Henry chuckled at her. “Well, pretty girl, I’d say you’ve worked up quite an appetite today in the garden.”
She grinned again but kept on with her chicken.
He then turned to Rebekah. “I’m impressed with how well you managed both of them today.”
Impressed! That was a compliment, indeed! It felt good to have someone acknowledge her successes, for she was proud of her accomplishments today, as well. Grace had been fed. Kathleen had laughed. Despite what her father had always told her, she did have something worthwhile to offer. The children were taking to her, and she was fast falling in love with them.
She wanted to tell Henry this, but for some reason, she couldn’t quite formulate the words. Perhaps it was the loving glances he was giving Kathleen or the fact that he had complimented her. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this was only their second night of marriage and they still had much to learn of each other. He seemed to be struggling with words himself. The conversation between them lagged.
Rebekah ate her dinner quietly and happily, though, daring to believe she had finally come to a place where she could find what she had always longed for—peace, acceptance...affection.
After a few moments of silence, Henry said, “You spoke of interest in the balloon corp. What would you like to know?”
Everything! she thought, but Rebekah reined in her curiosity and enthusiasm, beginning with only one question. “How did you learn to pilot such a contraption?” she asked.
“I wasn’t a pilot. I was only an assistant. The piloting was done by Professor Thaddeus Lowe or one of the other aeronauts. There were eight of them in the Union army.”
To learn he hadn’t actually commanded the balloon was not a disappointment to her. Whatever involvement he had she still found fascinating. “What exactly did an assistant do?”
“I drew maps, sent telegrams.”
“From the balloon?”
He nodded, then gestured with his hands to explain. “On a tethered venture, a telegraph wire runs from the basket to the ground. That way the commanders in the field have immediate access to information on the enemies’ movements, the location of their artillery, their strength and size...”
Given the fact they were talking about war, Rebekah glanced at Kathleen. She, however, was busy eyeing the spice cake Hannah was about to serve. “Were you ever fired upon?” Rebekah asked quietly.
“A time or two,” he said.
A time or two? That was a modest answer indeed. Weren’t most public officials eager to make their feats in battle known? Her brothers had been told so many times of their father’s exploits in Mexico that Rebekah had learned the history of Texas independence by way of them.
“There was a particular mission during which chief aeronaut Professor Lowe and I were forced to land behind...certain lines.”
Certain lines? She realized then what he meant. Behind enemy lines. He was being vague for the sake of his niece, the daughter of a rebel soldier.
“We had to remain there until we could be rescued the following morning.”
“Were you frightened?” she asked.
“Yes,” he admitted, a hint of a rueful smile parting his lips. “After that incident, the balloons remained tethered to the ground so they could be reeled in at a moment’s notice. The army didn’t want them falling into...the other army’s hands.”
Rebekah was utterly amazed, not only with the story but by her husband himself. “Why doesn’t anyone talk about this?” she asked. Why don’t you?
“There was some squabbling among the top aeronauts before the war ended,” Henry said. “It eventually led to the corps’s downfall. The military community never quite accepted us. Some regarded us as little more than carnival showmen.”
“But you served. Your life was in danger just as anyone else’s.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate you saying that. And you... I understand you served as a nurse.”
The joy she felt faded. Apprehension snaked its way up her neck. Where was this conversation going now? “Yes,” she replied. “I served in the Army General Hospital on Pratt Street.”
“For how long?”
“A little over a year.” Then my father decided it was time for me to come home.
“That must have been difficult work,” Henry said. “Troubling, that is.”
“Yes.” Rebekah did not elaborate, and thankfully, Henry did not ask her to do so. The memory of those soldiers, their ghastly wounds, still haunted her. The memory of her father’s words concerning them still stung. But determination outweighed her pain. I have a new home. A new family now—and I will cultivate a place within it. I will be the mother Grace and Kathleen need. I will give them all the love that I was denied.
She stole a glance at her husband. He was studying Kathleen as she nibbled on her spice cake, and he was smiling contentedly.
Rebekah’s heart warmed. If he truly wishes to win my affections... The idea of being wanted, of being appreciated, nearly brought tears to her eyes. But to love him? The thought still frightened her. She’d be risking so much if she placed her heart in his keeping. The children she could let herself love, easily and fully. With her husband...she just didn’t know.
Her slice of cake now finished, Kathleen pushed back her plate. “May we go into the study?” she asked Henry. “Aunt Rebekah showed me a flower book. Will you read it to me?”
Rebekah smiled at the fact that Kathleen obviously enjoyed gardening a much as she. She smiled over Henry’s response, as well. “Of course,” he said. “I have some reading of my own to do, and I know Aunt Rebekah would like to get a look at the newspapers.”
When he turned and smiled at her, Rebekah’s heart fluttered.
“I must get the book,” Kathleen said. “It’s in my room.”
“Go ahead,” Henry said. “Aunt Rebekah and I will meet you in the study.”
The child hurried off. Henry pushed back his chair, then came to assist Rebekah with her own. Rebekah’s cheeks warmed. The cuff of his coat sleeve brushed lightly against her hand as they walked toward the back of the house.
“Thank you for spending so much time with Kathleen today,” he said, “and for taking such an interest in her. The past few weeks have been very hard on her.”
The words weren’t exactly a declaration of love or even a commendation, yet Rebekah treasured them dearly. “It is my pleasure, Henry. She is such a delightful little girl, and so is her sister.”
“They are indeed.”
Upon reaching the study, he went to his desk. After riffling through the day’s mail, he sat down to read the various letters. Rebekah watched him quietly for a moment. His jaw was set solidly, a determined, all-business expression on his face. The look softened considerably, though, when he glanced up at her.
“You don’t have to wait for me, my dear. The newspapers are on the table. Help yourself.”
My dear. He had said it again. With a grin tugging at her lips, she moved to the large, comfortable chair beside the table where the newspapers lay. She dove right in.
The Free American, the publication for which David and Elizabeth Wainwright worked, was lying on the top of the stack. One of Elizabeth’s sketches graced the front page. Much to Rebekah’s surprise, she recognized the subject. The rough-looking man had been a patient at the hospital where she had once worked. She quickly devoured the article, then those that were related. With every page her astonishment grew.
Imagine! Right here in Baltimore!
“Find anything of interest?” Henry asked.
“Yes!” she said. “This is simply amazing.”
“What is?” Leaving the desk, he came toward her. Rebekah’s elation grew. Here she was, reading the news of the city, of the nation, and her husband was eager to discuss it with her. She showed him the ske
tch from the front page of the Free American. Elizabeth’s re-creation was most accurate. “See this man?”
A serious expression filled Henry’s face. “That’s Lewis Paine. He’s on trial for the attempted murder of Secretary William Seward.”
“Yes, but when I knew him he was Lewis Powell.”
His blue eyes widened. “You knew him?”
Rebekah wasn’t in the habit of associating with assassins. She wanted to make certain her husband understood that. “He was a patient, a prisoner of war in the ward where I served. He spent only a week at the hospital, and then he escaped. No one ever figured out just how he did so, but we all suspected Maggie helped him.”
“Maggie who?” Henry asked, his left eyebrow arching.
“Maggie Branson. She was another volunteer nurse.” Rebekah flipped to a second page in the newspaper. “It says here that Lewis stayed at her boardinghouse only a few weeks before President Lincoln’s assassination. Maggie is being questioned about her relationship with him.”
She looked again at her husband, most curious to know what he thought. “Do you think she could have conspired with these other suspects? Do you think she could have had something to do with the president’s death?”
“I don’t know.”
Despite the gravity of the subject, Rebekah was enjoying the conversation immensely. “As incredible as it is to open the newspaper and read about someone with whom I once worked, I am not all that surprised by Maggie’s story. I never trusted her.”
“Why is that?”
“She was too friendly with the prisoners, especially Lewis.”
“Perhaps she was only trying to be kind.”
“Perhaps,” Rebekah conceded, “but I think it was more than that. I think she was and still is a rebel sympathizer. Why else would she allow that man into her home?”
“There could be any number of reasons.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Henry turned and walked away.
Rebekah should have taken his movement as a sign that he did not wish to continue this conversation, but she was so caught up in the tale that she continued talking. “I think they are right to hold her in custody,” she said. “They should keep questioning her until they get some answers.”
“If there isn’t any evidence of her guilt, they should let her go.”
“But she and Lewis have a history—”
Henry suddenly spun about, his face as red as war. Rebekah knew that look all too well. “If they jailed everyone in this country who had ever come in contact with that man or with Booth, there wouldn’t be enough cells to hold them all!”
The newspaper fell to her lap. Quickly she lowered her eyes. Why didn’t I mind my tongue? I never should have opened my mouth! I should have kept those ridiculous newspapers to myself!
The instinct to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, came at once, but since she didn’t know which words would placate him, silence seemed best. She knew better than to trifle with a man when he was angry. Even now her cheeks burned at the memory. Her father’s hand had been strong.
What punishment awaits me now?
Kathleen chose that exact moment to return. “Here is my book,” she announced.
Rebekah winced. What should she do? Keep her eyes downcast and her body still to avoid drawing Henry’s attention, or seek to remove the child from the room? She did not want her party to what would surely come. But would intervention only make things worse?
Heart pounding, Rebekah dared raise her eyes in Kathleen’s direction. The girl looked thoroughly confused. No doubt she was, for the atmosphere of the room was nothing like it had been at the dining table.
“Uncle Henry?”
“Not now, Kathleen,” he snapped. Brushing past his niece, he quickly left the room.
* * *
Henry jerked the door shut behind him and marched out onto the porch. The sun had dipped below his neighbors’ slate rooftops. Rain was on its way, for a clammy dampness was drifting in. The weather captured his state of mind perfectly. The bright, promising evening with his wife had clouded. The warmth building between them had been snuffed out.
Her personality was blossoming before my eyes, and with one sharp comment, I withered her. Then I did the same to Kathleen.
He hated himself for wounding them, hated himself all the more for not being honest enough to mend the damage immediately. For here he stood alone, watching the last vestiges of daylight fade from the sky, when he knew what he really should be doing was apologizing to his wife and his sister’s child.
He couldn’t blame Rebekah for her interest in that dreadful article. It must have been a shock to open the newspaper and read that a girl and a patient you once worked with are both implicated in the president’s assassination.
Henry wondered if, upon reading such news, Rebekah had immediately begun recalling anything and everything she’d ever said to Maggie Branson and Lewis Paine.
Or Powell...or whatever his real name is...
Certainly he had been reliving that day at the Branson Boarding House and the encounter with John Wilkes Booth in his mind time and again.
Is she afraid that she’ll be questioned by the authorities?
He didn’t think so. Rebekah seemed, if anything, zealous for the truth, as if she’d gladly tell all she knew about her former fellow nurse if it would bring the president’s murderers to justice.
If I confided in her, what would she tell them about me?
A sick feeling washed over Henry. Would his wife believe him if he told her that his meeting with Booth was simply innocent happenstance, that the visit with Maggie Branson was motivated purely by his responsibilities as a city councilman?
Or would she tell them that she suspected I, also, was a rebel at heart?
A great chasm in their relationship was now revealed, one Henry knew not how to bridge. His reasons for marrying Rebekah in the first place made the task of forging a successful marriage and raising his sister’s children together difficult, but he had been determined to beat those odds.
He had been confident he could overcome unfamiliarity, but how could he combat suspicion? If Rebekah was studying him half as much as he was attempting to study her, she would soon notice a pattern. He had to figure out a way not to react when news of the alleged conspirators or their trial was mentioned. If he didn’t, Rebekah would soon grow suspicious.
And if she were to tell her father... Henry drew in a breath, knowing he wouldn’t stand a chance of proving his innocence if Van der Geld turned against him.
He raked his fingers through his hair. Caution commanded him to ride out the storm. Rebekah will be all right come morning. She isn’t expecting an explanation, let alone an apology. I’m certain her father never gave her one.
Immediately he burned with shame. Since when do I make Theodore Van der Geld my standard for right and wrong? I never should have started down this path! I wanted to live honorably and serve my country well, but every day that passes, I become more of the man I don’t wish to be!
I have allowed my fears to control my actions. I have courted Rebekah selfishly, and in my continual effort to hide my deceit, I have hurt her. As much as he wanted to be a good husband to her, he knew he could not, nor could he be the kind of father his sister’s children needed, until he owned up to what he had done. God forgive me, he thought. Forgive me for it all.
It was obvious to him what he needed to do, and although the fear of what the truth would bring constricted his throat, Henry was determined to apologize to his wife and tell her exactly why he’d gotten so angry. If she rejected him, called him a traitor, then so be it.
But perhaps, just perhaps, she’ll show understanding. She does care for the children. That’s obvious. Surely she would not wish to see them placed in a precarious position.
He knew he’d ha
ve to come clean with Detective Smith, as well. Prudence told him to secure the services of a good lawyer first, especially given the fact that he had waited so long to come forward. That, however, can wait until morning. Now I must make things right here at home.
Drawing in a deep breath, he started for the study. But Rebekah was no longer there. He found her in the parlor, and the scene he discovered there was enough to melt the coldest of hearts. Rebekah was on the settee. Instead of newspapers on her lap, there sat Grace and Kathleen. The Florist’s Manual was in Kathleen’s hands. Rebekah had taken it upon herself to keep the promise Henry had not.
His guilt grew.
Snuggled against her, his nieces looked completely content. Rebekah herself was the picture of serenity and devotion until, again, she noticed him. Fear immediately flooded her face. She pulled the children closer. Did she think he had come to rail at them, that he would harm them? The thought cut him to the core.
But no doubt I made her think such. And how frightened will she be when I confess my encounters with Booth and Branson?
Closing the book, she quickly urged Kathleen from her lap. “I was just going to put them to bed,” Rebekah said.
Henry couldn’t help but wonder if she had actually intended to do so at that precise moment or if she was claiming that excuse to flee his presence.
“Please wait. I...need to speak with you.”
She nodded compliantly, but her look of fear remained.
How could he erase it? Henry looked down at Kathleen, then bent to her level. “My dear, I am very sorry for speaking so sharply to you earlier, and for not reading to you myself. Will you please forgive me?”
Kathleen’s wariness vanished at once. As a testament to her forgiveness, she threw her arms around Henry’s neck. His heart lifted until he again glanced at his wife. She was holding the baby close. Her expression was now one of pain. Why?
Releasing Kathleen, he kissed her forehead, then said to Rebekah, “Perhaps Sadie could settle the children tonight.”
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 11