Читать книгу: «The Bride Fair», страница 2

Chapter Two

Maria Markham stopped abruptly in the wide center hallway, listening again for the sound of an approaching wagon. The front door was shut, but the downstairs windows were still open to let in the evening breeze until the mosquitoes began to swarm. She stood there, her sense of dread completely taking her attention away from the task of closing up the house for the night and lighting more lamps than they could afford to light.

She had been waiting for the new colonel all afternoon, and she still had no idea what she would do when he finally arrived. She knew what she would like to do, of course. She would like to bar the door and turn him away. She would like to send him and his kind back to whatever hellish place they had come from.

Pennsylvania.

Colonel Woodard came from Pennsylvania. He had served in Rush’s Lancers, a supposedly elite cavalry regiment made up of rich young men from Philadelphia society. His having been a Lancer was likely the reason he was in such an elevated position now—or so her father said. Her father made a point of keeping up with what he considered the pertinent details regarding the occupation army, and he was the one responsible for the new colonel’s being billeted in the house in the first place—and for the two others before him.

“It is for the money, Maria Rose,” he’d explained patiently when she had protested having yet another “guest,” as if she didn’t already know what dire financial straits they were in. The only problem with that logic was that the Yankees never paid for anything—least of all their housing. They “appropriated” whatever they wanted all over town and handed out vouchers the quartermaster never got around to honoring. The town was forever sending some kind of delegation to military headquarters to broach the subject of monies owed, but far as she knew, her father had received no rent payment the entire time, Hatcher, the previous commander had been living here. She had no expectations that this new one would be any different.

Colonel Woodard.

The man she was having to light the lamps for, because she thought he would come into the house unannounced, barred door or not, and she did not want to encounter him in the dark.

She had been afraid of him today in the buggy. He had been civil enough, but his civility didn’t hide what she believed to be his true nature. She realized immediately that he didn’t suffer fools gladly, but, for whatever reason, he chose to keep a tight rein on his emotions. Even so, she could feel how volatile they were, how close to the surface, and he had a kind of dangerous intensity about him she found more than a little disconcerting. She had no idea what people must have thought, seeing them riding out to the prison like that. It wasn’t proper, and the colonel knew it. He made it very clear that the delicate sensibilities of the people in this town meant nothing to him.

She was certain she heard a wagon now, and she stepped quickly into the parlor so that she could peep out the front window. If it was Colonel Woodard, she would take herself to another part of the house. The last thing she wanted the Yankee to think was that she’d been dancing in attendance by the front door on his account.

It was nearly dark, but she could see the wagon clearly enough—one of the farmers making a delayed start home, probably because of the fire. Every able-bodied man had been pressed into service. She couldn’t see any flames now, or even a glow in the sky, but she could still smell the smoke. The wagon rattled on by, leaving nothing in its wake but the sounds of a warm summer night.

She took a quiet breath and let the resentment she’d been keeping at bay wash over her. She had tried so hard to talk her father out of letting another one of them into the house. It was bad enough having to encounter occupation soldiers all over town. They were always underfoot on the streets and in the shops. Some actually came to church and participated in the services—much to the delight of the young girls, who were more than willing to overlook a Yankee officer’s part in the late war for the possibility, however remote, of matrimony.

To that end, some of them had raised simpering to a high art. It had gotten to the point that she could hardly bear to witness it, and she could expect a bevy of eager young females at the front door as soon as word got around that the new—and possibly unmarried—colonel was billeting with the Markhams. If—when—they discovered that he was supposedly from a well-to-do family, too, she would be absolutely inundated with visitors, whether she wanted them or not.

Maria gave a quiet sigh. Perhaps she shouldn’t blame the girls—or their mothers, who must surely sanction their behavior. Who else was there to marry? The war had decimated the Confederacy’s young men. So many of them were dead or invalid, and it was a bitter thing for those who had survived more or less intact to have to live now in a conquered South. Some of them made no pretense at even trying. They took themselves off to California or to Mexico or to South America, leaving the uncertain resurrection of their homeland to whoever remained.

She resented their departure as much as she resented the new colonel’s presence in the house. Having Colonel Woodard here was a classic example of adding insult to injury, and she simply didn’t understand why her father couldn’t see that. Both his sons—her beloved brothers—had died at Gettysburg. Quiet, scholarly Rob, who had treated her as an intellectual equal simply because she was so eager to learn about matters beyond the kitchen and household. And mischievous, lighthearted Samuel, who could always make her laugh.

She missed them both terribly, and her only comfort was that they had been spared seeing what life here had become. Everything had changed. It wasn’t simply the deprivations, the lack of food and money. It was the lack of joy and living day after day in relentless, all-prevailing sorrow.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt-framed mirror on the far wall. The mirror had been cracked three years ago by one of General Stoneman’s raiders in an effort to get it out of the house before one of his superiors saw him trying to steal it. She moved to the side so that she could see herself better and immediately wished she hadn’t. She was so tired, and she looked it.

What has happened to me?

Her brothers would not have recognized her. She hardly recognized herself anymore. She had never been a beauty, but she had been a cheerful and optimistic person.

Once.

People had enjoyed her company. She had never lacked for invitations to balls and parties. Billy Canfield had wanted to marry her. He had spoken to her father, and they had received the blessings of both sets of parents. It seemed so long ago now, but she had that one small consolation to hang on to, at least. She had once been asked—and only she would ever know that his asking had meant nothing.

But her life was about to change for the worse, whether the new colonel billeted himself here or not. She had no hope of escaping her fate and very little time remaining before she was found out. If only she were devious enough and fetching enough to join the younger girls in their relentless, giggling quests for a husband. A husband would solve everything—even if it were one of them—if she could act quickly enough and if she could put aside the dishonor of such a venture and somehow dredge up the self-confidence to attempt it. She still smarted at the memory of Colonel Woodard’s scrutiny at the train station. His assessment of her had been subtle—not at all like the leering she’d come to expect from Colonel Hatcher and his kind. But it had been no less upsetting. She had seen the new colonel study her face, her breasts—and then totally dismiss her.

Like Billy.

Someone rapped sharply on the front door, making her jump. She peered out the window again. A carriage had stopped out front, but she didn’t recognize it. Apparently the colonel had chosen a conveyance in keeping with his position this time—or perhaps there had been no lone women in buggies handy.

The rapping came again, much louder this time.

“Maria Rose!” her father called from his upstairs sitting room. “Will you answer the door or must I!”

“I’m getting it, Father,” she called back, recognizing the threat for what it was. He was looking for an excuse to come downstairs and drink whiskey with a bunch of soldiers—even if they were in the wrong army—instead of coddling his bad heart as the doctor had ordered. She loved her father dearly, but he had to be the most exasperating man in all of Christendom. When his health improved even a little, he never concluded that the doctor’s regimen was working. Instead, he promptly decided that it wasn’t needed any longer. She ran herself ragged trying to keep him from overdoing, failing and then feeling guilty for his numerous setbacks. It had been the same when her mother was living. Somehow his illness was entirely their responsibility. If he felt any personal obligation to follow his doctor’s advice regarding his own health, she certainly couldn’t tell.

“Maria Rose!” her father yelled again.

“I heard you, Father!”

She took a deep breath to brace herself for the coming ordeal, but the door flew open before she could get to it.

“Miss,” the soldier standing on the porch said. “I have Colonel Woodard’s trunk and belongings.”

He didn’t wait for her to give him leave to enter. He motioned two other soldiers to hurry along with the baggage and pushed his way into the house, forcing her to step back to give him room.

“Where will the colonel be quartered, miss?” he asked.

“Wherever he likes,” she said, because the question was merely a token one, and they both knew it. It wasn’t for her to say. She had had enough dealings with these people to understand the fine points. Colonel Woodard wasn’t a guest; he was a conqueror. He could pick and choose his accommodations as he pleased—and would, most likely—even if it meant she or her father would have to vacate them.

“Leave that here,” the soldier said to the two men carrying the trunk and a number of satchels and leather cases.

Two more soldiers came in through the front door loaded down with wooden boxes, a basket of eggs, a ham and three sacks of flour, tracking red mud on the bare wood floor all the way. The floor was walnut—short pieces done in an intricate chevron pattern that caused much admiration among visitors to the house and cleverly hid the fact that, at the time, the scrap pieces were all her father could afford. It was yet another example of his resourcefulness, but it was she who would have to get down on her hands and knees to brush the mud out of the crevices.

“The colonel’s provisions, miss. Light the way to the pantry, if you please.”

She didn’t please, but she picked up the lamp from the hall table and carried it in the direction of the kitchen. They would have no problem locating which larder had been set aside exclusively for the colonel. It would be the one protected from civilian pilfering by a heavy padlock to which no one in the household had the key.

She looked over her shoulder toward the open front door, still expecting the colonel himself, but she could see no soldiers in the yard or in the carriage.

“You understand that these provisions are for the colonel’s use only,” the soldier in charge said as his men unpacked the boxes.

She didn’t answer him.

“It will save you a lot of trouble and grief in the long run, if you do, miss. The quarters for the colonel’s orderly—where are they?” He lit the lamp on the kitchen table.

“Colonel Hatcher’s orderly stayed in the room under the stairs.”

“See to it,” he said to a soldier nearby, handing him the lamp.

“Have you been advised about the new curfew, miss?” he asked as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the pantry door.

“What new curfew?”

“You—and everybody in this here town—will have to remain in your houses and off the streets. There will be no going anyplace—no public gatherings of any kind—until further notice.”

“Surely church services aren’t—”

“Church is canceled.”

“But why?”

“The colonel means to get to the bottom of all this incendiary activity, miss.”

“I doubt very seriously that we are the ones responsible for burning our own town,” she said.

“Even so—the colonel’s got to start somewhere.”

“Where is he now?” Maria asked. “I would like to lock up the house after you leave.”

“Can’t say, miss. He’ll be here when he gets here. Somebody will need to stay handy to let him in.”

And Maria knew just who that “somebody” would be.

“Maria Rose!” her father yelled from upstairs. “Who is that down there with you?”

The soldier in charge broke into a grin. “Mr. Markham is awake then, is he? I’ll just go up and speak to him.”

“He needs to be resting,” Maria said—to no avail. The soldier went off happily in the direction of her father’s voice, leaving her in the kitchen with the rest of the underlings.

She didn’t stay. She walked back to the parlor and sat down in a corner by the front windows to wait for them all to leave. From time to time, she could hear her father’s laughter upstairs. Her father. What would he say when he found out about her? How could she ever tell him?

But she wouldn’t have to tell him, if she stayed here much longer. Sooner or later, he would know. Everyone would know. Her body was already changing. She could no longer rely on it not to betray her at every turn. She was forever on the verge of fainting or weeping or being sick. The smell of frying pork had sent her bolting to the slop bucket more than once this last week. It was a miracle that her father had not noticed.

She tried to tell herself that she wasn’t the first woman to be in this situation. She would just have to go someplace until the child could be born—if she could find the money and someone willing to take her in. Perhaps if she said she was a war widow—

But there was no money.

And if there had been, she would have to ask her father for it. She’d have to put his weak heart at risk and tell him why she needed it. And even if she went, people would still find out. They always did. The very fact that a young, unmarried woman left town for a time—no matter what the excuse—was enough to raise suspicions. How could she bear it? For the rest of her life, people would whisper behind their hands, wondering about her prolonged absence and only too eager to share their own opinion about whether Maria Rose Markham had been ruined and who had done it.

If Billy were here—

“He would be no help at all,” she whispered.

She abruptly put her face in her hands, trying hard not to cry. Tears were not the answer. She had already cried enough to know that.

“Miss?” the soldier in charge said from the doorway.

She looked up, startled and more than disconcerted that one of them might have witnessed her moment of weakness.

“The colonel said to leave this with you,” he said, crossing the room and handing her the padlock key.

She hesitated, then stood and took it.

“Colonel Woodard has the certification that you took the Oath of Allegiance on file in his office. He expects you to honor it—so try not to sell everything off before he gets here.”

Maria opened her mouth to say something and couldn’t. She was literally speechless. She might steal the colonel’s provisions if anyone she knew were going hungry and she thought she could get away with it—but she wouldn’t sell them.

The soldier grinned and touched the bill of his cap. “Good evening, miss. Oh, and your father is asking for his toddy.”

“You didn’t give him anything to drink, did you?” she asked, still insulted.

“Ah—no, miss.”

She looked at him. He grinned wider.

“I recognize you for the liar you are, Sir,” she said.

“Good evening, miss,” he said again, chuckling to himself as he led his muddy-footed subordinates out the front door.

Maria waited to make certain they had gone, then walked into the hallway, still holding the padlock key. She stood looking at the colonel’s pile of belongings. One leather case was quite large and didn’t appear to have a lock of any kind. It took a great deal of effort on her part not to see if she could open it. She liked to think she was an honorable person, regardless of her Pandora-like inclinations. She didn’t go around snooping in other people’s baggage—even if it did belong to a Yankee—but the temptation was great, nevertheless. She wasn’t interested in military secrets, only in knowing what sort of man this Woodard was, and there might be all manner of information about him in the case.

“Maria Rose!” her father yelled from upstairs. “My toddy!”

“I believe you have already had your toddy, Father!” she called back.

It took the better part of an hour to get him finally situated for the night—and even then she had to bribe him with a cigar in lieu of the spirits he wanted and listen to him expound on the trials and tribulations of having a “willful girl child” before he would agree to take himself off to bed.

She stayed downstairs and put out the lamps she had lit, after all. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—waste the precious oil on the belated colonel. To keep busy, she swept up the muddy footprints as best she could by candlelight, then made sure the doors were locked.

She didn’t dare go on up to bed. She sat dozing at the kitchen table instead. Everything was so quiet. Nothing but the ticking of the clock on the kitchen mantel and the creaks and cracks of the house settling. She had left one kitchen window open, and every now and then she could feel the faint stirring of a breeze. If she had been less tired, she might have wondered why the colonel was so late. As it was, she had reached a point beyond caring. She heard the clock strike ten, then dozed again.

She awoke to a whispered curse, and she abruptly lifted her head. The candle was nearly gone, but she could see the colonel clearly. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a railroad lantern.

“I need your help,” he said without prelude. “I had intended not to wake you, but since you’re awake—here, take this.” He awkwardly thrust the lantern into her hands. “If you’ll come outside and hold it so I can see.”

He didn’t wait for her to either acquiesce or refuse. He walked out the back door. She had little choice but to follow after him—out of curiosity if nothing else. His horse stood tied to the porch post.

“What is it?” she asked, growing more alarmed.

“My horse is lame.”

She held the lantern higher—because he took her arm and pushed it upward.

“How did you get into the house?” she asked as he bent down to examine the horse’s foreleg and lift its hoof. But there seemed to be more of a problem with his hands than with the horse.

“My new orderly, Perkins. He’s very resourceful. I don’t imagine there is a place in this town he can’t get into if he’s of a mind. If he weren’t in the army, he’d probably be in prison. Well, the leg feels all right—no injury that I can see. It think it’s a stone bruise. Can you undo the cinch?”

She gave him an incredulous look that was wasted in the dark.

“I am not a stable boy, Colonel Woodard,” she said evenly.

“I never said you were. I have injured my hands, and I don’t think I can do it myself. I was in the cavalry, Miss Markham. Regardless of my current duties, old lessons die hard. I must see to my mount no matter what. I don’t want him to stand all night with a saddle on his back. Perkins is off on other business. You are the only other person here at the moment, and you strike me as being reasonably competent. Can we not call a brief truce on behalf of this suffering animal?”

She thrust the lantern back at him so she could undo the cinch. She even pulled the saddle and blanket off while she was at it and dumped them on the back porch.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“He needs to be fed and watered,” he said without hesitation.

“Light the way,” she said, taking the horse by the bridle and coaxing it to limp the distance to the animal shed. She stopped at the trough long enough for it to drink, then urged it into the shed and put it into an empty stall. Her buggy horse, Nell, whinnied softly in the darkness.

“The bridle,” the colonel said behind her, before she could remove it.

She gave a quiet sigh and struggled to unbuckle the bridle, then handed it to him.

“Shine the lantern there,” she said, pointing to a barrel of corn in the corner.

She lifted the lid and reached inside—as much as she hated to when she couldn’t really see where she was putting her hands. It was a carry-over from her childhood, when she once lifted out a rat along with an ear of corn.

“Thank you,” he said as she dumped as much corn as she could grab in one swipe into the stall crib.

She made no effort to acknowledge his expression of gratitude. She pitched a small clump of hay into the crib instead and turned to go. Her only interest now was in taking her “reasonably competent” self back to the house. It wasn’t for his sake that she’d assumed livery duties. She had merely appreciated his remark about a truce and determined that none of God’s creatures should suffer needlessly—regardless of who the human owner might be.

The colonel followed along after her with the lantern.

“I need my trunk opened,” he said as they entered the kitchen. He awkwardly set the lantern on the table.

“It’s in the front hall—”

“The key is in my left shirt pocket.”

She stood looking at him, trying to read the expression on his face. He wasn’t ordering her to do anything—and yet he was. And she was certain that he at least suspected that she was afraid of him. He suspected, and for some reason he was determined to push her until he could make her show it.

But she refused to be pushed. She impulsively reached into his unbuttoned tunic to find the shirt pocket with the ring of keys. This close, he smelled of smoke and horse and tobacco. He needed a shave, and he was clearly exhausted.

“Which key is it?” she asked, avoiding his eyes.

“The one in your hand. It opens the big trunk. I need two rolls of muslin and the bottle of brandy—lower left-hand side.”

She took the lantern and went into the hall. She had wanted to poke through his belongings, and apparently she was going to get the opportunity.

Except that he came with her.

She unlocked the trunk with some difficulty and located the muslin and the brandy—all the while trying to glimpse his personal possessions. A daguerreotype, a book—anything that would validate her already low opinion of the man. She saw nothing but socks and vests—and drawers. He clearly didn’t mind her rummaging through his undergarments in the least. Fortunately, she had had enough brothers not to be alarmed by the sight of normally concealed male clothing.

When she stood up, he was already on his way back to the kitchen. She sighed again and followed, carrying the brandy and the muslin.

“A glass?” he asked. “I’m apt to break things if I look myself.”

She got him one from the shelf, amazed that he expected her to pour, too, and even more amazed that she complied. Her one-handed splash was generous; the spirits didn’t belong to her.

“That’s enough,” he said, holding up an injured hand.

But he didn’t take up the glass. He shrugged off his tunic and held out his arms for her to roll up his shirt-sleeves instead. The shirt was plain but finely sewn and made of a soft, closely woven muslin like the rolls she’d gotten from the trunk. There had been nothing like it available here since before the war.

“If you would be so kind as to bind up my hands,” he said, still waiting for her to get his sleeves out of the way. “The doctor suggests you soak the bandage in cold water first.”

She hesitated, in spite of the fact that she had the skill to do what was needed. The town had had a Wayside Hospital during the war. The trains carrying the wounded had arrived at all hours of the day and night. Even though she was a young, unmarried woman of good family, she had worked around the clock more than once dressing injuries that were so terrible—

She pushed the memory aside. Binding up a soldier’s wounds was an expertise she would have preferred never to have acquired.

Colonel Woodard stood waiting. He had asked—more or less—and she couldn’t, in good Christian conscience, deny him. Whatever small kindness she would extend to a dumb animal she would also extend to him—except that a good Christian conscience had nothing to do with it. She was going to do this for her own sake, for the chance, however remote, that this Yankee might pay his rent and thereby provide her father with the funds she needed to go away.

She rolled up his shirtsleeves. At first she thought his hands must have been burned, but that was not the case. They were very badly bruised and swollen.

She took down a bowl from the china cupboard and placed the rolls of muslin in it, then carried it to the water bucket and filled it full. She could feel the colonel watching her as she worked to saturate the bandages and squeeze out the water.

“Your hands will have to be wrapped tightly to stop the swelling,” she said. “I expect it will hurt,” she added, placing the beginning strip of wet muslin across his palm.

“No matter. That’s what the brandy is for.”

She glanced up at him. He seemed to be expecting her to do just that. She immediately lowered her head and concentrated on the wrapping. She was hurting him, and she knew it. After a moment he half sat on the edge of the table, his hand still extended. She realized suddenly that it was trembling.

“How did you do this?” she asked quietly.

“Someone collected full rain barrels in a wagon and brought them to the fire. The horses shied. My hands were in the way when the load shifted. But your town doctor assures me nothing is broken,” he added. His tone suggested that he didn’t necessarily believe it. “He also said you would be very capable at wrapping them—if I could get you to do it.”

She ignored the remark and tore a split in the last few inches of the muslin, then tied the two pieces in place around the back of his hand. He held out the other one. She wrapped more swiftly now, fully aware that he was inspecting her face while she worked, no doubt verifying his earlier opinion.

“You hate us, don’t you?” he asked.

She looked at him. It was a question he hardly need ask.

“As you do us,” she said after a moment, tearing another slit in the muslin and tying it securely across the back of his hand.

“Perhaps we both have good reason.”

She had nothing to say to that and turned to go.

“Wait,” he said. “I think we need to get the rules of the household established. It will save…misunderstandings later.”

“I see no reason for our separate living arrangements to interfere with each other—”

“They won’t be separate. I expect to be seated at your table for breakfast and—”

“My father is ill. We rarely sit down together in the mornings.”

“Then you will act in his stead—as you did today at the station. If I am to execute my duties well—if I am to put aside my prejudices—I must know and understand the people here. I will have questions and you can assist me with answers—assuming that you want to save your people as much grief as possible. I’m not Hatcher. Things will be different in this town from now on. I also expect to be included when you have guests here for dinner or whatever occasion.”

“Well, you may have to wait a while for that—since we’re all to be kept prisoners in our houses.”

“There are worst places to be imprisoned, Miss Markham,” he said, and in spite of herself she looked away.

“You need not worry about the added work or expense. You have the key to the larder. You may use those provisions freely whether I’m here or not. And my orderly will help you set a proper table or whatever else—”

“I don’t want your charity or your orderly’s help,” she said. “And I don’t want to suffer your presence any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“I’m sure you don’t—but I don’t think I made myself clear. I have the authority to elicit whatever assistance I need from the populace—as I see fit. And at the moment, I require yours. It’s not a matter for discussion.”

He watched her closely. She could sense how much he wanted her to oppose him, and it was all she could do to keep quiet. Her body trembled with anger.

When she said nothing, he abruptly picked up the glass of brandy she’d poured for him and drained it. “Now. If you would show me where I am to sleep—so that I don’t go stumbling about and wake your father,” he said in a deliberate attempt to make it impossible for her to refuse.

She picked up the lantern and walked briskly down the hall and up the stairs, and she didn’t stop until she’d opened the door to the bedchamber off the second-story porch. It had once been hers—until Hatcher appropriated it. She now considered it contaminated and fit only for the likes of his replacement.

“This will do,” Colonel Woodard said behind her. He pushed past her, immediately lay down on the bed as he was, boots and all. And, without giving her a backward glance, he fell immediately asleep.