A Most Inconvenient Marriage (2 page)

“I’m coming to visit Mrs. Calhoun. I tended her son when he was a prisoner.”

Hostile eyes accosted her from every side.

“Mr. Jeremiah was in prison?”

“You locked him up?”

“Are you a jayhawker?”

At the last word, tension bristled through the youngsters. Even their father eyed her suspiciously.

“I’m not sure what a jayhawker is,” Abigail said. “I’m a nurse. It was my duty to care for the Rebel prisoners, so that’s what I did.”

“There aren’t any jayhawkers around now, son,” the bearded man said. “All those outlaws joined the Federal Army.”

“But she worked for the Yankees, too.” The tree climber spat.

“Josiah!” His father grew stern. “You mind your manners with the lady. She was a nurse to help our soldiers. Don’t meddle in other folks’ doings.” Then forgetting his own advice he asked, “Were you with Jeremiah when he died?”

His gentle tone produced feelings of unexpected kinship in Abigail. It pleased her to meet people who admired Jeremiah as much as she did. “Yes, sir, I was. I held his hand as he passed and was there for the burial, as well. I was privileged to know him, even if it was for only a short time.”

“Jeremiah was a good man. Don’t know what his family will do without him.” The rip in the knee of his trousers flapped with every step.

And he was worried about the Calhouns making ends meet?

“How’s his sister?” Abigail asked. “He was concerned over her health, right until the end.”

He scratched his beard. “Miss Rachel is sickly, so we shouldn’t judge.”

A sure voice piped up, “She don’t like us to come into the house. We’ve got to leave her bundles at the back porch.”

“And we can’t whistle when we come up the drive. It ’fects her nerves.”

The man nodded. “But she’s been dealt a cruel blow. The same rheumatic fever that took her father took her health, and she hasn’t been the same since. Lord have pity on poor Mrs. Calhoun.”

More pity on the mother than on the afflicted sister? Abigail chewed her lip. What had Jeremiah forgotten to tell her?

The path crested the hill and continued downward until it reached a clearing that stretched over several acres. Bare winter saplings popped up through the split-rail fence that zigzagged toward a graceful stone house nestled in the valley.

Abigail rocked to her toes to get a better view of the farm before her, straining to see the barn. While it was a far cry from the elegant stables of her home, the large rock structure looked sturdy. Big enough to hold a decent herd through the winter. Perhaps Jeremiah had done her well, after all.

The children chirped in excitement, the dog adding to the cacophony until Abigail found sympathy for Miss Rachel’s nerves. She stopped where the rail fence gave way to massive stone posts, pieced together like a crazy quilt. “I can hardly miss it from here. Thank you for . . .” but she was too late. The bottoms of grimy feet flashed as her young escorts raced down the drive.

“Them young’uns.” In an amazing feat of dexterity the man passed the pipe to the other side of his mouth without touching it. “They sure run fast.”

“Indeed.”

They followed the children to the two-story house, its white trim defining the door and windows of the rock walls, lending order to the zigzag pattern. The children banged on the front door, and before Abigail could step on the porch, a silver-haired matron emerged.

“Please, children, keep your voices down. You don’t want Miss Rachel to hear you.”

If she’d thought to see any family resemblance between the woman and Romeo, Abigail was disappointed. The woman had generous features, wide cheekbones, and an ample mouth, unlike the narrow face of the soldier. But hadn’t Jeremiah spoken of the woman as
Rachel’s mother
? His stepmother, no doubt. Clad in mourning, she held a pair of scissors upraised like a broken parasol, perhaps keeping them out of the children’s way. She definitely didn’t demonstrate the carefree attitude that Romeo, er, Jeremiah was known for throughout Gratiot Prison.

She squinted up at Abigail, probably trying to place her.

“Mrs. Calhoun.” Abigail dipped a faint curtsy. “I hope my visit isn’t an inconvenience. I’ve traveled far to see you.”

The woman tilted her head. “Not at all. I rather enjoy unexpected visitors. Are you an acquaintance of the Huckabees?”

Huckabees? They’d never even introduced themselves.

“No, ma’am,” Mr. Huckabee said. “We just saw her on the road and thought we’d show her to the right spot. It’s the least we can do for our neighbors. Now, before I get back to Mrs. Huckabee and the babies, I might just check on your stock, if you’d like.”

“I would. That cow was stingy with her milk today. I don’t know how you manage to get so much out of her.”

“Confidence, ma’am.” And he made a long pulling gesture to demonstrate his technique.

Mrs. Calhoun’s chins waggled in mirth as Mr. Huckabee dragged his children off the porch. Abigail thanked him and followed Mrs. Calhoun into a messy parlor. The scent of lemon wax and the roaring fireplace imposed order on an otherwise chaotic setting.

An overturned basket of wrinkled laundry lay scattered across the settee. Ladies’ journals balanced precariously on a small round table in the center of the room. Mrs. Calhoun deposited
the heavy pair of scissors atop a stack of clippings that threatened to flutter away as she bustled past.

“Have a seat,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting a guest today, but I’ll have some coffee hot in a jiffy.”

“That would be delightful.” Abigail needed time to collect her thoughts. She removed her hat and coat and hung them over a chair.

She’d finally arrived. Abigail straightened her green velvet cuffs as Mrs. Calhoun exited. What would she say? How could she broach the subject? Should she move the sharp scissors out of her mother-in-law’s reach before she told her? Her hand slipped into her pocket and found the solitary penny she cherished. She turned to practice her speech on a collection of bells sitting in a dusty curio cabinet.

“When I met Jeremiah, he was a prisoner,” Abigail whispered. “No, that’s not right. How about: Jeremiah asked me to take care of his sister, Rachel. It was his last wish that I would make this journey.” True, but how to mention his proposal? In all her imagining she hadn’t been able to come up with one satisfactory introduction on the topic of her matrimonial state.

“Ma,” a voice called from upstairs, “what brought the Huckabee swarm to our door?”

Abigail froze. There was no answer from the kitchen.

“Ma?”

If this was his sister, she obviously wasn’t used to being ignored.

Soft footsteps could be heard sliding across the upstairs rug, then descending the stairs. Rachel Calhoun entered, stooped like a much older woman. The joints of her fingers flared an angry red. So Mr. Huckabee was correct about the rheumatic fever.

The girl straightened. “I’m sorry.” She flipped her chestnut braid over the shoulder of her house gown, clearly not apologizing for anything. “And who might you be?”

Abigail stepped forward. “Hello, I just arrived—”

“Obviously.” The lines about her mouth had settled deep, as if perpetually troubled.

“Yes. I’m a friend of Captain Calhoun. I promised him I would visit.”

“A friend of my brother?” Rachel crossed her arms. “Your name?”

“Abigail . . .” she halted. When would she tell them the truth? Was it too early?

At Abigail’s hesitation, Rachel sniffed. “Whoever your people are, you must not be proud of them. I might not be high and mighty, but I’m not ashamed of my kin.”

Abigail lifted her clenched jaw at the reproach from the mountain girl. She was proud of the Stuart name, even if her mother no longer shared it and the farm she loved no longer bore it. But that door had closed. Besides, if she worked hard enough, maybe someday she could garner respect with a new name.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She’d found a new name for a new life, and she might as well start using it.

“My name is Calhoun . . . Abigail Calhoun. I’m Jeremiah’s wife.”

C
HAPTER 2

“Jeremiah’s wife?”

Abigail watched closely as the younger woman’s eyes widened and her pale face turned celery green. Rachel stumbled forward, swinging her hands about, searching for the sofa.

“Let me help you,” Abigail said.

Rachel sank into the cushions, heedless of the laundry that slipped to the floor. She reclined full out and covered her face with the crook of her arm.

A weak heart caused by a fever. That’s what Jeremiah had said. Abigail’s eyes flickered over the woman, assessing her condition. Shallow breaths that were obviously painful, stiff joints, a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps Jeremiah should’ve warned Abigail that her sister-in-law’s most noticeable medical condition was a sharp tongue.

A crash sounded behind her. Mrs. Calhoun had shoved a tray of mugs onto the already crowded table in the center of the room, upending her sewing box and the stack of clippings.

“Did you have a spell? What are you doing downstairs?” She knelt beside her daughter. “Don’t wear yourself out, especially after the Huckabees have unsettled your nerves.”

“She’s a fraud. She’s lying,” Rachel said. Strong words for such a weak voice.

Mrs. Calhoun cast a nervous glance at Abigail. “Simmer down, Rachel. There’s no excuse for rudeness.”

“Did you ask her who she is? Did you even get a name from her before you showed her inside? Her with her fine dress and city voice—”

“Don’t get riled up. You’re endangering your life,” her mother said.

Obviously Rachel was now getting enough air to fill her lungs. Abigail tried to reassure the worried woman. “She’s going to be fine, Mrs. Calhoun. Since the initial shock has worn off, she’s regained her color. I’m a nurse and I don’t think she’s in imminent danger.”

“That’s probably a lie, too. You’re too young to be a nurse.” Rachel kept her arm over her face, probably so Abigail wouldn’t be able to mark her return to health.

“I was certified by a Regional Aid Society,” Abigail said. “When desperate, qualifications aren’t as important, especially for one working with prisoners.”

“I . . . I don’t understand your quarrel. Why are you arguing?” Mrs. Calhoun turned to Abigail. “Please forgive my daughter. She’s feeling poorly.”

At least she had some spirit left in her. Abigail would rather work with a difficult patient than one who’d given up.

“Mrs. Calhoun, if you’ll seat yourself, I’ll share the news that’s responsible for Miss Calhoun’s distress.”

“Shouldn’t we help Rachel upstairs first?”

“I have a feeling she’ll prefer to hear for herself. It’s about your son, Jeremiah.” Abigail seated herself. Her stomach rolled as she tried to find the right words.

“Was the letter from the prison wrong?” Mrs. Calhoun dropped
onto the simple wooden chair. “Please tell me it was wrong. Tell me that Jeremiah’s alive.”

A pang of jealousy assailed Abigail. Did her family even remember that she existed? But this was about Jeremiah, so she focused on the woman who obviously valued her children above all else. “I wish that was my message, but it’s not. You have the facts from your notification, but I shared his last days. I thought you might like to hear more.”

“All we know is that he was captured at Westport and died in prison. That’s all they told us.”

She could tell them much more, but would they understand her motives? How badly she wanted to help? How badly she wanted a place to belong and a family to love? She hoped they didn’t blame her for his unorthodox arrangement. Yet she’d faced unfounded accusations before.

“Jeremiah was wounded before his capture,” Abigail said. “They amputated his arm at the field hospital and then marched him to the prison in St. Louis.”

“All the way across Missouri?” Mrs. Calhoun fished a crumpled handkerchief from the pile of laundry on the floor. “What he must have suffered.”

Mrs. Calhoun’s tears prompted a stinging in Abigail’s own eyes. How she wished she could’ve known Jeremiah here, whole, instead of sick in the prison. “But he kept strong. He’d already contracted infection and was in incredible pain, but everyone who met him loved him. Even when they had to carry him into the infirmary, he asked them to stop so he could cheer some dejected soul.”

“Oh, Jeremiah,” his mother cooed. “See, Rachel. I knew he’d have a change of heart.”

From her position, Abigail could see that Rachel wasn’t moving, but she was fully alert, listening closely. Abigail tried to steady her voice for what was to come.

“Of all the soldiers I met during the war, your son was my favorite. His first thought was for his fiancée, but when the situation changed and he realized that he would not recover, his concern for his sister eclipsed every other bond.” Again the silence of the house pressed heavy as they drank in a last story of one they loved—one from whom they’d get no more news. “When he learned that I was knowledgeable about horses and nursing, Jeremiah asked me to come here to care for Rachel and to keep your farm profitable.”

“He arranged that for us?” Mrs. Calhoun shook her head. “We can’t pay, you know.”

Rachel pulled herself up by the back of the sofa. “She doesn’t want pay, Ma. That’s not what she’s shooting for. She wants everything—the whole farm. If we allow her story to go unchallenged, she will own everything and can evict us out into the wilderness. You know as well as I do that Jeremiah wouldn’t marry a stranger.”

“Marry?” The handkerchief fluttered to the floor. Mrs. Calhoun’s face contorted through an encyclopedia of emotions as she stood. “Are you Jeremiah’s wife?”

No matter how little she deserved it, the license had been legally binding. Abigail nodded and glanced at the scissors as she waited for the woman’s response, a response that was building, whether of outrage or sorrow Abigail couldn’t judge. Mrs. Calhoun’s chin trembled and her arms opened.

“My beloved child, welcome home.”

Abigail’s head spun. All her worries, all her uncertainty, but God was faithful. He’d directed her to a safe place. Jumping to her feet, Abigail fell into the woman’s embrace.