Christina Miller - An Inconvenient Marriage

Samuel’s wedding-day jitters erased any mercy he might otherwise have shown. He widened his stance and cleared his throat. When the young man in gray caught his eye, Samuel crossed his arms over his chest and issued the same dark, silent warning he’d given Absalom earlier today.

After sneering at Samuel, the youth shifted his gaze toward Emma again and then skulked off.

He would bear watching.

Absalom caught Samuel’s attention then as he exited the carriage with a woman about Samuel’s age, her hair the same color as the young man’s. As she stepped to the ground, her giant purple hat bobbed with her effort.

Oversize hats, overlong hair—this family’s tastes certainly leaned toward the peculiar.

“Is that the Fighting Chaplain?” The woman’s strident stage whisper carried to Samuel and, no doubt, beyond.

Absalom took her arm and tried to propel her toward the gallery. But she pulled away and headed toward Samuel, batting her eyelashes in a way that made him unsure if she was trying for his attention or merely had a speck of dust in her eye. “I’m Absalom’s wife, Drusilla Adams, and you saw my son, Beau, a moment ago. I’ve heard all about your exploits...”

As she chattered on about what she thought she knew of his war experience, she gazed at Samuel the same way the young man had looked at Emma. The thought unnerved him and he turned to Absalom for his reaction to his wife’s behavior. To Samuel’s disgust, the man merely pulled a fat cigar from within his coat and cut off his wife midsentence.

“We’re here to make sure this marriage is legal.” Absalom lit his cigar and pointed it at Samuel’s rented carriage. “And to give you a word of advice from a native. You think you’re being pious, driving a ten-year-old, cheap phaeton and looking like you don’t care about earthly goods. But your church is full of Natchez aristocracy, and they’ll expect better.”

Samuel held back the harsh words that wanted to explode from his lips. “Nobody has any money in the South, Adams. Including Natchez. These people won’t require me to—”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Take a look at my landau.” Absalom waved the stinking cigar at his carriage. “Belonged to Jeff Davis. I paid a small fortune for it, but I felt sorry for his wife, Verina, since she’s trying to raise bail money for Jeff. She’s a Natchez girl—a friend of mine. In fact, Jeff’s plantation is next door to this estate.”

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.