The Bride Fair

Chapter Four

Maria heard her father slowly climb the stairs and shuffle out onto the second-story porch. He would stay there, reading, until it became too sunny for his comfort. She had a little time before he came inside again.

She heard the front door open and close—twice. The house had gone very quiet. Colonel Woodard and his sergeant major must have left for military headquarters. He would have a great deal to do his first real day in command. Perhaps he would be as late returning as he was last night.

That prospect cheered her considerably. She gave a quiet sigh and wiped her face again with a wet cloth. She was feeling better—less indisposed, at any rate. She wouldn’t have to make any kind of explanation to the colonel, but what was she going to tell her father? He couldn’t abide rudeness in his children—even if it seemed to be directed at a Yankee invader. And she couldn’t explain that she hadn’t been rude at all. She couldn’t tell him that what he mistook for impoliteness was actually the sudden and overwhelming nausea of pregnancy.

She forced herself to stand up. She couldn’t hide forever, and she had a great deal of work to do. She came quietly down the back stairs into the kitchen. The dishes had all been washed and dried and placed in neat stacks on the worktable. Had she been gone that long?

She looked around impatiently for the leftovers—food she planned to somehow circumvent the curfew and take to Suzanne Canfield. Phelan had said Suzanne was worse today; there was no way she could get anything to eat on her own. And the little boys. Who would feed them? Phelan intended to get back home through the woods—if he could keep out of the sight of the army patrols—but she had no way of knowing if he’d made it. Even if he had, he wasn’t all that reliable when it came to caring for his wife and children. Suzanne had no family here to help her, and neither did Phelan.

She kept looking around the kitchen, but she couldn’t find a single cold biscuit. No pieces of ham. No bacon. Nothing.

She walked into the dining room, thinking that perhaps the bread basket had been left on the table. Colonel Woodard was still sitting exactly where she’d left him, only now he was reading a letter. He barely looked up.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said when she tried to back out of the room.

She hesitated, trying to think of a way to escape. Nothing came to mind.

“What is it, Colonel?” she asked from the doorway, hoping that he only wanted something fetched or carried rather than her continued presence.

“Sit,” he said.

After a long moment she did so—she still needed the money. There was a pitcher of water and a small glass on the table, and a plate with a lemon and a knife on it—none of which she had provided.

“If you would cut the lemon,” he said, “and squeeze some of the juice into a glass of water, please.”

Please.

He didn’t toss that word around much, and she regarded him warily.

There was nothing to do but oblige. The sooner she did as he wanted, the sooner she could go.

She filled the glass, cut the lemon, picked out the seeds and squeezed in the juice, wondering all the while how much a piece of fruit this fine would cost. When she’d finished, she started to push the glass toward him.

“No,” he said. “Drink it. It’s for you.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do. It will make you feel better if you sip it slowly.”

“You practice medicine as well as head the military government?”

“I want you healthy, Miss Markham. Of course, you don’t have to follow my recommendation. We can have the army surgeon look at you—just to make sure you are not coming down with some illness which might be an…inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience to whom?”

“To me,” he said easily. “I suspect, though, that you are not ailing. I suspect you are experiencing a mild upset this morning—brought on by a late night and by the worry of having unwelcome strangers in your house—not to mention the concern you must have for your father’s health. In which case, fresh lemon juice in water will alleviate it. Please. Drink it.”

She looked at him across the table. He was studying her closely—too closely—but not in the lecherous way Hatcher had. She would have to be careful with this man. He meant what he said about understanding the people here, and he would not miss much that went on around him, regardless of his arrogance. She glanced at his injured hands, and he saw her do it.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m merely returning the favor.”

She waited as long as she dared, then took a small sip of the lemon water. It was…refreshing, and not an affront to her queasy stomach at all. She took another sip, and then another.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice low.

“You are welcome, Miss Markham. Tell me about your brothers.”

“What?” she said, startled.

“Your brothers,” he repeated.

She was so caught off guard that she still didn’t say anything.

“They were killed in the war,” he said. It wasn’t quite a question.

“Yes,” she said.

“How old were they?”

“Rob was twenty-eight. Samuel was sixteen.”

“Where were they killed?”

“Gettysburg,” she said, holding his gaze. She didn’t understand why he was asking her this—when it was obvious to her that he already knew.

“I was at Gettysburg,” he said.

She looked away, still not understanding. There was no malice in his voice and no apology or sympathy, either. It was merely a quiet statement of fact—and she could make of it whatever she would.

“Your fiancé,” he continued after a moment.

“I don’t talk about him,” she said. “Ever.” It was all she could do to remain seated.

“Then you can tell me what I asked you earlier—before you fled the room. Do Major Howe and his wife live nearby?”

“Major Howe is no longer here. I believe he’s returned to Washington.”

“Alone?”

She looked at him. “With his wife and mother-in-law, Mrs. Verillia Douglas,” she said.

“Ah, yes. Verillia. I would have liked to have been introduced to Verillia. According to Major Howe, she is quite the physician in her own right, is that not so?”

“She has helped my father on many occasions. I wish she were…”

Maria trailed off. She was barely acquainted with the Howes, but she knew Verillia Douglas well. And it wasn’t just for her father that she wished Verillia’s return, or even Suzanne. Verillia was the one woman in this town to whom she might speak of her current predicament. Verillia wouldn’t condemn her—she would help her, even if it were nothing more than to allow her a shoulder to weep on.

She realized suddenly that the colonel had said something.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked why Major Howe and his family left.”

“I understand there was some concern on his part about the fires—and that he had a disagreement with Colonel Hatcher. My father will know the details. I’m certain he will give them to you if you ask him.”

“Perhaps I will. Tell me, how do the people here view Major Howe’s marriage to a local girl?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Then how do you view it?”

“I have no opinion.”

“Because you only know them by sight.”

“Because I have no opinion,” she said evenly.

“It was a love match,” he said.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Major Howe tells me he would be dead twice over but for his wife. Apparently, it was the man that mattered to her and not his politics. All in all, a very romantic story, don’t you think?”

Maria made no comment. She was far too busy trying to fathom his intent.

It suddenly came to her. He wanted to point out to her, however subtly, that the people here—the women here—had been vanquished in more ways than one. Perhaps Major Howe’s marriage to Amanda Douglas had been a love match—but the ones she was witnessing now weren’t. They couldn’t be more mercenary, and she longed to tell him so.

She glanced at him; he was staring at her across the table.

“Feeling better?” he asked quietly.

“I feel quite fine,” she answered.

“And your friend? Your particular friend—Suzanne. How is she?”

“How did you—”

She broke off. Of course. He had been listening at the upstairs window. The question now was how much he had heard and what he would do about it.

“I assume she is not well,” he continued. “If her husband would chance being arrested to come here—on her behalf. Is that not so?”

Maria ignored the question and asked one of her own.

“How long will the curfew be in effect?”

“The curfew doesn’t apply to you—if you need to see about your friend. I will write you a pass.”

“Why?” Maria asked pointedly.

He held up his bruised hands. “I owe you a favor.”

“I believe that was canceled out with the lemon.”

“Perhaps. But you see, I want you in my debt, Miss Markham, rather than the other way around. I believe our association will go more smoothly if you are. I think you honor your debts. I think such things matter to you.”

She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.

Yes, she did. Without a word, she abruptly stood and walked out of the room, all the while expecting him to object to her leaving.

But he didn’t say anything, and she didn’t stop until she reached the kitchen. She kept pacing around the room, trying to collect her thoughts. Then, she sat down at the worktable, only to get up again. She did not understand this man. Why would he extend to her what anyone would call a kindness—and then go out of his way to make sure she didn’t mistake it for that? Were they both to keep some kind of running tally of favors paid and favors owed?

She gave an exasperated sigh. He had offered to help her. The offer itself—and the reason for it—had been plainly stated. But it was what he did not say that she found so vexing. He could and would help her—and the only impediment would be that her animosity for him and his kind was more important to her than her “particular friend,” Suzanne.

She could hear a commotion at the front of the house: men—soldiers—coming in from the outside.

Officers.

She could tell by the banter. It was the same game of Who’s The Better Man? that the enlisted men engaged in everywhere one went, except that theirs, while no less biting, was more sophisticated and subtle.

She looked anxiously toward the doorway at a sudden burst of laughter, wondering where she could go to escape. Hatcher hadn’t held any meetings with his staff here in the house, but clearly that was not Colonel Woodard’s plan. She could hear a number of them clumping up the stairs—to see her father on the upstairs porch from the sound of it. It would please him to have visitors, the only visitors possible thanks to the curfew.

And her kitchen was about to be invaded, as well. She looked around in alarm as one of them came in through the back door.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” he said loudly. She moved toward the back stairs, but he stepped into her path.

“I don’t believe you answered me,” he said with an all too familiar smile.

She didn’t return it. She stood there, not quite sure what to do.

“Pardon me, Major De Graff, Sir,” the orderly, Perkins, said in the doorway. “The colonel has remarked particularly upon your absence.”

“Yes. Quite right. Thank you, Sergeant Major.”

“My pleasure, Sir,” Perkins assured him. He waited until the major was on his way to the dining room. “Miss Markham, the colonel needs more chairs. He asks—”

“Tell the colonel there are no more chairs for the dining room—General Stoneman’s raiders used them for firewood,” she said.

“I’ll do that, miss,” he said. “Please don’t run off anyplace. I’ll be right back.”

Maria was feeling queasy again, too queasy to run anywhere other than the back door. She stepped outside, hoping some fresh air would help. If it didn’t, at least there would be no floor to mop.

The yard seemed to be filling up with Yankees, as well. Several tents had been pitched on the grass since she’d last looked out, and four men were working diligently to make a much larger fenced-in place for their horses than she had for her buggy horse, Nell. And it was much too close to the vegetable garden for her liking. She moved to where they couldn’t see her, and she could hear Perkins calling her.

She didn’t answer.

“There you are, miss,” he said, coming outside.

“What is it now?” she asked.

“The colonel says to tell you he has changed his mind about writing out that pass—no, now, don’t go thinking he’s breaking his word or it’s got anything to do with the chair situation,” he added quickly, apparently because of the look on her face.

“The colonel—he’s only just got here, see, and some of these men—well, they didn’t get a lot of discipline under Hatcher’s command—like that there Major De Graff. Colonel Woodard is thinking the patrols might not accept the pass as being official. He says to tell you he will see you about it later.”

Maria didn’t recall asking for an audience. It was bad enough that he had the power to dictate her comings and goings, and even worse to have to remain in a house full of Yankee soldiers.

She gave a quiet sigh. She had to see about Suzanne, and she had no easy way to get there. She had no food to take her if she could manage to make the trip, unless she pilfered Colonel Woodard’s pantry, which she couldn’t do—key or no key—with Perkins so close at hand.

She was essentially trapped with nowhere to go. If she tried to work in the garden, she would have an unwanted audience, and inside, she might encounter De Graff again—or the colonel.

“Maybe you should join your father,” Perkins suggested, as if she’d spoken out loud.

“No,” she said. There was too much work to be done. If she didn’t get to the hoeing, the morning glories would run rampant in the corn and beans, thanks to yesterday’s rain. The kitchen and the hall—and now the dining-room floors had to be scrubbed free of muddy boot prints. The ironing she should have done yesterday instead of going to the railroad station still sat in the basket in the corner. She had two more meals to prepare. She needed to start a fire in the stove in the summer kitchen to cook the dried butter beans she had soaking. If she didn’t, they’d never be done in time. Her father hated butter beans, but it was either that or accept the colonel’s bounty, and she didn’t want to touch his food, if she could help it.

And she was tired.

“They won’t bother you, miss,” Perkins said.

“What?” she asked, because she had been too busy feeling sorry for herself to remember that Perkins was still close by.

“The men. The colonel has given them all strict orders not to accost you on any account—regardless of their rank.”

She looked at him, not at all certain that she believed him.

“I think I will go see my father,” she said. She went quickly up the back stairs and just as quickly changed her mind again. Her father was still on the upstairs porch—but he was deep in conversation with Colonel Woodard.

Her alternate plan was to take herself to the summer kitchen. She would be essentially out of sight of the soldiers in the yard and not apt to run into any of the ones who still wandered over the house. She took the basket of ironing with her, giving thanks as she went that the Markhams had once been well off enough to have this alternate place to cook and work in hot weather. There were a number of windows she could raise to catch whatever breeze might at hand. The important thing was that she would be alone there. She could work and she could think—or not think, as she chose.

It took her only a short while to get the cast-iron stove going and the dampers adjusted and the butter beans rinsed and in the cook pot. She put two sets of irons on the stove to heat, and then dampened the clothes with water and rolled them tightly and put them into a pillowslip.

She had to go back into the house once because she’d forgotten the old sheet she used to pad the table when she ironed. Her stomach had finally settled, and she went down into the cellar to get herself an apple. She could hear that the colonel’s staff meeting was in session—and from the sound of it, things were not going well.

All the more reason for her not to tarry, she thought. Her only wish was to stay out of his way. She returned to the summer kitchen and ate the apple—and actually enjoyed it. Perhaps there was something to the lemon juice “cure.”

When the irons were hot enough, she began pressing her damp petticoats and chemises. From now on, when she did the wash, she’d have to find somewhere inside to hang them to dry. She did not want her underpinnings blowing in the breeze for Union soldiers to see.

She kept ironing, kept worrying about how she could get to Suzanne and how she could thwart Colonel Woodard. She could hear the buzz of insects at the open windows and the murmur of the soldiers still working on their pen. She hummed softly to herself to keep her thoughts from going in a direction she wouldn’t be able to endure.

It was so hot. If they hadn’t been in the yard, she would have done the ironing in the shaded walkway between the house and the summer kitchen. After a time she shed her pinafore and rolled up her sleeves. Then she took off her shoes and stockings, savoring the feel of her bare feet against the cool stone floor. Even so, she still had to wet her face and neck with cold water from time to time in order to stand the heat.

At one point, she looked up at a different sound. Colonel Woodard stood in the doorway.

“I’ve spoken to your father,” he said without prelude—something he did often, she was beginning to realize, as if it didn’t matter how he came to a particular point, only that his ultimate demand was met and with total compliance.

She didn’t say anything, partially because she had no idea what direction the conversation was taking and mostly because she was mortified that he would see her bare feet. She bent her knees slightly to make sure her skirts touched the ground.

“Your father agrees that it might not be expedient to allow you to go see about your friend under a pass. You will be escorted at his request.”

“I will speak to my father about it myself,” she said. She wasn’t about to take his word for anything.

“I believe he is resting now—”

“I will speak to him, anyway.”

“Fine,” he said, turning to go. “But put your shoes on.”

She could feel her face grow even hotter, and she stood there, her mortification giving way to absolute indignation. If the iron in her hand hadn’t been so heavy, she would have thrown it at him.

“Hurry it along, Miss Markham,” he said as he walked away. “The Army of the Republic waits for no one.”

She slammed the iron down—only to pick it up again because an arrogant Yankee colonel wasn’t worth a scorched sheet. She slung the iron onto the stovetop with a loud clang. Then she set about getting her shoes and socks and her pinafore back on, muttering under her breath all the while. When she straightened up, two soldiers were looking in the window, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

“Would you be needing anything, miss?” one of them asked innocently.

She needed a loaded pistol, but she didn’t say so. She ignored both of them and walked swiftly back into the house, her head held high.

Colonel Woodard and Perkins stood in the kitchen.

“Sergeant Major Perkins, tell Miss Markham where her father is,” Colonel Woodard said when he saw her.

“Mr. Markham is asleep on the daybed in his sitting room, miss,” Perkins replied dutifully. “He has had a bit to eat, and he has no complaints—except that he is tired and would like to rest now.”

Maria looked from one man to the other. She had every intention of speaking to her father herself.

“I’m leaving now, Miss Markham. You are still concerned about your friend?” the colonel asked when she headed for the back stairs.

She stopped, realizing that he was once again deliberately trying to provoke her. She closed her eyes for a moment in a monumental effort to keep her temper in check. She would not let him win.

“Yes,” she said, turning to look at him. “I am still concerned. I want to go see about her—if you please,” she added, though it nearly killed her to do it.

“Excellent—Perkins, you know what to do.”

“Yes, Sir!” Perkins said, hurrying away.

Maria moved to get her straw hat down from the peg by the back door, then she stood and waited for her instructions from the colonel and tried not to shred the brim.

“This way, Miss Markham,” Colonel Woodard said.

He went ahead of her into the center hallway. A number of Yankee officers stood around, and all of them stared as she passed. The colonel opened the front door for her—in what had to be purely a token gesture of courtesy on his part. No matter how it might appear on the surface, there was nothing civil about the man. But she had no doubt that her father had been fooled or that he had sanctioned her going.