An Inconvenient Marriage

Samuel had to escape, now. Otherwise he was liable to give Absalom a piece of his mind, speaking of the president in such an intimate way and boasting of buying his carriage.

At the sound of Emma’s giggle, wafting from the other side of the carriage, an image of long-haired Beau shot through Samuel’s mind and brought a sense of foreboding.

President Davis didn’t need Samuel to defend or protect him, but Emma did. A feeling of unease had wormed its way into his subconscious the moment he’d seen Beau—or, rather, the moment Beau had seen Emma. Now that unease started to fester. The only way to get rid of it was to lance it before it poisoned both Samuel and his daughter. He would look for an opportunity to warn Adams to keep his son under control. However, now was not that time.

He glanced back at the gallery, hoping Colonel Talbot would summon him, but it was empty.

He’d head over there anyway—and without further comment to Adams. If the man spent half as much energy caring for his family as he did in boasting, there might be no need for this contest between him and Miss Adams.

As Samuel approached the gallery, his misgivings about the house returned to him with violent force. Clearly, Natchez wouldn’t object to his wife owning this home, since it had belonged to the late Reverend Adams. And Samuel didn’t wish to offend his in-laws, especially on the day of his marriage. But he couldn’t easily forget his grandfather’s teaching that a minister of the Gospel shouldn’t have extravagant possessions such as this home. Grandfather wouldn’t approve of Samuel having a wife who owned such a palace, even though they would live in the manse. What had he gotten himself into?

He reached for the knob, but someone rattled it from inside. Then came the sound of a struggle, as if the cypress door was stuck. When it flew open, Colonel Talbot stepped onto the gallery, leaving the door ajar. “I’d hoped to have the door fixed before you got here, Chaplain.”

“No need.” Samuel kept his eye on his daughter as she disappeared around the house’s west corner. He lowered his voice. “Colonel, I’ve made a grave error. You see, this house—”

“Don’t worry. The roof is sound, and the broken windows are boarded, so rain can’t get in and destroy the interior. Camellia Pointe is still one of the best of the grand old Natchez homes. You’ll need to make repairs at some point, but it’ll stand for a long time as it is.”

“You don’t understand. I’m not worried about its condition but rather the brazen display of wealth—”

At the sound of footfalls, Samuel hesitated, in case one of the approaching persons was Miss Adams. They would need to talk about this house, but in private.

“We’re ready,” an unfamiliar female voice called from inside.

The Reverend Gifford appeared from around the corner, with Emma on his arm and Beau at his other side. Other than the gray at his temples, he looked much the same as he had when Samuel last saw him, before the war. “Glad to see you’ve found a new wife, and a mother for this pretty girl. And I’m happy to see you taking the pulpit at Christ Church.”

“He’s the perfect choice for both the church and Clarissa,” Talbot cut in, pointing to the right. “The groom stands over there, or so the women tell me.”

The dowager exited the house and stood at the gallery’s edge, next to a square pillar, a camellia bush at her back. Behind her, Miss Adams seemed to float through the doorway, her dark hair contrasting with her high-necked white dress, its skirt narrower than current fashion dictated. The pink bridal glow in her porcelain cheeks made her even more lovely than before. Equally beautiful to Samuel was the look of adoration on his daughter’s face as she gazed upon her soon-to-be stepmother. Emma’s eyes shone as they had when she’d taken in the beauty of Camellia Pointe only minutes ago.

And had clutched his arm.

Father, I believe Miss Adams is the answer to my prayers for Emma. And if so, couldn’t Samuel manage to tolerate his wife owning a showy home like this?

Yes, he could, especially since he would rarely see it.

The colonel clasped his shoulder and gave him a soldierly shove toward the spot Samuel was presumably to occupy. A blond woman followed Miss Adams outside, wearing a more modern pink dress, and took her place beside Talbot. Joseph Duncan stepped out next, his stern gaze settling on Absalom’s family as they approached.

When the Reverend Gifford stood before them and started the ceremony, Samuel adjusted his frock coat, laid aside his misgivings and set his face like a flint. He’d failed his late wife and he’d failed Emma. For no reason could he do it again.

Samuel went through the motions, saying, “I do” and placing the ring on his bride’s finger when prompted. Finally, the words “man and wife” penetrated the fog of his brain.

“You may ki—”

At the tiny shake of Miss Adams’s head—or was she Missus Montgomery now?—the minister cut off his words. “You may...greet your guests.”

His wife’s sigh of apparent relief cut through Samuel’s own discomfort and shamed him more than an open rebuke.

Samuel mindlessly accepted congratulations from the lady in pink, the attorney and the reverend, and a fierce army backslap from his former commander. He stepped over to Emma, who, he now realized, carried a bouquet of white flowers.

“Miss Clarissa picked these camellias,” his daughter said, touching the petals. “They’re the first ones to bloom, and she said I was her bridesmaid.”

It seemed his new bride had made herself quite indispensable already.

Joseph meandered his way, a grim set to his mouth. “Reverend Montgomery, as inopportune as this seems, I must ask you to deliver the next stipulation of the will.”

At his wedding? “Can it not wait?”

“I fear not. This letter is to be read immediately after both parties fulfill the first condition. I’m bound to follow Hezekiah’s instructions.”

Samuel’s pounding headache of this morning threatened to return and finish him off, and he rubbed his skull. “I’ll collect my wife and meet you inside.”

“And I’ll get Absalom. Both parties are to hear this letter together.”

Samuel hardly knew how to approach his bride, engaged as she was in whispered conversation with the lady in pink, so he merely stood beside her and cleared his throat.

She turned to him with a smile so genuine it took his breath. Hardly the reaction he’d anticipated from her, since she’d been visibly relieved to avoid a wedding kiss. But then a black-and-white bird dog, one he hadn’t seen before, jumped down from one of the carriages and headed toward them. His wife gave it the same smile she’d bestowed on him.

So much for winning her favor.

“Reverend, this is Graham Talbot’s wife, Ellie,” Clarissa said, “and their dog, Sugar.”

“Clarissa, you’ll need to begin to call your husband by his given name.” Missus Talbot offered Samuel her hand. “And you, Reverend, will need to think of a pet name for her.”

Pet name? He’d rather pet the dog. After releasing Missus Talbot’s gloved hand, he did just that. At least Sugar and Missus Talbot didn’t shrink from his touch. But neither of them apparently knew what a roughneck he was.

“We must step inside a moment,” he said as the dog ambled toward Emma. “Your attorney asked us to meet him.”

Miss Adams—Missus Montgomery—turned those hazel eyes on him, their gold flecks shimmering in the late-winter sunlight. “The next stipulation.”

Samuel pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped aside to allow her to pass.

Inside the center hall, he hesitated. This house was even more grandiose inside than out. However, dusty sheets covered each piece of the hall furniture.

“The mural is French Zuber wallpaper and the gasolier is Waterford.” She said it without pretense or pride, as if she’d grown up playing around these priceless items. Which she apparently had.

When they entered the dining room, Joseph Duncan waited silently, his portmanteau on the sheet-covered table in front of him. Absalom sat at the head of the table as if he belonged there, first complaining and cursing their grandfather and his will, and then boasting about his “much-larger home” in Memphis.

Surely Samuel could tolerate this home easier than he could stomach the blustering braggart. And judging from the tension in those big hazel eyes, Absalom affected Clarissa even more deeply.

“It is extremely poor taste to talk business at a wedding, and I apologize,” Joseph said when Samuel had unshrouded a chair and seated his wife next to the gray-veined marble fireplace. He handed Samuel an envelope. “Unfortunately we have no choice. Reverend Montgomery, please read this letter from the Reverend Hezekiah Adams.”

Samuel took his specs from his pocket and slid them on. He opened and scanned the letter.

No. This couldn’t be. His aching head suddenly felt as if a dozen horses’ hooves pounded it. He glanced up at Joseph, who nodded his encouragement.

“‘To fulfill my second stipulation, both my grandchildren must live at Camellia Pointe for one year, beginning the day the first condition is fulfilled. Since the War has wreaked havoc on this estate, my grandchildren must live as family here and work together to complete its necessary repairs and restore it to its former glory.’”

Samuel drew a deep breath of defeat. But when he saw the way his new bride bit her lower lip, as if to stop it from trembling, he wanted to throw this hateful letter into the fire.

She didn’t want to live with Absalom any more than Samuel did—that much was clear. And if they’d known this stipulation before the wedding, would she have gone through with it? Would Samuel?

He shoved the thought aside. No matter what they would or would not have done, they were married now. And it was up to Samuel to make sure they kept this home, as much as he didn’t want it. Something about the desperation growing in her eyes made him want nothing more than to send President Davis’s carriage—and its owners—down that long, winding drive to the road, so Clarissa would never have to see them again.

And by the grace of God, he’d make sure to do just that.

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.”