An Inconvenient Marriage Read online

  She affected him so deeply because her posture, her air of acquiescence in the midst of heartache looked just like a younger Veronica.

  Samuel lowered his gaze, removing his glasses. How could he not have seen it? From the day of their betrothal, Veronica had worn the same expression of cool tolerance, of gentle acceptance amid suffering. Much of which Samuel had unintentionally caused.

  And now, in order to keep his church, he may be forced into the same kind of marriage again.

  The thought settled like lead in his stomach.

  If only Missus Adams had told him Christ Church’s pastor must be married. He stood and paced to the window. The centuries-old live oak beyond his study stood sturdy, having weathered wind, fire, drought and war. As had Veronica, until—

  “Reverend, are you well?”

  Miss Adams’s kind voice brought him back to himself, and he composed his heart and controlled his countenance as he turned toward her. “I should ask you the same. This is a troubling revelation for you.”

  “It is, because I cannot reject the will’s stipulations as you suggest. Camellia Pointe holds too many happy memories, and Good Shepherd is my grandfather’s legacy. Absalom would destroy both.” A tiny frown creased her forehead. “I can’t understand why Grandfather did this.”

  “Have you anyone to consult, other than your grandmother and attorney?”

  “They’re all I have, with my mother passed on and my father living...away for the past eight years.”

  “Can you contact him, ask for his counsel?”

  Emotions flitted across her lovely face—pain, embarrassment and then shame settled there. What could her father, the son of a great minister, have done to evoke such a reaction?

  He stopped the thought cold. Samuel, of all men, knew that men of the cloth were just that: mere men, capable of sin. And so were their offspring. “Do you have other uncles besides Counselor Duncan?”

  “‘Uncle’ is an honorary title for Joseph, as he is my grandmother’s second cousin. He stepped in to be an uncle to me when I was twelve.” She hesitated as if deciding how much to say. “Absalom’s father was my only uncle, but he and my aunt were killed in an accident. A year later, my mother died of influenza here in Natchez, and my father returned to our plantations in the Yazoo Delta. If I wrote to him today, I wouldn’t get a reply in time.”

  Samuel opened his mouth to dispute the fact, but as her gaze turned downward, he realized she didn’t mean he could not reply in time—but that he would not. When she looked up again, the single tear glimmering on her lower lashes confirmed the truth. She rose from her seat and faltered, as if her legs were none too steady.

  Samuel hastened around the desk to assist her, but she recovered in an instant. “To answer your earlier question, I have no beau, although I once did. Harold Goss. Harold was one of the first men in Natchez to receive a commission. Last anyone heard, he was in prison camp.”

  Harold Goss? Surely she didn’t mean the greedy snake who owned the Daily Memphis Avalanche and had caused him no end of embarrassment with his false journalism. The poor girl...

  She ran her fingertips over the desk, as if needing to feel its solidity in order to keep her balance as she started for the door. “I need to think about this. Please excuse me.”

  Samuel hastened to the study door and opened it for her, bracing himself for the onslaught he knew would come from Absalom. That man and his boasting annoyed him like a Yankee. How he’d made the rank of major was beyond Samuel.

  “Absalom has stepped out.” Miss Euphemia stood by the door with an army of pinched-faced, wrinkled men.

  Samuel groaned inwardly, sure he was facing his deacons.

  The deacons who had come to fire him before he could even start his work at Christ Church, since he didn’t have a wife.

  “Apparently my grandson has recently married,” the elderly woman said, “and he left his wife to wait in his carriage this entire time. He went outside to try to appease her. If he hasn’t better sense than to treat her in such a fashion, they are both in for an unhappy marriage.” She waved toward the men at her side. “These are Deacons Bradley, Morris and Holmes.”

  She hooked her hand through the crook of Miss Adams’s elbow, and the two retreated down the hall, presumably to discuss the will.

  The most sour-looking deacon of the three, a balding skeleton of a man in waistcoat and cravat, stepped forward. “As you appear unoccupied at the moment, might we have a word?”

  Samuel moved aside, letting them in, bracing himself for the inevitable question.

  “Miss Euphemia believes your wife did not accompany you to Natchez.”

  She was right. But why hadn’t Samuel been told they’d expected him to be married? He drew a deep breath. “My wife passed away four years ago.”

  The man, who must have been the head deacon, shook his bony head, a scowl overtaking his face. “That won’t do at all.”

  To his surprise, the deacons gave no word of comfort or consolation. Rather, they looked as if they’d like to ball up their fists at him, and Samuel wondered if he should start ducking.

  The deacon with the droopy eyes took a step toward him. “We don’t want to seem harsh,” he said in a clear basso voice that would have enhanced Clarissa’s choir. “We must do what is best for our congregation. Christ Church was a laughingstock once. We won’t let it happen again. Go get yourself a wife...or leave.”

  “I understand.” The deacons were right. The well-being of the church came first. “I’d hoped to raise my daughter here. She’s had a hard time since I went to war.”

  “It’s too bad.” The third deacon crossed his arms over his immoderate belly. “We all wanted the Fighting Chaplain. You’re a legend throughout the South. We thought your military honors would be good for this town.”

  Legend or no, he needed Natchez, and it needed him. Why else would God have called him here? But, ridiculous as it sounded, he needed a wife if he and Emma were to stay.

  And Miss Adams needed a husband...

  “If I had a wife, I could pastor this church?” He clasped the bony man on the shoulder, spitting out the words as fast as he could, giving himself no time to change his mind—which he would if he thought about his idea an instant longer.

  “Yes, of course. You’re the Fighting Chaplain—”

  “Wait here.” Samuel patted the man’s sunken chest and dashed for the door. “Don’t go away.”

  In his mind, he applauded his idea loudly enough to keep his heart from rejecting it. As Miss Adams surely would. He’d already made a fool of himself with her grandmother, and showing up three days early with no wife hadn’t worked in his favor, either. Not to mention, his Fighting Chaplain reputation must have preceded him, since even Absalom Adams knew who he was. Why should such a refined, beautiful woman want a roughneck like him for a husband? For that matter, why would anyone? Veronica had been right—war had made him common. This idea wouldn’t work.

  He stopped halfway down the hall and leaned against the wall. Father, am I taking the right path? Miss Adams will think I’m crazy. Not to mention her grandmother. So if You want me to propose marriage to her, help me reach her heart. He paused, listening for any advice the Almighty might bestow. Samuel had made enough mistakes already. He couldn’t afford another.

  But instead of a Scripture verse or a lightning bolt from heaven, an image of his daughter’s tear-stained face flitted across his mind.

  Emma. Even if she wouldn’t admit it, perhaps didn’t know it, she depended on him to bring stability to her life. Staying in Natchez was the only way Samuel knew to do so.

  With a quick prayer of thanks, he pushed away from the wall and hastened toward the sound of female voices, hoping to find Miss Adams as quickly as possible. If this was God’s plan, he needed to take action now, before his courage could leave him, and then everything would fall into
place. He could keep Emma here, and Miss Adams could inherit her property.

  But a wife? Only for Emma’s good would he make such a sacrifice—which is exactly what marriage would be. He picked up his pace so his common sense couldn’t catch up.

  Only through a move of God could Samuel convince Miss Adams this was a good idea.

  The harder job would be convincing himself.

  * * *

  If Clarissa interpreted the Reverend Montgomery’s determined stride and dark expression correctly, he had more bad news. But how could her circumstances possibly worsen? What could be more horrible than losing Camellia Pointe?

  At least his rapid approach distracted her and Grandmother from their dismal discussion of the will. For that small comfort, she gave thanks.

  “The parson seems not to have a wife, and this puts him in trouble,” Grandmother said in a low tone as they watched him approach the ladies’ parlor. “I wish the deacons had allowed me to deliver their news.”

  Clarissa took in the mixed emotions on Grandmother’s face, the odd tenor of her voice. She seemed almost to want him to stay while at the same time wishing to hasten his departure. “What would you have done that the deacons didn’t?”

  “Perhaps I would have given him a ride to the landing so he could head back to Vicksburg.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Or maybe I’d have driven him up and down Pearl Street so he could see all the young women promenading to each other’s town houses. He’d be sure to find a willing bride there.”

  That much was true.

  As the parson stopped at the parlor entrance, the intensity in his dark brown eyes somehow changed Clarissa’s perspective of him. In that instant she no longer saw him as a struggling father, an embarrassed gentleman who’d interrupted her rehearsal, or even the Fighting Chaplain. She now saw a ruggedly handsome man of action, of purpose—but what purpose did he now bring to her and Grandmother?

  “You look ablaze with some dire matter or another,” Grandmother said with an air of enjoying an unfolding melodrama.

  “I am. I need to find a wife.”

  The poor man was in as much trouble as Clarissa was. She needed to leave him to pray about it and discuss it with her deaconess grandmother. “Forgive me, Reverend, if I take my leave.”

  “Clarissa, please stay and help sort out this misunderstanding.” Grandmother waved her cane at the wing chairs in the far corner, and Clarissa and the parson sat on either side of her. “How did you escape your wedding?”

  “What wedding?”

  “Your wedding—to Emily St. John of Memphis.”

  The parson let out a bark of a laugh. “I admit Miss St. John tried her best to arrange a marriage, but to no avail.”

  A stricken look came over Grandmother, and she lifted her hand to her chest for a moment. “I see the information my cousin Mary Grace gave me was untrue.”

  Clarissa couldn’t pull her gaze from her grandmother’s lined face as an unexpected sheepishness settled there. “What information?”

  “A Daily Memphis Avalanche clipping, stating the Fighting Chaplain would marry Miss St. John.”

  “That was her ploy to trap me into marriage.”

  “Cousin Mary Grace has been sending you her hometown gossip column again?” At her grandmother’s raised brows, Clarissa knew it was true. “Why do you believe that rag? It’s shameful that Mary Grace writes such a column, and I think she makes up most of it. I’m sorry she’s a war widow but, I declare, she needs to find something to do other than nosing in other people’s affairs.”

  “And you carried this gossip to the deacon board, Missus Adams?”

  Grandmother straightened, adding an inch to her height, although she again fidgeted with the handle of her cane. “The article included a picture of the two of you together at church. If you’ll recall, you told me in a letter that you were eager for Emily to see Natchez, since she would enjoy our city.”

  “Emma. I said my daughter, Emma, would like to live here. Not Emily.” The parson’s low, steady voice gave authenticity to his words. “And the picture of us they included was not a photograph but a drawing. An expression of someone’s imagination. Miss St. John and I were never together in that church.”

  A good deal of the color left Grandmother’s face, as if she realized she had caused this unfortunate situation. But, of course, being Euphemia Adams, she would never admit she’d been wrong.

  But could she make it right? She couldn’t change the bylaws, and she certainly couldn’t change the reverend’s marital status. At once, Clarissa’s careless joking with Emma rang through her mind.

  Do you know of a lady he might like?

  Well, my grandmother is unmarried...

  Suddenly that joke wasn’t funny anymore.

  “I’ve thought of a remedy to this situation,” he said, interrupting Clarissa’s thoughts.

  She frowned at the strained look in his eyes. Whatever remedy could he possibly offer?

  His brow took on a sheen, and he moistened his lips. “Miss Adams, you are in a tight spot, and so am I. It appears we each need a spouse.”

  She felt her face blanch. Need a spouse? Could he mean...?

  “I could secure a ministry elsewhere, but Natchez seems the best place for my daughter, not to mention the fact God called me here.” He stood and moved to Clarissa’s side, took her hand. “And you need a husband if you are to receive your inheritance.”

  Husband? The parson was suggesting they get—married?

  She snatched her hand away. What peculiar scheme was this? Clarissa made for the door, wanting nothing more than to leave this ridiculous conversation. “My answer is no. I swanny, Reverend, if this is how you solve your problems, you may want to leave Natchez. Here we value propriety and traditional living.”

  Grandmother stopped her with a firm hand on the upper arm. “You have everything to lose, including my home. I suggest you simmer down and let the man talk.”

  “Fine.” Clarissa faced the preacher, since she could hardly defy her grandmother in front of him. But this change of events was occurring much too fast for her.

  He turned those dark eyes on her, his whole soul in them. To her surprise, a boyish shyness passed across those eyes. “Have you another idea, Miss Adams? Another man you prefer to me?”

  His vulnerability touched something in her heart. She had to look away. “No other man.”

  “I need help with Emma. She and I were once close. When I went to war, I left her and her mother in Vicksburg with her mother’s parents.” The shyness deepened—or was it sadness? “But their house overlooks a strategic spot on the Mississippi River, and I realized the Yankees would likely shell the major port cities, perhaps even their home. I felt they were unsafe there. Her mother passed on about then, so I sent Emma to boarding school in Herrodsburg, Kentucky. Eventually she got herself into trouble—missing classes, sneaking out in the evenings. By that time, the war was over and I was traveling as an evangelist. I had to stop and give her a home instead.”

  Grandmother gasped and then looked as if she wanted to skin him alive. “Hezekiah and I once went to Herrodsburg. It’s but a few miles from Perryville, is it not?”

  He let out a giant breath, gazing out the parlor window as if suddenly unwilling—or unable—to look at them. “The site of the bloody Battle of Perryville. Sending her there was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. Believe me, I berate myself for my error every day of my life.”

  His distress cut into Clarissa, and she chose her words carefully. “You couldn’t have known a battle would take place so near. Did it affect her greatly?”

  “She’s not the girl she once was. She’s rebellious and dissatisfied, and I can’t reach her. She always seems embarrassed of me.” The reverend hesitated then turned his focus to Clarissa, his dark eyes unreadable. “Her one joy is singing. When Colonel Talbot let me kno
w your pulpit was empty, he also told me of a gifted vocal teacher here. If Emma can flourish anywhere, I think that place is Natchez.”

  Emma—the troubled young girl. Clarissa had sensed a sweetness inside her—sweetness masked by bitterness and disappointment. How well Clarissa knew those emotions. “I’ve fought her battle, and I still fight it at times.”

  “She’s taken a shine to you. I think that, as her stepmother, you could help her. I’m sure you would grow to love her, and she you.”

  “Loving Emma would not be hard.” Loving the reverend would be another story altogether.

  Clarissa stepped away to the window and gazed down upon the chinaberry trees flanking State Street. “You said Graham Talbot told you of a voice teacher. I’m the only one in town, so he must have spoken of me.”

  “I suspected as much, especially since you’re the choir director. Your speaking voice is so melodic, I knew you must be a talented singer.”

  Clarissa opened her mouth to speak, but his words so surprised her, it took her a moment to respond with her thanks. What kind of man was this, giving her the one compliment that would reach her heart more than any other? How could he have known her father had always told her the same thing? And who else knew how those words would comfort her heart?

  She shook her head. It was mere coincidence. And the parson had a nerve too, suggesting marriage in such a manner.

  Her grandmother caught her attention then and gave her an almost imperceptible nod, her brows high and eyes wide. Then she smiled what Clarissa was sure she meant as a sweet, grandmotherly smile.

  But Grandmother Euphemia was more vinegar and lemons than sugar and spice. Exactly who was she trying to fool? And what was she trying to do? Marry Clarissa off as Grandfather had always wanted?

  Clarissa narrowed her eyes at the older lady, unwilling to take this a step further without finding out why Grandmother was acting so strangely about this even-stranger proposal. Which hadn’t been a proposal at all, now that she thought about it. “Parson, would you please excuse my grandmother and me for a moment?”

  When the reverend had taken his leave, she closed the door with a fierceness that fell just short of a slam, making the glass rattle enough to release a tiny bit of her frustration. She opened her mouth to speak.