Cheryl Reavis (7 page)

“I am merely trying to find my way, sir. I don’t know how I got here. I didn’t even know where
here
was until a few minutes ago.”

“Your family approves of this…fortuitous…alliance
with my grandson, I take it,” he said sarcastically.

“I have no family now,” Abiah answered.

“No? With no experienced hand to guide you, I must say I’m hard-pressed to see how this matrimonial arrangement—if, indeed, there is one—could have possibly come about.”

“Thomas came to see about us—my mother and me—as soon after the battle at Fredericksburg as he could. He found her dead in the house and me too ill to do anything for either of us. He and his sergeant buried her in the kitchen herb garden—and then they brought me back across the river and into the Union lines. He did so to save my life. It was indeed a very fortuitous alliance, sir. I would be dead if not for Thomas Harrigan. And when he realized the damage done to my reputation by his very brave and kind act, he tried to save that, as well. Yes, I do believe my mother would very much approve. She held him in high regard—”

“You mean she held his supposed inheritance in high regard!”

“I
mean
that he didn’t ride on the coattails of your family name or your reputation to earn her respect. He was always welcome at our house and I—I…” She was still sitting upright near the edge of the bed. She swayed for a moment, then fell back heavily onto the pillows.

Mrs. Harrigan gave a small cry. Abiah was very sorry to have alarmed her, but there was nothing she
could do about it. She could hear Mrs. Harrigan’s voice, but it came from very far away.

“Bonnie, fetch the doctor! Abiah!”

The room whirled around and around, and a rolling blackness crept into her field of vision.

“Clarissa, I refuse to be dragged into this! What proof do you have she is Thomas’s wife?”

“The lawyer who brought her, Father—”

“Whom you had to pay handsomely for the wonderful news, no doubt. You are painfully ignorant of the ways of this world, Clarissa!”

“Hardly
my
fault, Father,” Mrs. Harrigan said.

“Judge, what have you done to my patient?” a different voice demanded.

“I?”
the judge demanded in return.

Abiah turned her face away. She was too tired to listen to any further discord.

“Yes, you! She wasn’t in this state before you started your cross-examination, now was she? This is a sickroom, not a courtroom. And you,” the man whispered to Abiah. “What have
you
done to the judge?” He picked up her wrist and held it between his thumb and fingers.

“I kept my…promise,” she said.

“Which was?”

“Not to let Judge Winthrop…bully me.”

The man laughed out loud. “And a fine job you’ve done, too—but at some cost.” He let her wrist go. “Clarissa, we need to be very diligent about feeding her. Very soft foods—boiled potatoes, soups, broths. I want her to have a small feeding of some such thing
now and then every two hours during the day and as desired during the night, all right?”

“Yes, certainly,” Mrs. Harrigan said.

“Unless, of course, the judge has decided to throw her out into the street. What about it, Judge Winthrop? Your only grandson’s new bride? This lovely refugee from the very battlefield in Virginia? What an interesting story for the front page of the
Baltimore American
—not to mention the
Washington Star
—don’t you think?”

“I don’t find you particularly amusing, Nethen.”

“Nor I you, Judge. But be that as it may. Is she staying here with her husband’s family or shall I cart her away to the poorhouse?”

The judge made a sound of annoyance and strode out of the room.

“Dr. Nethen,” Mrs. Harrigan said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so hard on him. My father is finding this all very…difficult.”

The doctor chuckled. “My dear Clarissa,” he said, shaking his head. “That is obvious. I thought the plan was that he would be ‘prepared’ for his new houseguest.”

“I never got the chance. Elizabeth Channing was here when Abiah arrived. I fear she met the judge at the gate with the news.”

“Ah, well,” he said. “You and I shall just have to take it as it comes. And you, too,” he said to Abiah. “Young Mrs. Captain Harrigan, I order you to rest easy. We are not any of us out of the woods yet.”

Abiah managed a smile, knowing she should probably
worry more about being out of the house than out of the woods. The judge had made it very clear that she wasn’t welcome here—not an unexpected response, since he thought she had either lied about being Thomas’s wife or had tricked him into marriage.

She gave a quiet sigh.. Perhaps the latter wasn’t all that far from the truth. Even if she hadn’t precisely tricked him, she had certainly taken advantage of his sense of duty and obligation. But if she’d been capable of making any kind of protest at all, she would
not
have come here.

She closed her eyes. For the moment, she had no choice but to remain here, at least until she was carted off to the poorhouse. She had no one in this world to call upon for sanctuary—except perhaps Miss Gwen. Gwendolyn Pembroke was a distant cousin on Abiah’s mother’s side of the family, a quaint old dear who seemed to have been left over from the last century. Abiah had only met her once, when she came to visit—with a pair of beagle hounds—the summer before Fort Sumter.

Miss Gwen lived in New Bern, a town on the North Carolina coast. It had only recently fallen into federal hands. Burnside had been there, too, and if one could believe the rumors that followed the battle, he had allowed the town to be set upon and looted before he officially took control. Poor Miss Gwen. Living in a town occupied by an enemy army wouldn’t suit her at all—any more than living near occupied Falmouth had suited Abiah and her mother. Abiah needed to write
to Miss Gwen and tell her what had happened to her relatives.

But not now. Now she could only lie here and worry. She wondered where Thomas might be at this moment. He’d followed Burnside at Fredericksburg and later marched with him out of Falmouth to who knew where. He could very well be participating in more of the same sort of havoc that had fallen upon New Bern. Abiah supposed that he would do whatever he had to do. He was a soldier—and an enemy soldier at that.

She sighed again. Fort Sumter had become a kind of giant landmark in her consciousness. Everything in her life seemed to be divided into two categories—before Fort Sumter and after. Or perhaps now it would be before and after she married Thomas Harrigan. She loved Thomas, but she didn’t want to stay in his grandfather’s house. She wanted so desperately to go home, but as long as she remained ill, not to mention penniless, she would have no choice but to remain here. When she was well again, she would somehow take herself home to Virginia. The Calder house was the only thing she had left. If she were waiting there, in the one place Thomas had thought of as home, then perhaps he would come to her—if he could. She had no expectation at all that he would come here.

She heard music suddenly—someone elaborately playing the piano downstairs.

The salon,
she thought Thomas had told her about them, about the eclectic gatherings of the very prominent,
and apparently the musically talented, in his grandfather’s drawing room.

“My dear,” Clarissa Harrigan said, and Abiah looked at her. They were alone in the room now. Abiah hadn’t even noticed the doctor going.

“Guire, too?” Mrs. Harrigan asked quietly.

Abiah nodded, afraid suddenly that she would cry.

“I’m so very sorry. He was a fine young man. I was always happy that he and Thomas were friends. This terrible war—” She broke off. “Well, I’ll go see about getting you something to eat now. Doctor’s orders, you know,” she added with a slight smile. “And Abiah,” she said when she reached the door. “You mustn’t worry. Our dear Elizabeth Channing knows you’re here—which means so does half of Easton and probably all of St. Michaels. She’s seen to it that the people who are downstairs at this very moment have heard. The judge can’t put you out in light of all that interest—no matter how much he may want to.”

“D
o you feel up to having a visitor?” the doctor asked when he’d finished counting her pulse.

Abiah looked at him warily.

“No, it’s not the judge,” he said. “Someone closer to your own age.”

She had to work hard not to show her relief. She appreciated that Dr. Nethen understood her reluctance to see Thomas’s grandfather again. Their last encounter could hardly be described as amicable. It had begun as before, with the judge assuring her that she would rue the day she’d put her trust in a Harrigan. It had ended with Abiah quoting the eighteenth chapter of Ezekiel. She could tell by the way the door slammed after him that biblical arguments were not acceptable in this particular court—particularly when the Good Book went contrary to the judge’s own opinion.

“A change in routine would be good for you. You need to have your senses provoked,” the doctor persisted.

It was Abiah’s opinion that her senses had been provoked
quite enough of late.
He
should try dueling with Judge Winthrop or waking up hundreds of miles from where he believed himself to be. But the real truth of the matter was that she was tired. She knew that she must be improving physically—it had been days since she’d suffered a noticeable fever—but her state of mind was something else again. And it wasn’t caused by worrying about Gertie and Zachariah Wilson, or even whether or not Thomas was safe. She just felt so ill at ease here. And having to be on her guard all the time so as not to do something that would reflect badly on Thomas was absolutely exhausting.

“The young lady who inquires is Miss Elizabeth Channing. She wishes to call upon you if you’re feeling up to it. I can find no reason for you not to receive her for a brief visit, if you so desire.”

Abiah drew a quiet breath. She supposed this was the price she must pay for having come here so precipitously. Naturally, people would be curious, and naturally, the first one to seek her out would be the person who had apparently taken it upon herself to make Abiah’s presence known among the locals and the salon guests alike.

Abiah knew what this was all about—and it had nothing to do with one’s Christian duty to make a visitation upon the sick. This was an expedition of sorts to capture
the
topic for the next salon, so that this Miss Channing could present, in a dramatic recitation, perhaps, a lengthy description of Thomas Harrigan’s new bride. Abiah had no wish to participate in that, not when even she didn’t think of herself in that
way. A “bride” was someone desired and longed for—not a millstone whose only incontestable attribute was…

Actually, there was no incontestable attribute, as far as Abiah could tell.

“I don’t so desire,” she said, and Dr. Nethen looked at her.

“Are my physician’s skills not so finely honed, after all?” he asked. “Are you not as improved as I thought?”

“I have no wish to be put on display,” she said bluntly.

“Display? But you wouldn’t…oh, yes, I see,” Dr. Nethen answered abruptly. “I suppose there would be a certain aspect of parading the enemy captive through the streets in chains, wouldn’t there? Very well. I’ll tell Miss Channing that she may
not
call on you just yet. Perhaps at a later time…”

He seemed to wait for her approval of that statement. Abiah didn’t say anything.

“If you have no complaints you wish me to hear, then I’ll be on my way.”

“No complaints,” she said, at least none she wished to share with him.

He smiled. “I wish my other patients were so inclined. It’s quite refreshing. Have you still not had news of Thomas?” he asked.

Still.

The way he said the word let her know that her not having received even one letter from Thomas since she arrived had been the topic of discussion somewhere.
She had written to him when she was barely strong enough to hold the pen, and every few days since, but so far, there had been no reply. And she needed one. She had arrived here with nothing but the clothes on her back. The book, the shawl, the letter Thomas had given her containing the legal papers hadn’t made the trip. She had no proof, save her word and the lawyer’s communication with Mrs. Harrigan, that she and Thomas had ever married. It was no wonder that a man as skeptical as the judge would have his doubts. She herself sometimes found it hard to believe.

“No,” she said. “I have not”

“Well, the army is in winter quarters now. I do know that much. Surely we won’t have to worry about his going into battle again for a while. I expect you’ll hear from him soon—the mails do go awry.”

“Yes,” she said. But any reason she could invent as to why he hadn’t answered her letters only led to more worry.

“Is Miss Channing a Winthrop relative?” she abruptly asked.

“No, why?”

“I seem to hear her name a lot. You and Mrs. Harrigan have mentioned her. And when I ask about the mail, sometimes Bonnie says, ‘Miss Channing hasn’t fetched it yet.’ I thought perhaps she was someone’s kin and staying here.”

He frowned slightly. “I didn’t realize Elizabeth fancied herself a letter courier. Still, these are trying times and we must all do our part. She lives in that rather formidable granite house on the adjoining property.
You can just see it if you look out that window—through the trees on the far side of the bowling green. Her father and the judge have from time to time been business partners, I understand. I always thought Mr. Channing strongly favored an alliance—” He stopped abruptly. “Well, I suppose even Elizabeth wishes to be helpful.” He looked at his pocket watch and compared it to the clock on the mantel. “Your gears are meshing nicely, but you’re running a bit on the slow side,” he advised her, and she smiled, used to his wit now.

“I must go make my report to your host—unless you want to do it,” he said, still teasing.

“I think not,” Abiah assured him.

“Very wise,” he said. “Very wise, indeed. And don’t give yourself a moment’s concern about the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“Saying no to Miss Elizabeth Channing.” He rolled his eyes to make her laugh. “My dear, it is simply
not
done.”

Abiah had no intention of concerning herself about Elizabeth Channing. She had to concentrate on getting well, and subsequently on getting home. What extra energy she could muster went into letting the days fall into whatever routine suited the household. She tried not to be an inconvenience, and her growing loneliness was alleviated only by the music from the salons that always seemed to be going on. It was the only thing she had to look forward to. Even listening from a distance she could understand why invitations here were
so prized. Thus far, she’d eavesdropped upon a pianist, a harpist, several violinists and a very strong voiced soprano. And she had enjoyed them all.

She felt that she must surely be better, because enough of her vanity had resurrected itself for her now to take some pains with the braiding of her hair. And, with Bonnie’s help, every afternoon she moved unsteadily to the horsehair fainting couch brought in to give her some respite from having to lie abed all the time. The days stretched long, and the nights even longer. She remembered a remark old Miss Gwen once made the time she came to visit.

Sick people are afraid of the night.

Perhaps so, Abiah thought. But it wasn’t fear, exactly, that kept her awake. It was the isolation, the profound knowledge that she did
not
belong here.

Today she sat looking out the tall, second-story window. A steady rain had been falling since dawn and showed no sign of abating. The rain and the bleak winter landscape only added to the aching nostalgia that oppressed her. She continued to write to Thomas—an ongoing missive that she added to every day, until it was finally substantial enough to mail. She said very little about her situation. Mostly, she reminisced about the past, selecting one stellar incident for each letter—stellar for her, at least—and writing it down for him in vivid detail.

In the latest one, she described a winter dance that he probably didn’t even remember. It was the one when she had finally been allowed to put up her hair. The house had smelled of spice cake, red cedar boughs
and coffee. The fiddler had played a waltz, and Thomas had come looking for her, because he had promised most sincerely to escort Guire’s little sister onto the dance floor at her first grown-up dance.

“Sweet Miss Abiah,” he’d said when he found her. “I believe you are promised to me for this one.”

Abiah could still remember his hand in hers, warm and strong, as he led her to the middle of the room. It was the only time she had ever been in his arms, except when he had stolen her across the Rappahannock. She barely remembered that, but she remembered the waltz. It was something sad and haunting, in the key of A minor. Thomas had smiled at her slightly in that way he had, and his eyes—oh, his beautiful dark eyes! She had been lost in them. She was still lost in them. How could he not have known how she felt about him? She remembered enough of her deathbed declarations to know that he hadn’t.

Thomas
—

She looked around sharply, because the red door to the hallway suddenly opened. A young woman wearing a hooded cloak swept into the room with a basket over her arm. The woman’s cloak was dark brown, but Abiah was still reminded of Red Riding Hood. She had no idea who the stranger was, and they stared at each other.

“Abiah?” the young woman finally said. “May I call you Abiah? It’s such a beautiful name—is it biblical? Can you ever forgive me for not waiting for Clarissa to introduce us? It seems there’s some crisis in the kitchen.” She paused long enough to smile, but
not long enough for Abiah to answer any of her questions.

“I am your neighbor, Elizabeth Channing. I’ve heard so very much about you. I said to everyone that I simply had to come and see if there was anything at all I could do for Thomas’s poor wife. You see?” she said, lifting her basket higher. “I’ve come bearing gifts. May I join you for just a bit?” She plopped the basket down on the bare floor.

“This rain is such a burden. I do believe I am ruined,” she continued, regardless of the fact that she bore no evidence of it. “You should be glad you don’t have to venture out into it. I suppose we need it, but…” She gave a heavy sigh, and Abiah tried not to smile. Elizabeth Channing was exquisite in looks and dress, and well she knew it. Her honey gold hair was perfect in spite of the inclement weather—although Abiah suspected a hairpiece or two in the cascade of curls. Miss Channing wore a blue-and-brown-plaid taffeta dress over a huge crinoline. Abiah had all but forgotten about crinolines. She had donated hers to the war effort early on, and she supposed that they must now be part of some Confederate cannon somewhere. All the women she knew had done the same. She had grown accustomed to seeing herself and everybody else shaped more like sticks than bells, and she had completely forgotten how much floor space a crinoline demanded.

Miss Channing’s very wide skirts rustled and swayed as she came closer. The dress was adorned with a single blue bow at the lace collar—specifically
to accent her eyes, Abiah guessed. And regardless of her declarations about being “ruined,” she had prepared herself very well for her outing by covering her expensive frock with that equally expensive, fulllength sealskin cloak, which she took off carefully so that Abiah might have enough time to appreciate it. Abiah tried not to sigh. Her sense that she was somehow trapped in a topsy-turvy Red Riding Hood story was growing by the minute. Unfortunately,
she
was the poor old grandmother about to be eaten by the big bad wolf.

“You are very kind,” Abiah said, determined to get a word in somewhere. Thus far, conversation with this person was very much like conversation with the judge. They both were interested only in what
they
had to say. “Please sit down. Did you walk over?”

“Walk? Oh, heavens no. I never
walk.
Do you?” Miss Channing asked earnestly, as if this were a piece of information she particularly required.

“I do. Or I did, when I was well. I’m a country girl. We country girls always walk places.”

“Oh, I see. But really—you look absolutely lovely. One would hardly recognize that you’ve been ill. And did…Thomas walk, as well?”

“He did,” Abiah said, admiring the speed with which Miss Channing got to what she really wanted to discuss.

“You’ve known him…long?” Elizabeth Channing persisted.

“About six years.”

“Six! Well, I am surprised. I don’t think I ever heard Thomas mention—” She abruptly smiled.

Abiah smiled in return. She was surprised herself—primarily that Dr. Nethen had so blatantly ignored her wish to be left alone. But the doctor had been right. She did need her senses provoked. And here she was, about to let herself be dragged into an overtly polite but thinly disguised, duel-to-the-death exchange of barbed remarks—which she was going to enjoy immensely.

“You’re from Virginia, is that right?” Miss Channing asked next.

“Yes. Near Fredericksburg.”

“I suppose Thomas went there often. Before the war, I mean.”

“Actually,” Abiah said, “when a visitor once asked my mother if Thomas and my brother, Guire, were her sons, she answered, ‘Well, one of them is—but I forget which one.’”

“Oh, she had difficulty with her memory. How sad. I had an aunt like that.”

Touché,
Abiah thought, never for a moment believing this person had missed the point.

“Tell me, is Thomas better now?” Miss Channing asked.

“Better?”

“His bad cough. Is it better?”

Abiah stared at her, knowing she was caught uninformed. This king-of-the-hill game they had been playing suddenly wasn’t much fun anymore.

“I believe it began just after that awful ‘mud march’
or whatever the papers call it,” Miss Channing said, pressing her advantage. “I understand it was quite severe. What does he tell you?”

“I—”

“Excuse me, Abiah,” Mrs. Harrigan said from the doorway. “ I thought I heard your voice, Elizabeth. I believe Thomas may not have mentioned his cough to Abiah because he didn’t feel it advisable to worry her.”