Cheryl Reavis - Harrigan's Bride

“Yes,” Thomas said, without looking at him. His eyes still held Abiah’s, and whatever indecision remained suddenly left her.

For better or worse till death do us part, she thought.

The ceremony began in earnest, but it was an obviously shortened version, to accommodate Thomas’s lack of time and her illness. Because of their proximity to the kitchen, Abiah could smell bread baking. She wondered idly if many weddings took place with the aroma of baking bread wafting through. She glanced briefly at the people who stood witness. Gertie, who looked sad enough to cry, and La Broie, who stood ramrod straight next to Gertie and watched her intently. Hardened soldier or not, the man was clearly smitten.

Interesting, Abiah thought. La Broie so enamored, and Gertie so oblivious to it.

Abiah glanced at Mrs. Wilson, with her longsuffering countenance, and made a mental note. Should she and Thomas ever actually live together as man and wife, she would not go around looking like that. She wondered idly if Mr. Wilson was somewhere at hand, too. She hadn’t met him, either, though Gertie had assured her when they first came to the house to stay that she wouldn’t want to.

Abiah turned her attention to the second chaplain.

How determined he is, she thought.

He had offered no call to the ceremony, no “Dearly Beloved…” He had asked for no declaration of consent, no “Wilt thou have this woman…” He had gone straight to the marriage pledge.

Repeat after me.

“I, Thomas, take thee, Abiah…”

Thomas’s voice was strong, unwavering. Whatever happened in the future, she would always remember that he’d said the words with a surety that belied the true situation.

Then it was her turn, and she hesitated too long—long enough to alarm Thomas and everyone else in the room. She abruptly squeezed his hand.

“I, Abiah, take thee, Thomas…”

The last chaplain, Holmes, concluded the ritual with a prayer, and suddenly it was over and done. Abiah immediately looked at Thomas, searching for some indication as to whether or not he was now filled with regret.

But he only smiled and shook everyone’s hand. Then he signed the marriage record and held the book for her to do the same.

“Are you all right, Abby?”

“Tired,” she said, trying to smile. She wanted to say something to Mrs. Wilson, to thank her for her charity and hospitality, but the woman had already opened the door and stepped into the hall. Abiah’s attention was taken then by Sergeant La Broie, who solemnly clasped her hand.

“I’m wishing you health and happiness, ma’am,” he said.

“You’ll watch over Thomas?” she whispered. “Keep him safe?”

“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Harrigan, darling,” he assured her. “I ask the same favor of you. You watch over our Gertie.”

Abiah smiled. The man was completely smitten, she thought again, and she certainly had a profound empathy for anyone in that state. “I will,” she said.

“Pete,” Gertie said. “Don’t let all those people come in here. Miss Abiah needs to rest now.”

He immediately went to stop any uninvited wedding guests from pushing their way inside.

“I forgot, Mrs. Harrigan,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “There’s a wedding present out here for you.”

“A wedding present?”

She looked at Thomas, who was reading the letter La Broie had given him earlier.

“It’s from Johnny Miller,” Thomas said.

La Broie was already bringing the gift in. She recognized it immediately. It was her own cedar hope chest, the one made for her fourteenth birthday by her grandfather Calder. Like most girls that age, she had immediately begun filling it with linens and quilts for that time in the seemingly distant future when she would marry. Seeing it again, when she’d thought everything in the abandoned house had likely been plundered by both armies, brought her close to crying.

“Johnny went to the house and got it,” Thomas said. “Then he bribed a civilian from Fredericksburg to bring it across the river. Put it here, La Broie, where she can see it.”

“How do you know that?” Abiah asked.

“It’s in his letter,” he said, holding up the envelope La Broie had given him. “The letter was for me. The chest, for you.”

“What else does he say?”

“He…wishes us every happiness.”

She smiled. “He was there—the day my grandfather gave the chest to me. And he and Guire teased me so about being an ugly old maid and not needing such a fine piece of furniture. And Mother was…” She stopped and took a quiet breath. She didn’t want to reminisce about the past, even if the past was likely all she would ever have.

The sound of laughter and loud singing burst forth again from the direction of the kitchen.

“I guess more people knew about the wedding than I thought,” she said after a moment.

“I dare say,” he agreed. He was standing so awkwardly, as if he wanted to take his leave, but wasn’t quite sure how to do it.

“I…have a gift for you, too,” he said, and he reached into his pocket—for his watch. He opened it to check the time and then looked at the door.

“If you have to go now, it’s—” she began.

“Sir!” La Broie said abruptly in the doorway, making her jump.

“You must overlook the sergeant, Abby,” Thomas said, taking the bundle La Broie tossed to him. “Believe me, he all too often comes and goes like that.”

He lay the bundle on her lap. “It isn’t much. There aren’t too many things here to buy.”

She took the string off and unrolled enough of the muslin wrapping to reveal a green book. The title was printed diagonally across it in gold leaf: The Scottish Chiefs. It was beautiful.

“The story of William Wallace, by Miss Jane Porter. I always wanted to read this,” she said. “There was only one copy at school. I never got the chance.”

“I thought maybe you’d had enough of men writers and you’d like a woman’s perspective for a change.”

She smiled, running her fingers over the exquisitely tooled designs in the green leather cover—ivy and oak leaves and acorns, an exotic bird with long tail feathers that curved down across the banner with the title. She looked up at him. She loved books—almost as much as she loved him. “Thank you, Thomas.”

“And the other thing…” He lifted a knitted white wool shawl with a delicate lace edge free of the muslin. “It’s…well, it isn’t much, but I hope you like it.”

She leaned forward so that he could drape it around her shoulders. “It’s beautiful. Thank you again. I wish I had something for you.”

“Not necessary,” he said, pulling the chair around and sitting down again. “There’s one more thing here.” He unfolded the muslin the rest of the way, and took out an envelope. “This is the name of my lawyer in Boston. And the one here in Falmouth who will take care of your expenses. I’ve included my mother’s address in Maryland, if you should need to contact her. And there’s a copy of my will.” He was very careful not to look at her. “There’s also a note with my proper address. I would like it very much if you would write to me if—when—you feel up to it.”

“You’re in the wrong army, Thomas. How…?”

“There’s a chance that a letter will get to me as long as Falmouth remains in Union hands.” He finally let his eyes meet hers.

So sad, she thought. Still so sad. She nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice and because she was so tired.

“I’ve brought your toddy, Miss Abiah,” Gertie said from the doorway, making a much less startling entrance than La Broie had. “And some very fine sipping whiskey for you, Captain Harrigan—from Mr. Zachariah Wilson, you might say. A little something to mark the occasion.”