The Reluctant Bridegroom

by Shannon Farrington

  Councilman Nash claimed the place beside her and offered his arm. Rebekah hesitated to take it at first, but knowing that her father was watching, she did so. She then returned her attention to those coming to pay their last respects.

  State Delegate Nash entered the room. After making his way past the casket, he came to where Rebekah’s father stood. The bitter rivals shook hands, exchanged words, then stood shoulder to shoulder so the rest of the room could witness their unity.

  Sickened by what she considered a display of political grandstanding, Rebekah chanced a glance at the man beside her. Their eyes met only briefly, but he looked exactly as she felt.

  He, too, knows what it is like to be the child of an ambitious man, she thought.

  The councilman turned his attention back to the queue of mourners. So did she. The heartbroken public was now filing past the slain leader.

  The hour passed in strained silence. Then the president’s body was prepared for the northbound train. Citizens who had not made it inside in time for the viewing, or those who simply wished to continue the pilgrimage, would follow the horse-drawn hearse to Northern Central Station. Lincoln would lie in state in Harrisburg, Philadelphia, and a host of other stops before reaching his final resting place in Springfield, Illinois.

  “Are you going to the train station?” her fiancé asked her.

  She’d been told by her father that she was to go only if Councilman Nash did so. “Are you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I see,” she said. “Neither am I.”

  Both her father and his were remaining, as well, evidently to make certain the lingering citizens had opportunity to speak with their state representatives if they so chose. To Rebekah’s surprise, many did. They came expressing their appreciation that in a time of national tragedy, the two rivals could put aside their differences for the good of the nation.

  When the news began to circulate of their engagement, the councilman suddenly looked very uncomfortable. The news held no joy for her, but he had instigated this event. Why, then, was his jaw so tight? Why was he tugging at his tie?

  “Are you unwell?” she asked.

  “This day should be about President Lincoln,” he muttered.

  “Indeed.”

  He looked as if he were about to offer something more but hadn’t the opportunity. Rebekah’s friend Elizabeth Wainwright and her husband, David, came then to greet them.

  Apparently the councilman was well acquainted with the couple, who both worked at a local newspaper—Elizabeth as a sketch artist and David as a journalist. He asked them about their recent time spent in Washington.

  “We were there to cover General Grant’s return from the war and Lincoln’s celebratory speeches,” David said. “We had no idea we’d be witnesses to his assassination.”

  Rebekah gasped. “You were at Ford’s Theatre?”

  Elizabeth nodded grimly. “We were seated in the second row. John Wilkes Booth landed on the stage right in front of us.”

  Rebekah felt her fiancé’s arm tense. She wondered if he was imagining the horrific scene just as she was. “To come that close to such an evil man...” she said to her friends. “What did you do?”

  Elizabeth exchanged a sad glance with her husband. “At first I thought it was part of the play,” she said. “I had never seen Our American Cousin performed before.”

  “But I had,” David said, “and I couldn’t figure out why they had added gunfire and an additional character to the scene. I recognized Booth right away. I had seen him act.”

  “I could tell he had injured himself leaping from the presidential box,” Elizabeth said. “He limped as he ran from the stage, but I still didn’t recognize what had actually happened until someone shouted that the president had been shot.”

  “We realized then,” David said, “that we were no longer witnessing a theatrical production, but an act of murder.”

  Rebekah drew in a shallow breath. She thought of her time spent serving as an army nurse. She’d seen the cruel damage a bullet could do to many a soldier, but she’d never witnessed a shooting actually take place. Cold chills ran down her spine. “What did you do?” she asked.

  David told her how panic had erupted, and described the devastating scene that followed when the president was carried away. Elizabeth shuddered at the memory. Rebekah watched as David slid his arm protectively around Elizabeth, steadying her, offering unspoken encouragement. His wife drew strength from the action. The two of them seemed fashioned for each other, complete.

  How Rebekah longed for the same. Yet I stand beside a man I barely know and will have little opportunity to learn about before I am bound to him for life. A shiver again ran through her.

  The councilman must have felt it, for he laid his free hand atop hers. The gesture was not as intimate as the comfort Elizabeth had received, but the touch was gentle and conveyed compassion. Rebekah allowed herself to look into his face. Dare she think he would not always be a stranger?

  The councilman turned back to David. “Will you return to Washington?” He asked.

  “No. Our editor wishes us to remain here, to cover the effects the assassination is having on the city.”

  “I see.”

  “In fact,” David said, “if I may be so bold, I’d like to interview you. It would be good to have a councilman’s perspective.”

  “I don’t know how much help I could be...”

  Listening, Rebekah marveled. Her father would never turn down an opportunity to get his name in the paper, and yet Henry Nash humbly hesitated. She was so struck by the difference that she couldn’t help but smile. When he gave her one in return, her heart quickened.

  Elizabeth pulled her aside.

  “I believe you have made a very wise match, Rebekah,” she whispered.

  “You do?”

  “Indeed. Henry Nash is a respectable, honest man. David has told me so.”

  “He knows him well?”

  “He’s met with him several times. According to him, the councilman is a committed public servant. He has a true heart for the people of Baltimore.”

  A true heart... Rebekah couldn’t explain the feeling that flittered through her own heart upon hearing those words. Yes, she was still nervous about becoming a bride, and she was still resolved to guard her heart carefully, but was it possible—might she indeed one day have the kind of marriage of which she had always dreamed, one grounded in love and mutual respect?

  It seemed almost impossible...and yet she desperately hoped so.

  * * *

  The moment he saw her smile, Henry felt as though a dagger had been run through his chest. He knew he’d given Miss Van der Geld all the indications that tenderness lay at the root of this match on his part. He had held her hand. He had smiled at her. He was slowly convincing her that he wanted her, when in reality what he truly wanted was the protection her father and his connections could offer him and his sister’s children.

  And he was more and more certain he was going to need that assistance. Detective Smith had entered the room. After circumspectly navigating the lingering crowd, he once more singled out Henry. As soon as the reporter and sketch artist bid their farewells, Smith stepped forward.

  “So this is the lovely bride,” he said.

  The detective was eyeing his fiancée in a way that any gentleman would not like. Henry protectively threaded her arm through his. Though disinclined, he introduced them.

  “May I present Miss Rebekah Van der Geld...”

  Smith nodded cordially. She very promptly thanked the man for his dedication to duty in locating John Wilkes Booth.

  “Rest assured, miss,” Smith said. “Booth and every other traitor who dared conspire against our beloved late president will soon be brought to justice.”

  Every
traitor... Henry’s collar felt even tighter than before. He dared not tug at it again, however, for fear Smith would read something into the gesture.

  Theodore Van der Geld then came to them. Smith acknowledged him with a nod.

  “Rebekah, I am leaving now,” her father said. Then he turned to Henry. “Councilman, would you be so kind as to escort my daughter home?”

  A blush immediately colored her cheeks. Henry wasn’t certain if she appreciated the request or was disconcerted by it. Likely the latter. A carriage ride unchaperoned? So Van der Geld trusts my character, but she does not. Wise girl. He drew in a shallow breath. Tell her, his mind insisted. Tell her you’re doing this to save your own skin. Tell her before she gets hurt.

  Detective Smith was watching the entire exchange with a look that made Henry even more uncomfortable. What should he do? If he spilled the entire story here and now, he’d embarrass Miss Van der Geld in front of everyone. She deserves better than that.

  “Well,” her father said. “Off you go.”

  Henry was not in the habit of taking orders from others, but not knowing what else to do in the present moment, he offered Rebekah his arm. “Shall we?”

  The blush on her cheeks darkened, but she allowed him to lead her toward the building’s exit. Outside the rain had stopped, but puddles covered the cobblestone.

  “If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch the carriage,” he said.

  “Oh, that isn’t necessary. I don’t mind walking.”

  So they started off. Henry had to resist the urge to look behind him, to see if Smith was following them.

  “I cannot help but think of Mrs. Lincoln,” Rebekah said. “Of the pain she must be suffering. Her entire world has been turned upside down.”

  Henry forced himself to focus. “I have heard she will remain in Washington for the next few weeks, until she is better able to make the journey back to Illinois.”

  “Her heart must be broken.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I wonder if she knew what she was getting herself into when she married him.”

  “I suppose not,” he said. And neither do you.

  She looked up at him. Henry saw a myriad of emotions reflected in her eyes. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. Hope. Fear. He couldn’t take it any longer. Stopping in his tracks, he looked her square in the eye.

  “Miss Van der Geld, there is something that I need to tell you—”

  A passing news boy clipped his confession short. “Extra! Extra! New conspirator named! Right here in Baltimore!” A crowd rushed to devour the details of the latest suspect’s fate. Most of them had already pronounced sentence.

  “There’s another one to hang...”

  “...and it can’t happen soon enough.”

  In his haste to grab the latest edition, a particularly bullish man was barreling down on Miss Van der Geld. Henry pulled her aside and shielded her from contact. Secure in his arms, she was close enough that he could smell the lavender water she had combed through her hair, close enough that he could feel her trembling. When she looked up at him, however, eyes wide with innocence and fear, Henry did not see her. He saw Kathleen.

  Her future and that of her sister’s is still so uncertain.

  “You were saying?” Miss Van der Geld asked.

  Henry drew in a breath, once more letting anxiety override his conviction. Steering her away from the burgeoning crowd, he said, “It isn’t important right now. The streets aren’t exactly safe. I’d best get you home.”

  Chapter Four

  Five days later, alone in his study, Henry scoured the latest edition of Harper’s Weekly. The front-page article, entitled “The Murder of the President,” featured a full formal sketch of John Wilkes Booth. He looked poised and polished, much like he had the day Henry had offered him a ride.

  Revulsion tempted him to toss the paper aside. Fearful curiosity, however, kept him reading. The article gave an overview of Booth’s family, acting career and known associations. “His companions have been violent secessionists,” the publication read, “and there are doubtless many others involved to a greater or less degree in his crime.”

  Henry’s heart beat faster. The article went on to describe just how the assassin had carried out the murder, citing evidence of deliberate preparation. Details included everything from a small viewing hole bored through a door panel to the seats in the presidential box, which “had been arranged to suit his purpose,” either by himself, or “by some coconspirator.”

  He read further. “The villain succeeded in making his escape without arrest. In this he was probably assisted by accomplices...”

  Henry laid the article aside and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew full well what would happen to those accomplices if they were caught. The local papers were reporting on the vast number of believed conspirators currently incarcerated in the Washington city jails.

  Next he picked up the Free American. “As the search for Booth and his fellow conspirators continues, authorities turn their eyes toward Baltimore.” The paper for which David Wainwright and his wife worked spelled out what Detective Smith had hinted at during the funeral processional and what the paper boy had proclaimed loudly from the street corner. A man by the name of Michael O’Laughlen, a twenty-four-year-old Baltimore engraver and former Confederate soldier, had been arrested.

  “According to authorities,” the paper said, “O’Laughlen was visited by Booth here in the city the day before the assassination.”

  Breath quickening, Henry read on. “O’Laughlen insists in a statement that Booth did indeed come to Baltimore to convince him to join his plot, but he told the actor he wanted no part of any such activity. He then told Booth to leave...”

  Henry was fully aware of what Booth had done then. He climbed into my carriage, and I drove him to the train station. It is only a matter of time before Detective Smith realizes this.

  Or did the man already know? Was that why he’d boarded Henry’s carriage the day of Lincoln’s funeral procession? Does Theodore Van der Geld know, as well? Anxiety chilled his blood. It wasn’t only the thought of his potential political protector turning against him that caused it. It was the memory of Rebekah Van der Geld’s eyes the day he had sheltered her from the crowd.

  What will Miss Van der Geld think if she learns her fiancé is a lying conspirator? Henry then wondered if his indiscretion could jeopardize her freedom. As the national outrage over Booth’s actions continued to grow, everyone from the stable owner who’d sheltered the actor’s horse to the widow who owned the boardinghouse where he had met with fellow traitors was now in custody of the authorities.

  And they are determined to round up more. Would the authorities think her suspect because of her connection to me?

  Reason again told him simply to come clean, that he could protect Miss Van der Geld, his nieces and himself much more effectively by going straight to Detective Smith and confessing. Yes, he had given Booth a ride to the train station. No, he had no idea what the actor was actually doing in Baltimore. He could tell Smith he had visited the Branson Boarding House as well that day, that he had listened to Miss Maggie’s complaints of loitering soldiers without any knowledge of how sympathetic she and her family were to the Southern cause.

  But Henry was certain how the scene would play out. Smith would wonder why he had waited so long. He would tell Henry a truly patriotic man would have come forward with the information the moment he learned of the president’s death.

  And then he will question my family’s past actions. My brother-in-law’s enlistment in the Confederate army. My journey to Virginia to collect his children. The detective will also point out how, at the beginning of the war, my father was against sending troops to keep our sister states in the Union by force...how he later voted against measures that would strengthen the federal government’s control
in Maryland.

  Surely Detective Smith would then remark how Harold Nash had openly criticized Lincoln’s wartime policies and had voted against him in the presidential election not once but twice. Henry raked back his hair.

  And I did the same. But just because I didn’t agree with the president’s policies doesn’t mean I wished him dead! Yet he feared that was exactly the conclusion Detective Smith would draw.

  Despite my service to the Union, I’ll be painted a turncoat, one who saw an opportunity to strike back at the president for the “wrongs” inflicted upon my state.

  Head now pounding, Henry closed his eyes. He wished he could see a clear way out of this, one that would not involve entangling an innocent woman in the process, or breaking her heart. His own heart told him to pray, but his shame would not allow it. How dare I ask God for any help, now that I’ve made such a mess of things?

  The door to the study clicked open. Henry looked up to see his father entering. He was holding out a slip of paper.

  “This just came for you,” he said, handing it over. “The rider is still here, waiting for your reply.”

  Henry unfolded the message. It was a dinner invitation, of all things. Theodore Van der Geld was requesting his presence in his home. Henry quickly realized only he had been invited, not his father. He told him so.

  The older man only laughed. “I am not surprised. There won’t be more than a handful of voters present this time.”

  Henry laid the invitation aside. “I’m not going.”

  “You had better. Now that they have placed Booth in Baltimore the day before the assassination, you don’t want to run the risk of offending one of the most powerful men in this state.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Henry said.