The Bride Fair Page 3

  “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 brib
e 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.