A Most Inconvenient Marriage (10 page)

Jeremiah shook his head. “Miss Stuart and I are not married. She’s only here for a few months.”

Caesar smiled. “Let her live with you for a few months, and you’ll be full sorry to see her go.”

The two men wheezed their amusement. Jeremiah counted to ten. Then counted again. “I haven’t decided whether or not to let her stay that long, but she has no family. Nowhere to go. What am I supposed to do?”

Finley stroked his beard. “No family, you say? Don’t Yankees know how to take care of their own?”

“I didn’t realize she was an orphan.” Caesar removed his floppy hat and scratched his head. “That makes me right sad for her.”

“Especially with her husband pretending he don’t know her.” Finley’s bottom lip drooped in a pout.

Hilarious. These men thought they were hilarious.

Jeremiah gathered the wet clothes and dumped them back into the wash cauldron. She had to go. Perhaps laundry was a chore he could learn to love.

Nothing made Abigail feel more like a nurse than carrying a tray of food. She ascended the narrow staircase, her blue
skirt brushing the wall on both sides, and knocked on Rachel’s door.

“Who is it?” Rachel asked.

“I brought your dinner.”

A grunt, not necessarily permission, but acknowledgment nonetheless, so Abigail entered. With her stocking feet propped up on the footstool before her, Rachel fanned the air with her mother’s journal.

Abigail took one sniff and frowned. “You may be able to whisk the tobacco smoke out of the room, but not out of your lungs.” She deposited the tray on the bed and pulled the still-warm pipe from beneath the pillow. “This could start a fire.”

“Have we got any mail?” Rachel’s eyes watered from the smoke. A red rash crept above her collar. No wonder she hadn’t made it downstairs. The same rheumatism that flared up on her skin would inflame her joints, as well.

“Mr. Finley didn’t come to the house, so probably not.” Abigail emptied the bowl of the pipe into a damp flower pot and stashed it into her pocket. “How are you feeling?”

Rachel eyeballed the pocket. Her lips pressed to white. “Fine, I suppose. The rheumatism is in my knee today, and I’m dizzy when I rise, but what else do I expect?”

“Especially when you’re depriving yourself of clean air.” Abigail lifted Rachel’s hand from the arm of the chair. She pressed her thumb against the back of her wrist and then checked her fingernails.

“Dr. Hopkins does that, too.” Rachel narrowed her eyes. “What are you looking for?”

“Honestly, I don’t know much about your condition. The prisoners kept us busy with battlefield injuries, pneumonia, and dysentery, but Dr. Hopkins informed me of your bout with rheumatic fever and the progression. Just as your joints swell up
and cause your pain, so do your heart valves. These black spots under your nails are hemorrhages that have traveled from there.”

“And every time the fever comes back, it’s worse. I already knew that. Please tell me your nursing instructions involved more than chatting with Hopkins.”

Pain and fear brought out the worst in people, yet as poorly as Rachel behaved, Abigail recognized some things admirable in the woman—determination, a grim humor—things that drew Abigail to her. Although she would tend Rachel no matter how Rachel treated her, she longed for even a small sign of respect.

Rachel reached over and picked up the jar of preserves. Her neck tensed as she struggled to open it. Abigail smiled. Like her brother, Rachel needed her, but she wouldn’t admit it. Abigail turned as if to leave.

“You forgot to open the jelly,” Rachel called out.

“I beg your pardon?” Abigail lingered in the doorway. “Do you have a request?”

Rachel held out the jar. “You forgot to open the jelly. Ma always opens it.”

“Your mother. What a gem! And I’m pleased to help if you’ll but ask.”

Rachel’s chest expanded and her mouth turned a healthy shade of pink. She clunked down the jar, picked up her dry toast, and tore a vicious bite from it. Maybe they wouldn’t be friends, but Rachel wouldn’t find Abigail as malleable as her ma. Abigail couldn’t help but chuckle as she left, but she hadn’t expected to find someone waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“Laurel?”

With a finger to her lips, Laurel motioned Abigail to follow her into the parlor.

“I saw Jeremiah out front, so I slipped around back.” The wool fringe on her shawl swung as she paced the room.

“He’s still washing?” Abigail could tell the girl was distraught. Poor thing. She must have had quite a shock. “Have a seat, Laurel. You don’t look well. Do you want me to get Ma?”

“No.” She cast a glance out the window. “He came to see me this morning, and the encounter didn’t please him.”

“He does have high expectations.”

She snorted as delicately as Abigail had ever heard. “What about
my
expectations? He’s supposed to be dead.”

“I told him the same thing.”

Laurel’s fine black eyebrows knitted together. “And married! You told me he was married.”

“Turns out I didn’t marry Jeremiah Calhoun after all. I’m not sure who I married, but if he weren’t already dead I’d have hot words for him.”

Laurel put a hand to her forehead and seemed to wilt. “What am I going to do? I never stopped caring for Jeremiah, but he’d been gone forever, and then Newton treated me so nice, and then I thought Jeremiah wasn’t coming back, and then Newton started calling, and then Mrs. Calhoun got a letter from the army saying Jeremiah had died, and then . . .”

Poor lady. Two men in love with her and she had to choose one. Abigail couldn’t begin to imagine what that would be like. Unfortunately.

“So you wouldn’t have even spoken to Dr. Hopkins, but you thought you were free?”

“I didn’t choose him over Jeremiah. Jeremiah was dead. But now I’m not sure I’m willing to let Newton go.” She picked up one of Ma’s knitting needles and tapped the point against her finger. “I’m not the same girl he knew before. I’m different. We’d be starting from scratch.”

“But don’t you owe him that chance?” Why was she helping him? Heaven knew she owed him nothing.

“What will Newton think?”

“That you’re sensible and thoughtful. That you want to know your heart before you give it away.”

“You’re right. Jeremiah deserves a chance, but he needs to understand that getting yourself declared deceased does come with consequences. We can’t pretend that he never left or that the last months didn’t happen.” Laurel sighed. “Thank you, Abigail. I didn’t expect to come to you for advice on your dead husband.” Her eyes rolled in mock horror. “Our lot in life is a strange one, but before I go I suppose I should visit Rachel. Do you think she’d mind?”

Abigail gestured to the staircase by way of answer and followed Laurel up.

“Laurel?” Rachel’s forehead creased in genuine puzzlement. “What are you doing here?”

“I kept meaning to drop by sooner, but you know how busy planting season is.”

How smoothly Laurel could make an excuse. How quickly Rachel blew it away.

“I wondered if you’d feel more friendly now that Jeremiah’s home.”

Laurel had the grace to blush. She fiddled with Rachel’s keepsakes on her dresser. Abigail had just gathered Rachel’s supper dishes when Laurel opened a pocket-sized picture case. The golden frame of the interior caught the sunlight as she eased the hinges open. A flash of light beamed onto Abigail.

“You haven’t heard from Alan, have you?” Laurel’s dark braid swung forward as she bent over the picture.

“Not a word after his last letter.”

A strange foreboding made Abigail’s skin pucker. The dishes rattled as she dropped the tray onto the dressing table and
approached Laurel. She peered over her shoulder at the leather-covered case in the girl’s hands.

“Such a handsome man,” Laurel said, “and so merry. We’ll pray he’s on his way home even now.”

The soldier in the picture held a saber, while his pistol was tucked into his belt. His thick mustache curled handsomely above a kind mouth that didn’t look accustomed to remaining stern, even for the length of a daguerreotype exposure. His eyes begged Abigail not to look away. Stay until she understood his message. Stay until she recognized—

Abigail covered her mouth.

“What is it?” Rachel frowned at Abigail, then drew Laurel near to peer at the picture. “What’s the matter?”

Abigail’s tongue swelled up, and her throat stuck shut like an empty sausage casing. She shook her head. Romeo never mentioned his love’s true name. Only at the end did he mention he had a sister. Abigail clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. She was willing to wager that Romeo’s love for Rachel was anything but brotherly.

And Rachel’s missing beau would never come home.

C
HAPTER 7

“He probably reminds her of her fella back home.” Laurel’s eyes misted as she latched the picture closed. “I should’ve guessed you’d lost a loved one, too. Didn’t everyone?”

Abigail forced her lips into a smile. She nodded and picked up the tray.

Alan White. The name didn’t want to stick to the image she’d seen. Jeremiah Calhoun fit better. Romeo, better still.

But why would he marry her? Was he trying to break Rachel’s heart?

Somehow she made it to the kitchen, her thoughts jumbled. Malice couldn’t have been his aim. She wouldn’t believe it of him. If he truly loved Rachel, why would he pose as her brother? The faucet dripped. Abigail caught the droplets in her palm. They sparkled as they followed the creases of her skin to pool in the hollow of her hand.

Love. Perhaps he hadn’t lied about his motivation. He’d wanted Rachel to be cared for, but he was dying. If he’d married Abigail as Alan White, what would he have profited? Instead he took on Jeremiah’s identity—Jeremiah, whom he’d probably seen shot
and believed to be dead. As Jeremiah’s wife she’d be tied to the property, tied to the farm, and obligated to look after Rachel.

Abigail cranked down on the pump handle. Poor, poor Romeo. He never got to be with his Juliet, but his last thoughts were of her.

But how would Rachel respond when she learned Alan wasn’t returning and that his last moments had been spent binding his life to Abigail?

“Oh, Romeo . . . Alan . . . whatever your name was,” Abigail whispered to the window. “Your plan would have worked beautifully if Jeremiah had stayed dead.”

“What’s that?”

Abigail spun. Jeremiah balled his hand into a fist. His voice quavered. “Your plan would have worked if I stayed dead?” He pointed to the door. “Get out.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I didn’t want to accuse you right out, but I had my suspicions. Your story didn’t make sense from the beginning, and I’m done waiting for you to concoct a better tale. You’re finished here.” He closed the distance between them, leaving the back door as Abigail’s only way of escape.

She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “I know who the soldier was. I know who married me.”

He caught her wrist in a powerful grip. “I’ll gather up your things and throw them outside to you.”

“I’m sure now. It all makes sense.” Her fingers splayed on his shirt.

“Don’t stand under the window. You might get hit.”

“Alan. Rachel’s beau. Your friend Alan.”

His eyes flashed dangerously between anger and vulnerability as he weighed whether he’d let her speak again. Beneath her palm, his heart pounded. “You’re lying.”

“I just saw his photograph in Rachel’s room. That’s the soldier
I was assigned to at Gratiot Prison. He called himself Romeo and told me stories of Juliet, his fiancée, back in Hart County.” As she spoke, the pieces fell together with more certainty. “It wasn’t until after he realized his case was fatal that he gave me the name Jeremiah Calhoun. He told me that he was willing to abandon his fiancée in order to see that his sister was taken care of. Who else would go to such lengths to protect Rachel?”

“Why should I believe you?”

“What do I have to gain? I only want to know the truth.”

He searched her face as though not wanting it to be true. Finally, he could deny it no longer. “Romeo. Star-crossed lovers.” Jeremiah’s grip on her wrist lessened and then dropped altogether. “Alan was the one who lost his arm . . . and then died?”

“I was with him when he passed. I paid for a burial and a headstone out of my wages. In St. Louis there’s a tombstone with your name . . .”

He swayed toward her. Again her hand went to his chest, but this time to steady him.

“I searched for him,” he said. “Rachel won’t believe me, but I did. I could’ve made it home months earlier, but I didn’t want to return without him.”

He covered her hand with his own, obviously lost in thoughts too bleak to share. But he needed someone to share them with, didn’t he?

“Jeremiah?” Laurel had glided into the room unheard.

Abigail snatched away her hand as Jeremiah straightened, and the pain in his eyes turned into something more hopeful.