Euphemia—nervous? Nothing could have frightened Clarissa more.

Joseph stood, proud and sturdy as a live oak, his gaze fastened on the page in his hand. “This is the will I was to read in the event that both his grandchildren were alive at the time of his demise. Euphemia, Clarissa, it’s quite different from the will I read when we thought Mister Adams was deceased.”

For the first few moments Clarissa struggled to focus on Joseph’s words, her mind drifting to Camellia Pointe and the happy days her family had enjoyed there—before the sickness. But when he spoke Grandmother’s name, Clarissa fixed her attention on the elderly man.

“‘To my wife, Euphemia Duncan Adams, I bequeath Waverly Hall in Yazoo County, its 2600 acres, cotton and crops.’”

A bit of tension left Clarissa’s abdomen at the little chortle of victory escaping Grandmother’s lips.

Joseph paused and turned a fatherly gaze on Clarissa. “This part has changed, dear. ‘To my granddaughter, Clarissa Euphemia Adams, I bequeath the contents of all structures and grounds at Camellia Pointe.’”

Only the contents? That unease hit her in the middle again.

“‘To my son, Barnabas Hezekiah Adams, I bequeath Sutton House Plantation in Yazoo County, its 1900 acres, cotton and crops. My other two properties, however, have deep personal meaning to me. Camellia Pointe is the home of my youth, the refuge my father built against the cares of this world. Good Shepherd Dining and Lodging is the safe haven I built to shelter and protect poor travelers landing in Natchez-under-the-Hill. One of my grandchildren will receive both these properties and continue their operation. However, the one to inherit must prove himself worthy.’”

What outlandish will was this?

All or nothing? If Grandfather wanted to mention Absalom in his will, which in itself was surprising, why would he not have simply given him some property outright?

But he hadn’t, and that set her on edge. Could her rogue cousin somehow prove himself worthy of Grandfather’s home and ministry?

Absalom sat straight in his chair and pointed his stubby finger at Clarissa. “She was his favorite, so she’ll be the one to inherit. It’s not fair. I’m going to contest this will.”

“No, you won’t,” Joseph said, “as you shall soon see.”

As Absalom muttered under his breath, the attorney began to read again. “‘To receive the inheritance, my grandchildren must meet three conditions. If one of them meets the first condition, he may progress to the second, and so forth. I have given Joseph Duncan four letters to explain the details.’”

“Grandfather always did drag things out. Get to the point, Duncan.” Absalom’s sonorous voice echoed off the walls of the high-ceilinged room, his expression turning annoyed.

“‘Counselor Duncan will give the first letter to the pastor of Christ Church. The pastor will deliver and read the letter privately to each heir. When the first stipulation has been met, the pastor will read the second letter to both parties at once, and likewise the third. If one of my grandchildren contests the will, he forfeits his chance to inherit.”

“I know how the old man worked.” Absalom’s face exploded with the rage Clarissa had come to expect from him. Rage he’d frequently aimed at her beloved grandfather. “He made her stipulations easier than mine. I know he did.”

“I’ve seen the letters, and that’s not true.” Joseph handed two envelopes to Reverend Montgomery. “Euphemia, let’s allow Clarissa and the reverend to meet here, and you, Adams and I will wait in the sanctuary.”

When the door had closed behind them, Clarissa sat across the desk from the preacher, her pulse beating out her dread. “Please read it quickly. I fear the worst, and I have no idea how bad the worst could be.”

The parson reached into his inner frock coat pocket and retrieved a pair of rectangle-lens eyeglasses. When he had slipped them on, he opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet and scanned it. “A personal note appears as page one. ‘My dear Clarissa, my first instruction may well be your hardest to fulfill. Please try to understand and trust my reasoning. As always, I hold your best interests at heart. Grandfather Hezekiah.’

“Next, we have the legal document. ‘Both potential heirs must be married before my granddaughter’s next birthday.’”

Married—

She might as well give up right now.

Except she couldn’t, because then she would also give up Camellia Pointe and Good Shepherd—her ancestral home and her grandfather’s legacy.

Samuel whisked off his specs and regarded her for a moment. “Forgive me, Miss Adams, but have you a beau? Because if you haven’t, you need to get one—soon.”

A beau. A husband.

In less than a month.

Even though Grandfather had known that falling in love would mean that, sooner or later, she would get hurt.

Chapter Two

Sitting across the desk from Samuel, Miss Adams looked as if she wanted to turn and run at his words. The defiance in her face mirrored the expression he’d often seen in his daughter’s—and his late wife, Veronica’s—whenever he tried to reason with them. So much so that a part of him wished he could follow Miss Adams right out the heavy cypress vestibule doors. But clearly there was no escape for either of them. Without a wife, Samuel would lose this church—and possibly his daughter. Just as Clarissa would lose her home if she didn’t find a husband. And neither of them had the luxury of time.

Then comprehension softened her eyes and they turned dewy, the golden flecks deepening to burnished copper. “Grandfather always did want to marry me off.”

Samuel cleared his throat of the sudden lump forming there, the sweetness in her tone affecting him in a way he’d never known. Would she calmly accept the will’s terms and fulfill her grandfather’s wishes, allowing the late pastor to dictate her life from the grave? Or would she whisk aside her calm resignation and refuse?

“You are, of course, free to reject the will’s stipulations. But you won’t inherit.” Samuel brushed away his foolish sentiment. His job was to present the letter and advise her if necessary, not to become emotionally involved in this odd situation.

But his heart was involved—a full thirty minutes into the ordeal. It wasn’t like him. Why would this wisp of a young woman touch his heart so?

Miss Adams drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for an instant, as if in prayer.

And the truth hit him.

She affected him so deeply because her posture, her air of acquiescence in the midst of heartache looked just like a younger Veronica.

Samuel lowered his gaze, removing his glasses. How could he not have seen it? From the day of their betrothal, Veronica had worn the same expression of cool tolerance, of gentle acceptance amid suffering. Much of which Samuel had unintentionally caused.

And now, in order to keep his church, he may be forced into the same kind of marriage again.

The thought settled like lead in his stomach.

If only Missus Adams had told him Christ Church’s pastor must be married. He stood and paced to the window. The centuries-old live oak beyond his study stood sturdy, having weathered wind, fire, drought and war. As had Veronica, until—

“Reverend, are you well?”

Miss Adams’s kind voice brought him back to himself, and he composed his heart and controlled his countenance as he turned toward her. “I should ask you the same. This is a troubling revelation for you.”

“It is, because I cannot reject the will’s stipulations as you suggest. Camellia Pointe holds too many happy memories, and Good Shepherd is my grandfather’s legacy. Absalom would destroy both.” A tiny frown creased her forehead. “I can’t understand why Grandfather did this.”

“Have you anyone to consult, other than your grandmother and attorney?”

“They’re all I have, with my mother passed on and my father living...away for the past eight years.”

“Can you contact him, ask for his counsel?”

Emotions flitted across her lovely face—pain, embarrassment and then shame settled there. What could her father, the son of a great minister, have done to evoke such a reaction?

He stopped the thought cold. Samuel, of all men, knew that men of the cloth were just that: mere men, capable of sin. And so were their offspring. “Do you have other uncles besides Counselor Duncan?”

“‘Uncle’ is an honorary title for Joseph, as he is my grandmother’s second cousin. He stepped in to be an uncle to me when I was twelve.” She hesitated as if deciding how much to say. “Absalom’s father was my only uncle, but he and my aunt were killed in an accident. A year later, my mother died of influenza here in Natchez, and my father returned to our plantations in the Yazoo Delta. If I wrote to him today, I wouldn’t get a reply in time.”

Samuel opened his mouth to dispute the fact, but as her gaze turned downward, he realized she didn’t mean he could not reply in time—but that he would not. When she looked up again, the single tear glimmering on her lower lashes confirmed the truth. She rose from her seat and faltered, as if her legs were none too steady.

Samuel hastened around the desk to assist her, but she recovered in an instant. “To answer your earlier question, I have no beau, although I once did. Harold Goss. Harold was one of the first men in Natchez to receive a commission. Last anyone heard, he was in prison camp.”

Harold Goss? Surely she didn’t mean the greedy snake who owned the Daily Memphis Avalanche and had caused him no end of embarrassment with his false journalism. The poor girl...

She ran her fingertips over the desk, as if needing to feel its solidity in order to keep her balance as she started for the door. “I need to think about this. Please excuse me.”

Samuel hastened to the study door and opened it for her, bracing himself for the onslaught he knew would come from Absalom. That man and his boasting annoyed him like a Yankee. How he’d made the rank of major was beyond Samuel.

“Absalom has stepped out.” Miss Euphemia stood by the door with an army of pinched-faced, wrinkled men.

Samuel groaned inwardly, sure he was facing his deacons.

The deacons who had come to fire him before he could even start his work at Christ Church, since he didn’t have a wife.

“Apparently my grandson has recently married,” the elderly woman said, “and he left his wife to wait in his carriage this entire time. He went outside to try to appease her. If he hasn’t better sense than to treat her in such a fashion, they are both in for an unhappy marriage.” She waved toward the men at her side. “These are Deacons Bradley, Morris and Holmes.”

She hooked her hand through the crook of Miss Adams’s elbow, and the two retreated down the hall, presumably to discuss the will.

The most sour-looking deacon of the three, a balding skeleton of a man in waistcoat and cravat, stepped forward. “As you appear unoccupied at the moment, might we have a word?”

Samuel moved aside, letting them in, bracing himself for the inevitable question.

“Miss Euphemia believes your wife did not accompany you to Natchez.”

She was right. But why hadn’t Samuel been told they’d expected him to be married? He drew a deep breath. “My wife passed away four years ago.”

The man, who must have been the head deacon, shook his bony head, a scowl overtaking his face. “That won’t do at all.”

To his surprise, the deacons gave no word of comfort or consolation. Rather, they looked as if they’d like to ball up their fists at him, and Samuel wondered if he should start ducking.

The deacon with the droopy eyes took a step toward him. “We don’t want to seem harsh,” he said in a clear basso voice that would have enhanced Clarissa’s choir. “We must do what is best for our congregation. Christ Church was a laughingstock once. We won’t let it happen again. Go get yourself a wife...or leave.”

“I understand.” The deacons were right. The well-being of the church came first. “I’d hoped to raise my daughter here. She’s had a hard time since I went to war.”

“It’s too bad.” The third deacon crossed his arms over his immoderate belly. “We all wanted the Fighting Chaplain. You’re a legend throughout the South. We thought your military honors would be good for this town.”

Legend or no, he needed Natchez, and it needed him. Why else would God have called him here? But, ridiculous as it sounded, he needed a wife if he and Emma were to stay.

And Miss Adams needed a husband...

“If I had a wife, I could pastor this church?” He clasped the bony man on the shoulder, spitting out the words as fast as he could, giving himself no time to change his mind—which he would if he thought about his idea an instant longer.

“Yes, of course. You’re the Fighting Chaplain—”

“Wait here.” Samuel patted the man’s sunken chest and dashed for the door. “Don’t go away.”

In his mind, he applauded his idea loudly enough to keep his heart from rejecting it. As Miss Adams surely would. He’d already made a fool of himself with her grandmother, and showing up three days early with no wife hadn’t worked in his favor, either. Not to mention, his Fighting Chaplain reputation must have preceded him, since even Absalom Adams knew who he was. Why should such a refined, beautiful woman want a roughneck like him for a husband? For that matter, why would anyone? Veronica had been right—war had made him common. This idea wouldn’t work.

He stopped halfway down the hall and leaned against the wall. Father, am I taking the right path? Miss Adams will think I’m crazy. Not to mention her grandmother. So if You want me to propose marriage to her, help me reach her heart. He paused, listening for any advice the Almighty might bestow. Samuel had made enough mistakes already. He couldn’t afford another.

But instead of a Scripture verse or a lightning bolt from heaven, an image of his daughter’s tear-stained face flitted across his mind.

Emma. Even if she wouldn’t admit it, perhaps didn’t know it, she depended on him to bring stability to her life. Staying in Natchez was the only way Samuel knew to do so.

With a quick prayer of thanks, he pushed away from the wall and hastened toward the sound of female voices, hoping to find Miss Adams as quickly as possible. If this was God’s plan, he needed to take action now, before his courage could leave him, and then everything would fall into place. He could keep Emma here, and Miss Adams could inherit her property.

But a wife? Only for Emma’s good would he make such a sacrifice—which is exactly what marriage would be. He picked up his pace so his common sense couldn’t catch up.

Only through a move of God could Samuel convince Miss Adams this was a good idea.

The harder job would be convincing himself.

* * *

If Clarissa interpreted the Reverend Montgomery’s determined stride and dark expression correctly, he had more bad news. But how could her circumstances possibly worsen? What could be more horrible than losing Camellia Pointe?

At least his rapid approach distracted her and Grandmother from their dismal discussion of the will. For that small comfort, she gave thanks.

“The parson seems not to have a wife, and this puts him in trouble,” Grandmother said in a low tone as they watched him approach the ladies’ parlor. “I wish the deacons had allowed me to deliver their news.”

Clarissa took in the mixed emotions on Grandmother’s face, the odd tenor of her voice. She seemed almost to want him to stay while at the same time wishing to hasten his departure. “What would you have done that the deacons didn’t?”