The Bride Fair Read online

  He stumbled toward the bed and sat down on the edge again. After a moment he looked at her.

  “Are you all right now?” she asked, but she didn’t come any closer.

  “It’s—” He broke off and was silent for a moment. Maria could hear the rain on the roof.

  “What…why are you in here?” he asked.

  “I told you. You were having a bad dream.”

  “I see. You…heard me, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “What…what did I say?”

  “You were reliving a battle, I think,” she said much more calmly than she felt. He had frightened her, and perhaps he knew it.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  Her arms still ached from the strength of his grip, but she said nothing.

  “I…apologize. I didn’t mean—”

  He broke off again, and she turned to go. “Miss Markham.”

  “Yes?”

  “It would be…helpful if you would sit here…in the room…for a moment. Over there by the window.”

  The request—if that was what it was—took her by surprise. She wondered if he remembered that he meant for her to be indebted to him. Her staying like this, now and under these circumstances, would go a long way toward shifting the balance.

  “Why?” she asked bluntly. In the dimness of the room, she could barely make out his features.

  “Because of…how well you bandage.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Wherever you learned the skill, I think you must have witnessed the many kinds of suffering a soldier might endure. I think perhaps you are accustomed to things other women might find…alarming.”

  Maria continued to stare at him in the soft darkness. The candle flame wavered in a breeze from the half-open window, making the shadows dance around the room. She thought he still wasn’t quite saying what he meant to say.

  “Conversation is helpful?” she asked finally.

  “Yes.”

  There was another clap of thunder overhead, and he flinched. He was not a man to fear a thunderstorm; she believed that with certainty. It was the memories the storm brought to life that troubled him, the ones still so strong that he needed her to keep them at bay.

  “Where is the brandy bottle?” she asked.

  “The same place—in the trunk.”

  She moved to get it.

  “There is a glass on the table—or there was,” he said, realizing that the small table by the bed had been toppled.

  Maria brought the bottle to him. The glass had rolled near his feet, and she bent down to retrieve it. She handed it to him and righted the table. Then she began to gather up the books lying on the floor, as well.

  “Leave those,” he said.

  “I can’t leave a book where it might get trod upon,” she said, setting the stack on the bed.

  He poured some brandy into the glass. His hands shook visibly. “Are you a book lover then?”

  “Yes,” she said, keeping her distance now. This situation was far from proper. She knew that—but still she didn’t go. It was a matter of checks and balances, she reminded herself. If she stayed—even for a little while—once again he would be in her debt.

  He downed the brandy in one swift motion. “I wonder…”

  “What?” she asked when he let whatever he was about to say trail away.

  “I wonder how long they last—the bad dreams.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s been three years. I think they’re worse when there is a storm. The cannons—one can’t help but remember the cannons.”

  “Perhaps if I lit the lamp—”

  “No. The candle is enough.”

  “It will burn out soon.”

  “I don’t want any light!”

  “Very well,” she said. She sat down carefully in the chair by the window, and she didn’t say anything more.

  “I haven’t asked,” he said after what seemed a long while. “If you are all right.”

  “I am quite fine.”

  “So you invariably say.”

  “Because it is true.”

  “You always tell the truth, then?”

  “Always,” she assured him.

  “Even to Yankees?”

  “That doesn’t count,” she said, and in the dimness she thought he might actually have smiled.

  “What with your swooning and my nightmares, this has been a…riveting evening, has it not?” he said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “There is one good thing that has come out of it.”

  “Is there?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about hostessing the Ladies’ Literary Society for a while.”

  Incredibly, Maria laughed. She broke off immediately, but the damage to her hard-won self-control had been done. It had been so long since she had laughed like that. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had allowed herself any kind of emotional spontaneity. She couldn’t afford to be spontaneous. She had far too many secrets.

  But somehow she had forgotten—everything.

  She had forgotten who she was, and where she was, and with whom.

  She abruptly stood. “I must go,” she said, her voice barely audible. The candle sputtered and went out. She couldn’t see, but she stepped blindly forward anyway, not realizing he had stood up with her. They collided in the darkness, and for a brief moment she felt his warm hands on her, strong hands that steadied her and then let go.

  “Miss Markham,” he said as she reached the door.

  She hesitated, then looked back at him.

  “Thank you.”

  Max lay awake in the dark. He could hear the night sounds—tree frogs and cicada and whatever else had been encouraged by the rain. A solitary dog barked from time to time, and from time to time one of its kind answered. Once, he heard the whistle of the supposedly tri-weekly, Charlotte-to-Greensborough night train.

  The storm had faded, and a cool breeze came in through the open window. The nightmare had faded, as well, and he felt peaceful enough now, he supposed, but sleep still eluded him.

  Nothing—no one—stirred inside the house, but perhaps he would not have heard her. Maria Markham, whom he kept catching without her shoes. He wondered if she had any idea how erotic it was, seeing a woman fully dressed and her hair tumbling down her back and her feet bare. He doubted it. He doubted if she knew much at all about what happened between a man and a woman.

  But then, she had called him “Billy.”

  Billy.

  It had taken a great deal of effort on his part not to ask her about him, in spite of the fact that he already knew. Billy was the Reb artilleryman Perkins had told him about. He was young Joe Canfield’s uncle—the one whose name couldn’t be said aloud for fear of making the women in the family weep.

  Maria Markham was not nearly as buttoned up as she always seemed. Max had heard the longing in her voice when she’d said the dead man’s name. Worse, he had felt it and felt it deep. Her soft whisper against his neck as he’d carried her upstairs had affected him more than he would ever have cared to admit. He still wasn’t certain what to call the emotion he had experienced.

  Yes, he was. It was jealousy. Primitive and absolute and male. He had been jealous of the man—his enemy—who, even dead, could inspire that kind of yearning in the woman who had belonged to him. And, it was because of it that Max had wanted to keep her in the room as long as he could. It went beyond his usual need to inconvenience her. The comfort her presence might have offered him in the aftermath of his nightmare wasn’t simply another item on the list of things owed him by the people of this town. It was much more than that, and he knew it.

  He had wanted her to stay with him. With him.

  He had wanted her in his bed.

  He took a quiet breath and closed his eyes, remembering. Not the dream and not prison, but Maria Markham’s laugh. He wondered if the artilleryman h
ad made her laugh. He must have. He must have heard her laughter bubble up like that many times, just as he must have heard her whisper his name.

  Billy…

  Chapter Seven

  Maria made no attempt to go to Sunday church services, regardless of her usual custom. She was too overcome by morning sickness and too disinclined to face Acacia Kinnard to chance it, no matter how much she herself was in need of a sermon. All that aside, she had no intention of encountering Colonel Woodard if she could help it.

  Thus far, she had managed to elude him. She still didn’t quite understand what had passed between them in the dark. Nothing, she kept telling herself. Nothing that she could put into words, at any rate. And, there was the distinct possibility that her ability to interpret last night’s events could have been somewhat impaired. Fainting in the middle of the Ladies’ Literary Society reading alone would have been enough to increase the chance of misinterpretation on her part. Perhaps she had still been dazed or perhaps she hadn’t been quite awake. Perhaps both those things and the bump on her head had made her misconstrue everything.

  She closed her eyes, remembering. The feel of Colonel Woodard’s hands on her had nearly been her undoing. She tried to tell herself that it was simply the basic—and in her case—unmet desire for human comfort. She had been worried for such a long time, so much so that she had become exhausted by it. In her weakness and for that one instant, she had needed a warm embrace. In lieu of kindly Verillia Douglas’s solace, she had been willing to accept his.

  Any port in a storm.

  No, she thought immediately. She hadn’t wanted comfort from anyone else. She had wanted comfort from him. Colonel Woodard had sought her presence, he said, because she understood. It came as a great revelation to her that that ran both ways, that she had felt the same desire for a kindred spirit. Even now, she wanted his arms around her again, wanted to rest her head on his shoulder.

  “What is wrong with you!” she said out loud.

  The man was her enemy, just as Hatcher was. Her brothers were dead—and it was possible, however remotely, that he could have had a hand in it. And Billy—

  She didn’t want to think about Billy. She had to get herself together—and right now. She still had the threat of the regimental surgeon hanging over her head. Her eyes burned from the lack of sleep. She had only just managed to get through breakfast before her nausea overwhelmed her. She still marveled that she had managed to escape in time and without running into the colonel. She had no idea what her father and he had done in her absence. Perkins, she supposed, would have been called upon to take over.

  And now she had to put some kind of meal on the table that would pass for a Sunday dinner. Her horse hadn’t been fed, and there must still be dishes and pans to wash from this morning.

  She stayed hidden in the privy until she was certain her father would have left for church services. She had made her excuses to him regarding her church attendance early on, and thankfully he didn’t feel the need to hunt her down and have her reiterate.

  She took a deep breath. Her stomach still lurched at the mere thought of food. It was too bad she didn’t have another one of the colonel’s lemons.

  She went quietly down the stairs to find Perkins sitting at the kitchen worktable. He got up immediately, as if he thought she would report his idleness to his colonel.

  “Miss,” he said, watching her closely.

  And Maria couldn’t blame him after her behavior yesterday and this morning—or perhaps he had been appointed to send for the army surgeon at the first sign of her being out of kilter.

  “Would you happen to know where Colonel Woodard is, miss?” he asked

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Must be at church, then,” he said.

  Maria looked at him doubtfully.

  “I believe the colonel had some particular business there this morning,” Perkins said.

  Maria had no reply to that. Colonel Woodard didn’t seem the church-going type—but she firmly believed his attendance could be a part of his plan to manage the people here.

  “Miss?” Perkins said as she was about to go out the back door. “I’ve got the pine blocks the colonel wanted.”

  “Pine blocks?”

  “Yes, miss. About like so.” He held up his hands to show her. “I put them out there on the porch—he didn’t say where he wanted them. Would you tell him that? In case you see him first—before I do.”

  “Yes, all right,” Maria said. But she had no intention of seeing the colonel, first or otherwise.

  She grabbed her straw hat and went outside, stopping at the summer kitchen first to stoke the fire in the stove and to fill some pots with water and put them on to boil. She opened the warming oven. The bowl of dough she had set aside to rise was still there. She punched it down again and returned it to the warming oven. Then she washed her hands and tied on her hat and went to the shed to feed old Nell, ignoring the interest of the soldiers still camped at the edge of the yard.

  The horse whinnied softly at her approach.

  “I didn’t bring you anything,” Maria said, caressing the velvet-soft nose as the animal tried to search her pockets. “And I’m ashamed of myself. You’re lonely out here, aren’t you. Nothing to keep you company. Not even a cow.” There were the horses the Yankees had penned in the new fence they’d built nearby. Maria thought they were now working on a stable—yet another uninvited intrusion.

  Nell propped her head heavily on Maria’s shoulder. She’d had the sorrel mare since she was a little girl; Nell had been her tenth birthday present. What joy Maria had felt that day at having a horse of her own. She smiled slightly at the memory of it.

  Poor Nell. She was ready to be let out to pasture, but she still had to serve as the Markham buggy horse—and would for the foreseeable future.

  Maria took the animal out of the stall and into the yard, brushing her down a bit before she tethered her to keep her out of the corn stalks. Maria could feel the continued interest of two soldiers near the tents, but they kept their distance and their counsel. At one point she glanced upward at the windows of Colonel Woodard’s bedchamber, in case he still happened to be there.

  She did not want to encounter him today.

  She went back into the house, to the cellar to get potatoes and whatever else she could find. The logistics of preparing meals was beginning to wear on her. She didn’t want Colonel Woodard’s charity—but if he insisted on sitting down at the table with them, then she had to use food from his pantry. And her father wasn’t about to keep to the Markham butter beans if there was anything else available, regardless of where it came from.

  Nothing was simple anymore.

  She found some decent potatoes—and took a dozen ears of corn still in the husks from the brine barrel. Storing unshucked corn in a tightly packed barrel of salt water—as if one were making pickles—had been another of her father’s clever solutions—like the pieced flooring. And she would have to admit that the salting process worked well. The corn kept without rotting and when cooked, it was reasonably tasty.

  She carried everything out to the summer kitchen and set to work scrubbing the potatoes and cutting the corn off the cob. When she had put each into a pot of boiling water, she took the corn husks and cobs to a most appreciative Nell.

  The mare, in the hope of more, followed Maria back to the summer kitchen as far as the tether would allow. She lingered long enough to give Nell one final pat, then turned to find Colonel Woodard standing just behind her. It caught her completely off guard, and she stopped just short of giving a shriek.

  “Sorry,” he said. He looked quite polished and official and military, in spite of his disturbed sleep. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Maria didn’t say anything. She sidestepped him and went into the summer kitchen ostensibly to see about the potatoes and corn.

  “I’ve taken a liberty,” Colonel Woodard said, following behind her.

  She made no
attempt to acknowledge his presence or the remark.

  “It’s Phelan Canfield. He’s in jail.”

  The word “again” hung unspoken in the air between them. Even so, Maria appreciated his effort at diplomacy, meager though it may have been.

  “Perkins is going to check on Mrs. Canfield and bring the boys here if necessary—if that’s all right.”

  Maria glanced at him. He stood waiting for her to answer him, a token gesture at best. The disposition of the Canfield children had clearly already been decided without her.

  “I’ll go see about her—”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. At least not yet. Perkins may already be on his way here with the children. I’m sure he can tell you how Mrs. Canfield fares. You’ll know more what needs to be done after you speak to him.”

  She found his logic perfect—and maddening. And for all its perfection, she still wanted to defy him.

  “Very well,” she said, attending to her pots as if they required it. She could feel his eyes on her, but she dared not look at him.

  “Perkins brought your pine blocks,” she said, still avoiding his eyes. “They’re on the porch.”

  “Yes.”

  Yes, she thought. No “Thank you.” No “Very kind of you to mention it, Miss Markham.” Just “Yes.”

  “Will you be here for the noon meal?” she asked, busily stirring the corn.

  “No,” he said. He waited until she glanced at him again. “I have an invitation for Sunday dinner.”

  Maria looked away, her curiosity definitely piqued. She moved the pots around as she considered this information carefully, but when she turned with a mind to perhaps glean some additional details from him, he had gone.

  She stood for a moment, still considering the possibilities. She had heard him decline Acacia Kinnard’s dinner invitation. He couldn’t show favoritism—or so he said. Perhaps he’d changed his mind, after all. She certainly hoped that was the case. He had essentially snubbed Acacia at the Ladies’ Literary Society meeting—a very new sensation for the formidable woman, to be sure. If he had turned around now and accepted someone else’s invitation, Maria’s life would be worthless. Entirely innocent or not, she would suffer the consequences by mere association—if indeed she wasn’t already on Acacia’s list, thanks to his not-so-diplomatic meddling yesterday. She would be ostracized soon enough; she had no wish to hurry it.