An Inconvenient Marriage

by Christina Miller

  Grandmother beat her to it.

  “Clarissa, this is a fine opportunity. It’s the only way we can keep Camellia Pointe.” She rapped her cane on the pine floor as she was wont to do when emphasizing a point. But this tap carried a strange finality that spiked through Clarissa like the Fighting Chaplain’s famed sword. “Do you realize we could move back to Camellia Pointe? With a man in the family, we’d be safe in the country again. And with Absalom back from the dead, so to speak, we’d have to move out of his town house anyway. I say you should move forward with the reverend’s suggestion.”

  Move forward? Clarissa longed for a cane of her own to rap at her grandmother. “You’re not being rational. If I was willing to consider this, which I am not, it would take me a good deal of time to decide.”

  “You don’t have time.” Grandmother said it as if they spoke of nothing more impacting than a horseback ride before Sunday service. “The Reverend Gifford’s interim ministry is over. He’s leaving on the last steamboat tonight.”

  “I refuse to marry a stranger without thinking it through, without praying about it.”

  “Then pray fast. You don’t want that Reverend Abernathy from Faith Bethel to conduct the service, do you?”

  Not that creepy-looking, obstinate man. “We could send to Vicksburg or Jackson for a preacher. If I decide I need him.”

  “You know the situation of both those churches—of every church in the South, including this one. Until our economy improves, no deacon board will approve such a trip for its pastor. When members’ income is low, the tithe is low. It’s simply too expensive, and I can’t pay for it either.”

  “Nevertheless, I’ve always said I’d never marry for the sake of convenience.”

  “You’ve always known my own marriage was arranged, and that my father brought me here from Memphis to marry Hezekiah. But we were happy.” Grandmother cast her gaze through the door glass and into the hall, where a portrait of Grandfather hung. “Marriages of convenience can develop into great love.”

  “Great love?” Clarissa lowered her voice, having unintentionally raised it even more, enough to bring Grandmother’s brows up again. “You were happy, but Absalom’s parents had an arranged marriage too, and they were miserable their whole lives long. Remember how distant they were to each other, always traveling and living apart? How was their marriage happy?”

  “They were—different.”

  “Obviously. What parent would name their child Absalom—one of the worst sons in the whole Bible?”

  Grandmother Euphemia put on her “no-nonsense” face. “They have nothing to do with us now, other than the fact that their son is trying to take what’s ours. Think about Camellia Pointe instead. Think about Good Shepherd and the thousands of hours your grandfather spent there, providing a safe place for less-fortunate travelers to stay at the waterfront.”

  “But to marry...” Clarissa ran her thumb across the bare third finger of her left hand.

  Grandmother’s eyes brightened with comprehension. “This is because of Harold Goss, isn’t it? Do you refuse to marry the parson because you’re still in love with that fool?”

  “You don’t understand. You never have. Harold’s betrayal killed all the tender emotions I had for him. If he hadn’t up and married that hateful Belinda Grimes just because her father had bigger cotton fields than we did—”

  “He would have found someone else with even more money, and he would have married her.”

  “While he was engaged to me?”

  Grandmother waved away her objection. “It could have been worse. Missy Conrad’s beau just never showed up for their wedding. Left her with a church full of guests and pink azaleas.”

  “Yes, and she married a few months later and was the talk of Natchez. She had to endure both the pain of betrayal and public humiliation. Not to mention pity.” And the pity was the worst part. Everywhere Missy went, the Natchez elite stopped to whisper. And they’d done the same with Clarissa. “I can’t endure the whole town feeling sorry for me because I was the bride in a loveless, arranged marriage.”

  “Then think of enduring Camellia Pointe going to ruin under your cousin’s management. He may well sell it, so imagine enduring the knowledge of strangers in your bedroom, in your grandfather’s study—in his little sanctuary.” Grandmother surveyed her a moment and then touched Clarissa’s cheek. “Can you honestly say you could give it up?”

  At the rare tender caress, Clarissa looked into her grandmother’s eyes, a mirror image of her own. She saw something there she’d never seen before, and it looked like fear.

  The bitter bite of fear welled up in Clarissa’s throat, as well—fear of loss, fear of trust. Grandmother was right about many aspects of this appalling situation, but she was wrong about Harold Goss. Clarissa wasn’t still in love with him. However, he had reinforced the lesson her father had taught her years before: men could not be trusted.

  Clarissa choked back her own fear in light of her grandmother’s struggle, pulling a painful breath into her constricted lungs. She owed everything to the older lady. And she was the only family Clarissa had left—at least, the only family member who had not betrayed her.

  She caught her breath as another thought embedded itself in her mind. What if she could bring Papa back by keeping their home?

  The Spring Festival was scheduled on Clarissa’s twenty-first birthday, with the Mississippi Community Choir Association Contest taking place in Natchez for the first time ever. The association Papa had founded thirty years ago, back when he and Mother lived in the Delta.

  And this year, Natchez stood a good chance of winning, with a larger choir than ever and a few new, spectacular vocalists. Most important of all, the Reverend Montgomery, a noted choirmaster, had agreed to lead them.

  She pressed her hand to her throat as her thoughts swirled. Missus Milburn, president of the Spring Festival committee, had offered to hold the festival at her estate. But that was before the elderly woman had taken a bad fall. Perhaps Clarissa could host instead—at Camellia Pointe.

  Then Papa might come back...

  She’d call on Missus Milburn today. And write to Papa tonight.

  She had no choice.

  Drawing a deep breath of courage, she gestured toward the door. “Would you please fetch the reverend for me?”

  “I will. And we can have the wedding on the front gallery at Camellia Pointe.” Grandmother hastened to the door and flung it open—a little too joyously for Clarissa’s taste. Within moments her cane tapped down the hallway. “Reverend Montgomery, are you there?”

  Clarissa lowered herself to the hearthside wing chair, relieving her trembling legs but not her erratic pulse. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, but it failed to calm her. Heavenly Father, don’t let me make a mistake.

  Could she do it—marry the parson?

  She’d never trust any man enough to have a true marriage, true love. So wouldn’t a marriage of convenience to the parson be worth it if it meant she could keep Camellia Pointe—and see Papa again?

  The reverend’s heavy footsteps sounded outside the ladies’ parlor, and she opened her eyes. He stepped in, his features soft with hope. He stopped beside her chair and lifted his gaze for a moment, as if to heaven.

  As she had seen her grandfather do a thousand times.

  Clarissa stood. “Reverend, I accept your offer.”

  * * *

  The late-afternoon sun cast the home into shadow, throwing a duskiness into Samuel’s heart as well. He pulled into the uphill circle drive and stopped his phaeton beside the graying sign with its faded letters: Camellia Pointe. He shielded his eyes from the lowering sun and gazed upon one of the largest, most austere Southern mansions he’d ever seen. At the sight of the immoderate display of wealth, he cast aside all he’d done to brace himself for his marriage.

  Even in the fading light,
Camellia Pointe showed herself off, her two-story galleries embellishing her white-stucco frame, her massive columns timeless, her Greek Revival lines impeccable. She stood proud, elegant—excessive.

  Hardly an appropriate setting for a minister’s wedding.

  Everything in him wanted to turn the buggy around and head back to town. Back to Christ Church. Back to a place of sanity and safety for his heart.

  Perhaps he should have stood his ground when Clarissa had suggested holding the ceremony on the front gallery of her family home. But she’d clearly set her heart on it, and he’d hated to refuse her first request of him.

  A church wedding—that’s what they should have had...

  He stole a glance at Emma beside him and the book she’d immersed herself in every time they’d been alone since he fetched her from Kentucky. As she’d also done when Samuel announced his marriage plan. Could nothing move his daughter? Would she remain forever engrossed in her own thoughts, her own world?

  She stirred as if sensing his gaze. Then she let out a squeal and clasped his upper arm with the grip of youthful exuberance. “Is this Clarissa’s home?”

  Samuel paused, savoring his daughter’s hand on his arm—the first touch she’d given him since he’d left her at the Kentucky school four years ago. “It’s Camellia Pointe.”

  Emma tossed the book to the carriage seat, her brown eyes gleaming. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful house. Can we live here?”

  “This is no place for a preacher. We’ll live in the church manse as planned.”

  With a frown, she dropped her hand from his arm and picked up her book. But as he urged the horse up the drive, she kept the book closed, her focus on the mansion.

  Samuel fixed his gaze on Camellia Pointe, as well—the one thing, other than the infernal book, that had captured his daughter’s attention and brought her out of her melancholy. Even for those few moments. Despite Emma’s sentiments, he would hurry this wedding ceremony along and hasten his new family to the manse.

  Cresting the hill, Samuel circled around to the front entrance, taking in the broken sections of the second-floor gallery railing and the missing glass in a front window. At the sight of Colonel Talbot and Joseph Duncan in a seemingly deep discussion on the lower gallery—the very place he’d be married in a few minutes—the cool winter air suddenly turned cold as a Tennessee battlefield in January. But his daughter’s lace shawl lay unused on the seat between them, and he realized his own blood, not the air, had gone frigid.

  And if his impending wedding affected him like this, how must Miss Adams feel?

  Samuel sucked in a deep breath, the atmosphere thick with river humidity even here, a full mile from the Mississippi. The dark-haired woman must wish she’d never seen him, never taken him up on his crazy offer. But it was too late to change her mind—or his.

  He pulled up behind an impressive two-horse landau that suited this grand estate. He knew nothing of his bride. What would she be like? Warm and sweet as his mother had been, or cool and distant like Veronica? Did she take tea or coffee? Was she neat or a little messy? Did she like to sit up at night and sleep late in the mornings, or did she love the fresh, dewy new day, as he did? Roses or daisies—or camellias?

  Samuel dropped the reins over the dash. All he knew of her was her name—and her position as potential heiress of this estate.

  He’d known more about Veronica before their wedding...

  At the thought, he slipped his finger under his stiff collar, hoping to relieve the lump in his tight throat. A mockingbird flew overhead and lit on the top branch of a nearby pine. Its spontaneous song touched a raw place in his heart.

  He was entering this marriage the same way he’d begun his first. He had no guarantee this one would turn out any better.

  How many people would soon discover he was a fraud, unfit to be a husband, and would mock his deceit? And would he lose his church because of it—and thereby lose Emma?

  He shoved aside the thought. If he couldn’t control these wanderings of mind, he wouldn’t make it through the ceremony. With effort, Samuel turned his focus to his surroundings. In the shade of a massive live oak, he sensed an emptiness about the place. Quite a contrast from the bustle and busyness one would expect before a wedding. Even a ceremony as hasty as this. Did Miss Adams and the dowager live in this monstrosity alone? How could they have managed?

  The moment he’d assisted Emma from his modest rented conveyance, she flashed her attention toward the magnificent landau in front of them. More specifically, toward the young man now making a show of leaping down from the expensive carriage, tossing his long mane of wavy blond hair as he hit the ground. He flicked at the sleeve of his gray wool sateen suit, which must have cost more than the wedding ring Samuel had purchased this afternoon. The smile he aimed at Emma looked nothing like the grin a well-intentioned youth would give a Christian girl.

  Samuel’s wedding-day jitters erased any mercy he might otherwise have shown. He widened his stance and cleared his throat. When the young man in gray caught his eye, Samuel crossed his arms over his chest and issued the same dark, silent warning he’d given Absalom earlier today.

  After sneering at Samuel, the youth shifted his gaze toward Emma again and then skulked off.

  He would bear watching.

  Absalom caught Samuel’s attention then as he exited the carriage with a woman about Samuel’s age, her hair the same color as the young man’s. As she stepped to the ground, her giant purple hat bobbed with her effort.

  Oversize hats, overlong hair—this family’s tastes certainly leaned toward the peculiar.

  “Is that the Fighting Chaplain?” The woman’s strident stage whisper carried to Samuel and, no doubt, beyond.

  Absalom took her arm and tried to propel her toward the gallery. But she pulled away and headed toward Samuel, batting her eyelashes in a way that made him unsure if she was trying for his attention or merely had a speck of dust in her eye. “I’m Absalom’s wife, Drusilla Adams, and you saw my son, Beau, a moment ago. I’ve heard all about your exploits...”

  As she chattered on about what she thought she knew of his war experience, she gazed at Samuel the same way the young man had looked at Emma. The thought unnerved him and he turned to Absalom for his reaction to his wife’s behavior. To Samuel’s disgust, the man merely pulled a fat cigar from within his coat and cut off his wife midsentence.

  “We’re here to make sure this marriage is legal.” Absalom lit his cigar and pointed it at Samuel’s rented carriage. “And to give you a word of advice from a native. You think you’re being pious, driving a ten-year-old, cheap phaeton and looking like you don’t care about earthly goods. But your church is full of Natchez aristocracy, and they’ll expect better.”

  Samuel held back the harsh words that wanted to explode from his lips. “Nobody has any money in the South, Adams. Including Natchez. These people won’t require me to—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Take a look at my landau.” Absalom waved the stinking cigar at his carriage. “Belonged to Jeff Davis. I paid a small fortune for it, but I felt sorry for his wife, Verina, since she’s trying to raise bail money for Jeff. She’s a Natchez girl—a friend of mine. In fact, Jeff’s plantation is next door to this estate.”

  Samuel had to escape, now. Otherwise he was liable to give Absalom a piece of his mind, speaking of the president in such an intimate way and boasting of buying his carriage.

  At the sound of Emma’s giggle, wafting from the other side of the carriage, an image of long-haired Beau shot through Samuel’s mind and brought a sense of foreboding.

  President Davis didn’t need Samuel to defend or protect him, but Emma did. A feeling of unease had wormed its way into his subconscious the moment he’d seen Beau—or, rather, the moment Beau had seen Emma. Now that unease started to fester. The only way to get rid of it was to lance it before it poisoned both Sa
muel and his daughter. He would look for an opportunity to warn Adams to keep his son under control. However, now was not that time.

  He glanced back at the gallery, hoping Colonel Talbot would summon him, but it was empty.

  He’d head over there anyway—and without further comment to Adams. If the man spent half as much energy caring for his family as he did in boasting, there might be no need for this contest between him and Miss Adams.

  As Samuel approached the gallery, his misgivings about the house returned to him with violent force. Clearly, Natchez wouldn’t object to his wife owning this home, since it had belonged to the late Reverend Adams. And Samuel didn’t wish to offend his in-laws, especially on the day of his marriage. But he couldn’t easily forget his grandfather’s teaching that a minister of the Gospel shouldn’t have extravagant possessions such as this home. Grandfather wouldn’t approve of Samuel having a wife who owned such a palace, even though they would live in the manse. What had he gotten himself into?

  He reached for the knob, but someone rattled it from inside. Then came the sound of a struggle, as if the cypress door was stuck. When it flew open, Colonel Talbot stepped onto the gallery, leaving the door ajar. “I’d hoped to have the door fixed before you got here, Chaplain.”

  “No need.” Samuel kept his eye on his daughter as she disappeared around the house’s west corner. He lowered his voice. “Colonel, I’ve made a grave error. You see, this house—”

  “Don’t worry. The roof is sound, and the broken windows are boarded, so rain can’t get in and destroy the interior. Camellia Pointe is still one of the best of the grand old Natchez homes. You’ll need to make repairs at some point, but it’ll stand for a long time as it is.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not worried about its condition but rather the brazen display of wealth—”

  At the sound of footfalls, Samuel hesitated, in case one of the approaching persons was Miss Adams. They would need to talk about this house, but in private.