The Bride Fair Page 14

  He heard Perkins come in and go to his place under the stairs. He should have told Maria to send the sergeant major to fetch the doctor if her father required him during the night—and he would have, if she’d given him half the chance.

  At one point he picked up John Howe’s letter. It was dry now, but the ink had smeared in places. He attempted to read it. The man was still happy. Max could tell that much.

  and you must take care while you remain there in the town, John wrote. …if you are of no mind to take a wife. There is something very compelling about Rebel women—particularly the ones who desperately need your help, but would rather die than say so. When they turn their eyes upon you, eyes filled with a sadness that perhaps you and your kind have caused, it is most hard to resist. Believe me, my friend, I know…

  Max skimmed the readable parts of the letter again, then put it aside. He was suddenly overcome with sleepiness, after all. He went and stretched out across the bed, not bothering to turn it down.

  He woke to bright sunshine and giggling. Both Joe and Jake sat on the foot of the bed. He had no idea when they’d come in. He still had a soldier’s wariness even in sleep—or so he thought. He must have been extremely tired to have let two little boys sneak up on him.

  He sat on the side of the bed, wondering where the hell Perkins was. He didn’t have to wonder long. The sergeant major appeared with a pot of coffee almost immediately.

  “Whoa, Sir!” Perkins said when he saw the boys. “Where did these two come from? How did these rascals get in here?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Max said.

  He glanced at the boys. They both grinned. “Any news regarding Mr. Markham?”

  “The surgeon’s come already this morning, Sir. Him and the town doctor both. I don’t think there’s much change.”

  “We like coffee,” Joe said as Perkins handed Max a cup.

  “You’re too young for coffee,” Max said.

  “We like baby coffee,” Joe amended. “Don’t we, Jake?”

  “Baby coffee,” Jake assured him.

  “And what would ‘baby coffee’ be?”

  “Mostly milk and sugar, Sir,” Perkins said.

  Both boys were looking at him hopefully. “Can you find some for these two, Sergeant Major?”

  “I can, Sir.”

  “Good,” Max said. “Go with Perkins then.”

  They clearly liked the sound of that and hopped down immediately. Both boys were wearing—Max didn’t know quite what they were wearing. Maria’s blouses perhaps.

  “Have you seen Miss Markham this morning?” Max asked as Perkins herded the boys out the door.

  “Not exactly, Sir. I heard her. I reckon she’s sick again. Oh, and I brought you another mail pouch, Sir. It got overlooked when they delivered the first one. I thought you might want to look at it here—get a head start, so to speak.”

  Max nodded absently, thinking about Maria. He took the mail pouch and sat down by the window with his coffee. There was a morning breeze coming in, in spite of the lateness of the day.

  He opened the pouch and began looking through the letters in it. There was another one from Kate—

  He suddenly looked up.

  I reckon she’s sick again.

  Sick.

  Again.

  Like Kate used to be. By God, exactly like Kate used to be.

  Mrs. Russell had noticed it. She had wanted to lay the change in Maria Markham’s well-being at his door. It wasn’t overwork that had caused her to suddenly be so “puny.”

  Maria Markham was pregnant.

  No, he thought immediately, not because he wasn’t certain of the similarities between her behavior since he’d arrived and Kate’s, but because he didn’t want to consider who the man might be.

  No, he thought again. Surely not.

  Maria Markham wasn’t that kind of woman.

  And neither was Kate.

  How could Mrs. Russell and the rest of the old biddies in this town have missed it?

  Actually, he knew how. The same way he and his mother and father had missed recognizing Kate’s condition for so long. It was the sheer improbability of it.

  Maria—

  Had someone charmed her into it?

  Canfield?

  He dismissed that possibility immediately, regardless of recent events.

  Perhaps she had been forced. Hatcher—or some other occupation soldier.

  He knew from reviewing the military records just after he arrived that there were few complaints—even minor ones—of any soldiers molesting the decent women of the town. Max had assumed that the women either didn’t report it or Hatcher had purged the records—or never documented the complaint in the first place. The men here were a long way from home, and Rebel females were intriguing at the very least. Max had no reason whatsoever to believe that the men of the United States Army had suddenly become a pack of saints.

  He remembered suddenly when he had carried Maria upstairs after her fainting episode at the literary society meeting. All the longing in her voice when she’d said her fiancé’s name. Maria Markham was not a cold woman. Perhaps there was someone who reminded her of the martyred fiancé, and she had simply…succumbed.

  It didn’t really matter, of course. All that mattered was whether or not she was carrying a child. And if she was, then she was in one hell of a fix.

  He gave a sharp exhalation of breath, and he realized that Perkins had returned.

  “Sir?” Perkins said when Max glanced at him.

  “Hot water,” Max said. “I’m ready to shave.”

  He went through the motions, but his mind wasn’t on his usual morning ritual at all. When he was through and wiping the last bit of soap from his face, he heard a noise behind him. He looked around to see Maria standing in the still-open doorway.

  She didn’t enter.

  “I’m looking for Joe and Jake. Mrs. Russell said they came in here,” she said, letting her gaze briefly meet his and slide away. She looked so pale and tired. Perhaps it was just fatigue. And the grief and worry about her father’s illness, he thought. And all the while he knew better. It was so clear to him now.

  “They were here,” he said. “My information is that they are now somewhere partaking of ‘baby coffee.’”

  “I’m sorry they disturbed you.” She dared to look into his eyes again, but the contact was fleeting at best.

  “It wasn’t a problem.”

  She was looking at him gravely—and she was…not leaving.

  “I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Russell,” he said, since she had given him an opening.

  She continued to look at him, and he took that for a certain receptiveness on her part.

  “You know about this matter between Mrs. Russell’s daughter and De Graff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it one-sided?”

  “One-sided?”

  “Yes. Is it all De Graff’s doing with no encouragement on the Russell girl’s part.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Is there anything I can do? Speak to Mrs. Russell, perhaps.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No,” she said again. “It wouldn’t help. Nothing will help. Even if Mrs. Russell could be persuaded to be more receptive to their courtship—which I assure you she can’t—Major De Graff has ruined his chances. There would still be the matter of Nell—Eleanor Hansen. Everyone knows about what happened on the street. The major’s behavior toward her indicated a…history between the two of them. It’s public knowledge now. No one will forget it.”

  “I see,” Max said. Then, “No, I don’t see. How is it that there are both elements in this town?”

  “Elements?”

  “Yes, elements. Women who are stampeding to get their daughters married off to my officers and then women like Mrs. Russell.”

  “Necessity,” Maria said simply. “There aren’t a lot of men left here to marry, and times are hard. Some women seek the most prosperous and well-situated husbands
for their daughters they can find—even if they are…former enemies.”

  “And some would rather see their daughters dead first.”

  “Yes,” she said bluntly. “I have something I would like to say to you.”

  Max looked at her. “Very well.”

  “The boys are very taken with you. I ask you not to encourage it.”

  It wasn’t what he was expecting, and it surprised him how insulted he felt. “Why?”

  “Because they have lost their mother and they have a drunkard for a father. They are looking for attention wherever they can find it. It’s better if they don’t come to rely on you for it—or for anything. You have no reason to let them become attached to you—and every reason not to. Please don’t encourage them. I don’t want them to suffer any more losses in their lives.”

  They stared at each other across the room.

  “Do you understand?” she asked after a moment.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Good,” she said.

  “But I think perhaps you are too late. I think they are already…attached.”

  She had nothing to say to that, regardless of how much she clearly wanted to, and she abruptly left.

  Max didn’t see her for the rest of the day. He stayed at headquarters late, and when he returned, the house was very quiet. A different pair of women greeted him at the door and advised him that the children were asleep—as they should be—and that Miss Markham had gone to Suzanne Canfield’s wake. Mr. Markham was resting.

  Max wanted to ask about Phelan Canfield—what kind of state he was in—but he didn’t. He asked about the funeral instead.

  “It will be a house service, Colonel,” one of the women said. “At the Kinnards’.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow at two. There was no need to delay. There are no out-of-town relatives who needed time to arrive.”

  “Is it by invitation?”

  “Yes,” one woman said.

  “No,” the other one said at the same time.

  The two women looked at each other.

  “I’m asking if I may attend,” Max said bluntly.

  “Well…I—Mrs. Kinnard has large rooms—but not so large as to be able to seat the same number of guests as the church could accommodate—” the first woman said.

  “Could you make inquiries and let me know? I would like to pay my respects, but I don’t wish to intrude or give insult.”

  He left them to twitter over his request. He had said that he wouldn’t hide from whatever blame he bore in Suzanne Canfield’s death, and he meant it. And, even if he were barred from attending her funeral, the town would surely know that he’d been civilized enough to ask to come.

  There was no sign of Maria the next morning. He left for headquarters early, and shortly before eleven, a black-bordered invitation written in an elegant script was hand-delivered to him at headquarters. He worked until well after one, then went to the Markham house to change into his best uniform. Maria was not on the premises. Nor were the boys.

  Did children attend funerals here? he wondered. He didn’t know and didn’t ask.

  He did remain long enough to speak to Mr. Markham. The old man seemed more frail to him today. He still struggled to breathe—and he still probably would have smoked a cigar if given half the chance.

  “I’ve delivered your instructions, Sir,” Max said obscurely, because of the woman caretaker in the room.

  Mr. Markham nodded his gratitude. “One…less…worry,” he said.

  Max took his leave and arrived at the Kinnard house just before two. The folding doors between the large front parlor and the dining room were open, and all the furniture had been removed save the piano. Rows of mismatched chairs had been placed from one end of the area to the other. Those assembled were expecting him. There was intense interest, but not surprise. He could feel it when he was escorted to his seat—next to Valentina Kinnard, who was enveloped in black silk and who wept beautifully.

  He could see Maria on the front row with the boys on either side of her, their chairs pulled close so she could keep a hand on them. Even from that distance, he could tell that she wore the same drab black dress she’d had on when she’d come for him at the train station. The woman Max had seen weeping in the wagon the night Suzanne Canfield died sat next to Joe. Phelan Canfield was conspicuously absent.

  Where is the son of a bitch? Max thought.

  The funeral service began. The room was hot in spite of having all the windows raised. Whatever flowers were blooming now had been picked and brought in to fill a number of vases and urns. Here and there a wasp bobbed in the air over the gathering. A baby fretted. Someone sobbed.

  And eyes bore into his back. He hadn’t felt that sensation so acutely since the last time he’d had a Reb sharpshooter dog his every move.

  Valentina Kinnard fanned herself vigorously next to him. He glanced at her.

  “I think I shall faint,” she whispered.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said loudly enough for any number of people to hear. And he meant it.

  The fanning abruptly stopped.

  People were standing suddenly as Suzanne Canfield’s casket was being brought in. Her pall bearers all wore Confederate uniforms—or what was left of them. Max still didn’t see her husband.

  Lieutenant Carscaddon’s wife followed the procession, carrying a wreath of greenery and magnolia blossoms she placed carefully on the coffin. A reverend came and stood at the halfway mark in the room, then began the burial liturgy.

  The room grew hotter still, and the service went on and on. Mrs. Kinnard played the piano for the hymns, and she was quite accomplished. Max shifted in his seat so that he could see Maria. Her back was ramrod-straight, but he thought she was crying—in the same quiet way she had when he told her the details of Suzanne Canfield’s death. At one point, she took Jake onto her lap.

  Finally, it was over. Max stood with the rest of the mourners as the casket was taken out. Maria gave no indication that she saw him as she joined the procession and walked past—but Jake did. He pulled out of her grasp and came running, wrapping both arms around Max’s knees. There was nothing to do but pick him up.

  “Come here, Jake,” Max whispered. “I’ll carry him,” he said when Maria reached out for him.

  She hesitated, her eyes looking directly into his.

  Sad eyes.

  The kind John Howe had written about.

  He could see the question there as clearly as if she had spoken aloud.

  Why? Why are you doing this?

  And the truth was he didn’t know. These people were nothing to him—less than nothing, given his prison experience. And yet, here he was. His presence wasn’t a self-serving token designed to keep the peace, after all. He knew that. But he couldn’t begin to say why it was so or when his attitude had changed.

  Maria walked on, holding Joe by the hand, and Max stepped in behind her. When he reached the outside, he could see a company of soldiers from the garrison standing at attention at a respectful distance on the other side of the street. Perkins was there. And De Graff, and the regimental surgeon and a number of his other officers. Max hadn’t ordered it, and whoever had perhaps understood these people better than he.

  Max tried to give Jake back to Maria after she had climbed into the carriage that would take her to the cemetery. The boy only clung harder and began to cry.

  “What do you want me to do?” Max asked her. He could feel the attention the scene was garnering. “Shall I take him on to the house? And Joe?”

  She looked both relieved and bewildered by the suggestion. Her mouth trembled slightly, but she said nothing. It was clear to him that she had reached a point where she was too exhausted to decide.

  “Come on Joe,” Max said, holding out his hand. Joe came to him easily—pausing long enough to give Maria a hug before he climbed into Max’s other arm.

  “I’ll take them with me,” he said.

  Maria looked at him
and gave him the barest of nods. Max stepped back from the carriage and watched it drive on.

  After a moment he realized that Perkins was standing at his elbow.

  “What?” he said.

  “I thought you might like to know about the rest of the family, Sir,” Perkins said.

  Max took a quiet breath. He didn’t know if he did or not.

  “Where is he then?” he asked finally.

  “Skedaddled, Sir. Last night. Lit out on the Western Railroad.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Where is my…” Joe said.

  Max braced himself for the question.

  “…Maria,” Joe concluded, still looking out the window.

  It was an easier question to answer than the one Max expected—but not much.

  “She’ll be here soon,” Max said.

  “Is she in the rain?”

  “Don’t worry. Maria will be all right.”

  The boy gave a quiet sigh. “No. Is my mama in the rain?”

  Max hesitated. He had no idea what the child had been told or how much he understood about what had happened the night of the fire or today at Mrs. Kinnard’s. Joe was looking at him now, and it struck Max that regardless of how much he looked like his father, he still had his mother’s eyes.

  “Your mama is in heaven, Joe,” he said finally.

  “Does it rain there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard people say heaven is like a garden—with all kinds of flowers. So it must, I think.”

  “Mama likes flowers,” he said. “She likes the rain.” He went back to looking out the window. “People going to church.”

  “What?” Max said, not understanding.

  “See the rain? It’s not rain. Mama said pretend it’s something else. Pretend it’s people going to church. Lots and lots of people. Is she coming back?” he asked.

  “No, Joe.”

  “Is my papa coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” Max said, because it was the truth. “I’m…not sure where he went.”

  “Mexico,” Joe said. “Mexico is a long, long way.”

  “Who told you he went to Mexico, Joe?”

  “Maria did. Is Mexico as far as heaven? Me and Jake can go to Mexico sometime, I bet. Maybe we can see Mama, too—when we go.” He fingered the lace curtain, poking his small fingers into the holes that ultimately made the pattern of a rose.