An Inconvenient Marriage

by Christina Miller

  Deacon Bradley snatched her hand and held it close to his face, peering at the ring as if wishing to bite it to make sure it was real gold. Then he dropped her hand and turned to Samuel. “I trust Miss Euphemia will give us the same story when we ask her.”

  “She was at the wedding. So was Joseph Duncan.” And Absalom Adams, but he saw no point in bringing up that unpleasantness.

  “I suppose you now meet our criteria, so you may stay,” the third deacon said, the one with the smooth voice. “However, we have already retained Deacon Bradley to preach today.”

  “I will preach, and you may take your stipend from my salary, Deacon.” Their plan had worked. Nothing could keep him from pastoring in Natchez now. His new life would certainly hold its challenges, but Emma would settle in here and forget her notion to move back to Vicksburg to live with her mother’s parents. All is well. Thank You, God.

  Deacon Bradley pointed his skinny finger at Samuel, interrupting his silent prayer. “A hasty marriage is better than no marriage at all, I guess, although it’s quite shocking. You may stay at Christ Church, so long as you manage to avoid any more scandal—”

  The sound of running feet, heading in their direction, cut him off. The deaconate turned toward the hall. A tousle-headed boy of about nine, his rough clothing in tatters and a drum sling around his neck, burst into the study. Running toward Samuel, the redheaded boy slid the sling over his head and dropped the drum to the floor.

  “Papa Samuel! I finally found you!”

  * * *

  Papa?

  Yesterday’s life-changing events must have somehow destroyed Clarissa’s sense of understanding, of reason. Because, for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why this disheveled-looking boy had called her husband “Papa.”

  Samuel bounded to his feet and bolted across the room toward the child. “Willie! How did you get here?”

  Clarissa caught both the mistiness in her husband’s eyes and his wide grin as the boy flung himself into Samuel’s arms.

  Could Samuel have a son—another child—but had neglected to tell Clarissa? That would have been bad enough, but he must also have left the boy behind somewhere—alone. Clearly, Willie had been fending for himself for some time, judging from his dirty, shabby clothing and filthy hair and hands. The only presentable thing about him was his drum, its head worn but clean, its brass shell decorated with bright stars and polished to a shine. Even its ropes looked new.

  Watching Samuel ruffle Willie’s russet-colored hair, she could hardly believe he’d deserted the boy. She moved a few steps closer as Samuel took the child’s right hand.

  “Remember how to shake like a man?”

  Willie lifted his head. “Strong grip, look him in the eye.”

  Samuel’s laugh rang out, the first laugh she’d heard from him. He couldn’t have abandoned Willie. Her husband’s pleasure at seeing him was not the behavior of a man who had betrayed his son.

  Then again, no one would have thought Clarissa’s father would abandon her either.

  “Reverend, who is this boy? Your son?” Deacon Bradley shouted, pointing at Samuel and the child, teetering a bit as if this new development might knock him off his feet. “How much more disgrace do you plan to bring us?”

  “What disgrace?” Deacon Morris bellowed in a voice that could have been heard on Wall Street. “We don’t even know who he is yet. Give the reverend a chance to explain.”

  “Why’s everybody so angry?” Willie looked down, blinking as if holding back tears. “Guess I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “No, you did the right thing, and I’m glad you did.” Samuel looked over Willie’s head and glared at the deacons for a moment. Then he held out his hand to Clarissa. “Willie, I want to know how you got here and why, but first, I have a surprise for you. I have a wife now.”

  She hesitated at the vulnerability in his tone as he called her his wife. Did he fear she would fail to live up to the title? That she would resist the touch of his hand? Or was it something unrelated to her, some long-ago rejection he’d not yet shaken?

  Whatever the cause of his uncertainty, her job was to dispel it. As she was not doing by making him wait for her to come to him. She hastened to her husband’s side and took his hand.

  He held it, steady and safe, as if trying to convince both her and himself that all would be well. Samuel’s tenderness with her and the child, coming so quickly after his firmness with the deaconate, made her catch her breath.

  “Missus Montgomery,” he said, his voice low, “this is Willie Bigelow.”

  Bigelow, not Montgomery. Apparently, the boy was not her husband’s son. Still clasping Samuel’s hand, she held out her other to Willie.

  To her surprise, he did as Samuel had said—held her hand in a grip just tight enough and with a steady gaze, a sense of wonder in his big blue eyes. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  What good manners. His eagerness to please Samuel touched Clarissa’s heart. And his distinct East Tennessee twang might mean he came from the area where Samuel had fought the Yankees.

  “I want to meet him too, Reverend,” Deacon Bradley said, stalking over to them. “Who is he, and why did he call you Father?”

  Samuel opened his mouth as if to explain, but Willie spoke first. “I called him Papa Samuel, not Father.”

  The head deacon gave Samuel a menacing look, as menacing as a six-foot, one-hundred-twenty-pound man could give. “I warned you. No scandals.”

  Samuel dropped Clarissa’s hand and faced him, that Fighting Chaplain light in his eye. “I fear your mind leans toward the unsavory, Deacon. But the apostle taught us that charity believeth all things, and by that he meant all good things. There’s nothing scandalous about an orphan drummer boy giving an affectionate nickname to his army chaplain.”

  Bradley took a step back, swaying like a leaf in a summer breeze, his taut skin reddening. His gaze shifted to the drum on the floor. “Drummer boy?”

  “Do you object to a man of the cloth caring for an orphan?”

  An orphan who called her husband Papa Samuel. It seemed Clarissa had married a more noble man than she’d realized.

  “Of course not.” He hesitated, then glanced at his deacon-cohorts. “But he’s not dressed as a drummer boy. I thought that drum was just a toy.”

  “It’s more likely that you simply paid no attention to him. The drum is standard size, not small like a toy. It has eleven stars for the eleven states of the Confederacy. You’d have noticed that if you’d had any interest in him.”

  Deacon Morris crossed his arms over his girth. “You’re right. Deacon Bradley, you owe an apology to both the reverend and the boy. But I’m not going to waste my time waiting around for it.”

  Morris headed for the door, and Clarissa silently applauded him for his newfound courage. It seemed Samuel’s influence had already begun to make a real man of at least one deacon.

  However, judging from the scowl on Deacon Bradley’s face, he hadn’t yet surrendered to the Fighting Chaplain. He fidgeted with the pocket watch chain on his baggy forest-green waistcoat, his sparse jaw tremoring. “I’ll be watching you, Reverend.”

  He stalked out, Deacon Holmes trailing along behind him like a puppy, as usual.

  Clarissa followed in their wake to close the door to further interruptions.

  “Now, Willie, tell me how you found me here.” He seated Clarissa at the desk again, Willie in the chair next to her, before he took his place across from them. “And why you didn’t go to live with Major Dandridge as I arranged before I left to attend the surrender.”

  “The major took sick while we was going home. Corporal Wilder and me buried him north of Batesville.” He spoke fast, matter-of-factly. “The corporal had taken to drinking again. He didn’t ask me to go home with him, but I didn’t want to anyway. So I left before daybreak the next morning while he slept i
t off.”

  Twice an orphan. And now Clarissa could see glimpses of his ordeal in the way he looked at Samuel, the way he cared for his drum while neglecting himself. But even more, she recognized his nonchalant manner when speaking of his major’s death and his corporal’s failure to take care of him. Being left behind was devastating, but enduring people’s sympathy made it even worse. As well she knew.

  Contemplating the boy, she caught him stealing glances at the sandwiches. She touched his arm, opened her mouth to offer him her breakfast, and he turned big blue eyes on her—trusting eyes. Trust she hadn’t earned but had been given because of her association with Samuel. The weight of that trust pressed upon her mind and heart—not only regarding Willie, but Emma as well.

  And Samuel.

  She froze at the thought. Her husband had no reason to trust her, but he clearly did. Not only to be a proper wife and helpmeet, at home and at church, but also with his most precious possession: Emma. Clarissa turned to him and his brown-eyed gaze and saw for the first time how much he counted on her.

  The fact shook her to the marrow.

  Could she do it? She had understood she needed to be a mother to Emma. But was that all? Had Clarissa given enough consideration to the depth of her new responsibility? She feared not. Her hand trembled as she reached for her plate and set it before Willie.

  She would need to spend much time in prayer about this. But for now, she had an orphan to care for.

  “Have you had time for breakfast?” Instinctively she knew she mustn’t shame the child, mustn’t let him know she could see how poorly he’d been able to care for himself. He probably thought he was a man, or at least should be, and she didn’t want to shatter the little confidence he likely had. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have brought something for you too. But I find I’m not hungry, and this ham is so good, it’s a shame to waste it. Won’t you finish it for me?”

  The boy’s eyes steady with determination, he shook his head. “No, thank you, ma’am. I eat only what I’ve paid for or earned.”

  Well. She hadn’t expected that.

  “But if you have any jobs you need done, I’ll work it off.”

  She stole a sideways glance at Samuel, who reached up to cover his smile, his eyes twinkling. Apparently, during the war, he had taken the opportunity to begin to teach Willie how to be a man. And for some reason, the fact made her handsome husband all the more attractive.

  Not wanting to pursue that thought at the moment, she turned her attention back to Willie. “I need some work done at my home, and the reverend has his hands full here at church. You may consider the sandwich part of your pay.”

  “Much obliged, ma’am. I’ll eat half, but not unless you eat the rest.” At her nod, he picked up one half of the sandwich, then hesitated. “After you.”

  She bit off one corner of her half before moving Samuel’s plate closer to him so he could eat too. He merely shook his head as Willie took an impossibly large bite.

  “Would you care for coffee, Willie?” Clarissa asked, moving toward the fireplace. She took it from the trivet and brought it to the desk. “It’s nice and strong, just like you had in the army camp.”

  She thought she saw Samuel rub his stomach for a moment, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Willie drew a deep breath, smelling the coffee, and then pushed it aside. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  What fine manners and table etiquette. If he were cleaned up and dressed properly, even the oldest Natchez families would receive him.

  “How did you find me, Willie?” Samuel leaned back in his chair and studied the boy, elbow on the armrest, chin in his hand.

  “I’ve been following you ever since the major died,” he said between bites. “I was afraid I wouldn’t never see you again.”

  “When did he die?”

  “Three days after the surrender.”

  Nine months on the road, no one to care for him. How hungry had he been, how lonely? Clarissa’s thoughts drifted to her twice-weekly visits at the city orphanage. Children like Willie came to them every week, all hungry, all alone.

  All wanting a real home.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “When I got to Vicksburg, the preacher told me.”

  “How’d you know I was in Vicksburg?”

  “The preacher in Jackson.”

  Samuel laughed as if the boy had been on an adventure. Which, in a way, he had. “Let me guess. Before that, you went to Memphis, Birmingham, Atlanta and Savannah.”

  “Yep. Saw a lot of the South.”

  This couldn’t be true. No child could travel so far on his own with no money. Did Samuel question his story as she did? Considering the amused grin on his face, probably not. And she had the feeling she should keep those doubts to herself, at least for now.

  Samuel let Willie finish the last bite of his sandwich, then he pushed his own plate toward him. “Eat your fill.”

  “No, sir. While I was traveling, I was hungry sometimes, and I thought of you and how many meals you skipped.” Willie shoved the plate right back at him, then turned to Clarissa. “He never ate until all the soldiers had been fed. I was just a boy then, and I didn’t understand why he did that. But I’m not a boy anymore, and I’m not taking his food. Please eat, Papa Samuel.”

  “Very well.” An undertone of pride resonated through Samuel’s casual tone, and he took a bite.

  Perhaps Clarissa had been wrong and Willie told the truth about his travel exploits. Certainly he had more character than Deacon Bradley. “How did you manage to go all the way to the coast? You couldn’t have walked that far.”

  “Same way I got here from Vicksburg. Worked my way. The preacher in Vicksburg had an old shed that needed torn down at his house. I did the job, and he gave me my meals, a bed and a steamer ticket to Natchez.”

  “And what did you have to do to get all the way back from Savannah?” she asked.

  “That was harder.”

  “The work?”

  “The ride. It’s easy to get on a steamer and let it carry you down the river. But coming back from Georgia, I had to hitch rides, since Grant tore up all the railroads. I couldn’t always find somebody going my way who would take work instead of money for pay, so I had to walk some.”

  “Why did you look so hard for me?” Samuel asked, having eaten a hearty portion of his sandwich while Willie told his story. He gazed at the pail of coffee for a good long time and then reached for it and dipped himself another cup.

  Clarissa had a hard time keeping a smile from her face, hardly able to believe she’d been able to make coffee to his liking the first time she’d tried. She’d be sure to have a pot ready when he got home every night. In fact, she’d make the next pot a little stronger, since he enjoyed it that way.

  Samuel took a long sip, set down the cup and gazed heavenward for a moment. Giving thanks to God, no doubt.

  “I heard you was traveling and preaching. I thought you needed someone to look after you, and I missed you and didn’t have nowhere else to go.” Willie set the empty plate to the side. “The preacher in Jackson tried to put me in an orphanage. I broke outta there, right quick. Now I’ve come here to help you.”

  To help him? Did he mean he wished to work for Samuel—to live with them?

  The sympathy she saw in Samuel’s dark eyes told her he, too, thought Willie was leading up to that.

  When Samuel turned to her, the sun broke through the morning mist, brighter now and shining on his thick, dark curls. With it came a flash of understanding. Samuel wanted to invite Willie to live with them, to invite him to be their son.

  Grandmother would be scandalized.

  She had already said she wouldn’t live at Camellia Pointe with Absalom, but Clarissa had held on to hope that she would change her mind. Grandmother loved her disciplined, orderly life. Would a rambuncti
ous boy with a drum make her the more determined to leave?

  The thought nearly smothered Clarissa, took her back to a place and time she’d often wished would vanish from her memory forever. Mother’s eyes, closed forever in a humid, hot room that was quiet as the tomb. Alone, afraid...

  Then an image of Willie’s face flitted across her mind. Dirty, hungry. Alone.

  Willie was the abandoned child Clarissa had been. Surely Grandmother wouldn’t refuse him—would she?

  Samuel wanted him, anyone could see that. And were it not for Samuel, Absalom and his family would own Camellia Pointe. Clarissa couldn’t imagine her cousin letting her and Grandmother continue to live in Callaway House either. Instead, they would be without a roof over their heads today.

  If they didn’t take some time to think, to pray, she was sure they’d make the wrong decision...

  Or would Samuel decide himself, without consulting her?

  She pushed away her empty plate and bounded from her chair. Willie hopped up as well, beating Samuel to his feet.

  “Reverend Montgomery, Willie, would you excuse me a moment?” she said as she sailed toward the hall.

  Hearing Samuel calling to her to wait, his footsteps trailing behind her, she hurried all the faster. He caught up to her in the sanctuary, near the pulpit. The cooler air in the high-ceilinged room helped her catch her breath.

  “Sit and talk with me awhile.” Samuel took her arm, his touch as warm and gentle as his voice.

  When they reached the first box pew, he waited for Clarissa to enter first. He closed the pew door behind him, clicking it shut as if sealing them in until they made the right decision. Until they embraced God’s will for themselves, for Grandmother and for the boy who insisted he wasn’t a boy.

  “Willie was always the bright spot in my days,” Samuel said as he sat near her, his abruptness and lack of preamble telling her as much as his words. He wanted to take Willie home with them, there was no question. “His father was killed in the Battle of Chattanooga, and his mother died in childbirth, along with her baby girl. We passed by his farm just as he had begun digging their grave.”