Emma stood as close to her teacher-stepmother as she could get. She mimicked Clarissa’s every move, her lips moving along with the lyrics.
No one seemed to notice him, which was no great surprise, considering Clarissa’s extraordinary talent and stage presence. He headed toward the stairs and started up, determined to extricate himself from her captivation. He dared not let his mind, his heart, take him down a dangerous path.
As he passed her at the bend in the staircase, she smiled into his eyes.
“‘Meet me by moonlight alone...’”
It brought him to a halt on the third step.
Her intimate smile, her rapt attention—he felt as if she’d meant the lyrics just for him, as if the two of them were the only ones in the room. Her words sounded like an invitation, one he would be hard-pressed to decline—
Wait—what was he doing, standing there like a schoolboy with his first crush? He broke the moment quickly, tearing his gaze from her and bounding up the stairs.
What was wrong with him, making a fool of himself in front of his entire family? Clarissa had merely been performing the song—playacting, so to speak. Yet he’d all but agreed to meet her by moonlight.
Samuel unlocked their door and stormed into his study. His bedroom. His hiding place. He had to keep his heart from becoming entangled. And he may accomplish nothing more in Natchez. His plan for Emma wasn’t exactly working out as he’d hoped. Not only had she ignored him just now, but she hadn’t spoken a word to him since he took away her book Sunday evening. They were no closer to being a family than the day he’d picked her up in Kentucky.
Clarissa had said it would take time, and she was right. But his daughter seemed barely able to tolerate his presence, and each time he tried to change that, she merely ripped out another piece of his heart.
Of course, Clarissa wasn’t to blame. Their problems started long before he’d met her. In fact, he’d felt as if he’d been bleeding inside since the day he learned he’d sent Emma to live next door to a battlefield.
He’d come to Natchez to stop that flow. Married Clarissa as a last-chance effort to repair his relationship with Emma. But now, after his foolish response to Clarissa’s innocent singing, he had to admit he was developing feelings for his wife. Feelings that, if not checked, would result in the same kind of heartbreak he’d endured with Veronica.
Instead of healing his wounds by marrying Clarissa, he’d sliced an artery.
Would things ever get better? Could he have a happy home like his grandparents’?
In a flash of nostalgia, Samuel retrieved his trunk key from the wardrobe and knelt before the old chest. Dare he open it, bring back to light those reminders of another day, a happier day? Or should he throw trunk and all into the river?
Thoughts of the past held him captive for minutes that felt like hours, and then he jammed the key into the lock. How could things get worse? If he took one more look, endured one more reminder of the happiness of youth and the hope he’d once held for his future, perhaps he could finally set those dreams to rest.
Because some dreams weren’t meant to come true.
Or were they? Rusty from neglect, the lock fought him, refusing to relinquish its simple treasures. With a final, wrenching twist, Samuel broke the box free. He lifted the lid.
First he took out his sword—Grandfather Jonas’s sword. Its weight still felt right in his hand, and he stood and swished it about the room. Next, his battered uniform and hat, and his father’s portrait. He set the frame facedown on the carpet, as he’d packed it.
Then he reached for the only item in the trunk that he’d longed to see. An old-fashioned velvet box, light green and heavy. Samuel touched the hasp and the waning afternoon rays lit the emeralds in Grandmother Esther’s lavaliere. The one that carried a blessing.
The one she’d instructed him to give to the woman who would fall in love with him.
Would he ever give it away?
Would he ever be worthy to give it away?
His thoughts drifted back to the moment Clarissa sang to him. To the day he’d called her dear, to her sweet response. To her obvious love for Emma and even baby Lilliana, her care for him at church, even her attempt to please him with her terrible coffee.
Could she care for him? Perhaps not with the kind of love she sang about. He was too much of a roughneck. But might she grow to admire him, just a little, in time?
If so, could Emma also come to care for him again? Probably not. The hardness he saw in her mirrored her mother’s contempt for him. From that fateful evening of his presbytery appointment until the last time he’d seen Veronica over three years ago, her scorn had grown almost daily. She wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t even glance his way, despite his year-long absence at war.
To deny that Emma had taken up her mother’s offense would be to deny reality.
He snatched his grandfather’s sword and slashed the air again.
During his evangelistic tour of the South, he’d preached the same message in every city he entered: be a real man, a man of God. A man who made sacrifices, took care of his family, loved his family.
A man like Grandfather Jonas. Not like his own father. Not like Samuel.
Would he ever be half the man Grandfather was?
At the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, he set down the sword and tucked the jewelry box into a corner of the trunk. Perhaps he would retrieve it someday. Then again, perhaps not.
“Papa Samuel, you in there?” Willie yelled as he banged on the door. “Miss Clarissa says she’s ready to go.”
“Come in before Miss Phemie comes up here with her cane. She doesn’t like noise in the house.”
The door inched open and Willie peered inside at Samuel and the contents of the trunk strewn on the carpet. He shifted Honey to his other arm. “You lose something?”
“No...” Samuel picked up the sword. “How would you like to start your sword-fighting lessons again?”
Willie’s eyes shone like the sword in sunshine. “When? Right now?”
The boy’s enthusiasm gave Samuel back a little joy. “Tomorrow at sunrise. Tonight, Miss Clarissa and I have a party to attend, and then we’re going to Good Shepherd.”
“What’s that?”
“A little boardinghouse Miss Clarissa owns.”
“Why you going there? We got plenty of room here.”
Samuel’s laugh sounded sarcastic, even to his ears. “We’re not moving in. Miss Clarissa wants me to meet the boardinghouse manager and take a look at the operation.”
“All right, but let’s practice a little now.” Before Samuel could react, Willie set down the pup, snatched the sword and affected a left stance.
Samuel held out his hand. “Before you start hacking the drapes, remember—we practice outside. There’s too much to tear up in this house.”
Willie surrendered the sword. “I’ll meet you on the battlefield at sunrise.”
Battlefield? “The croquet lawn?”
“‘Croquet lawn’ sounds like we’re just playing games. Let’s call it the battlefield.”
Well, in reality, the swordfight lessons were a game... “Battlefield it is.”
The boy cast a longing gaze at the sword for a moment and then brightened. “Guess what? Miss Drusilla got on the steamboat for Memphis today. And I got to drive her to the landing in ol’ Absalom’s carriage. He said he didn’t have time to mess with her. I say good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Samuel started to correct the boy, but he felt the same way and so held his peace.
Willie made as if he would leave, but then he spotted the framed oil portrait that still lay face down on the floor. He grabbed it as quickly as he had the sword and turned it over. “Why you got a picture of yourself?”
“What? No. That’s my father.”
“Sure looks like you.”
“No, I resemble my grandfather.” But he took the portrait anyway, and held it up. Sure enough, Father had his own mother’s smaller eyes and thinner lips, lighter hair. Samuel looked nothing like his side of the family.
“Well, maybe not the hair and everything,” Willie said, “but you look like this when you look at Emma.”
“I don’t see it.”
“You pull your eyebrows together like his and make your mouth kinda tight. And—scowl.”
Samuel took a hard look at his father’s image then at the mirror. Was it true? Had he become his inattentive, scowling father?
Nothing could be worse.
And nothing could hurt Emma more.
His hand shook a bit as he set the portrait in the trunk. “Willie, please tell Miss Clarissa I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”
The boy scampered from the room, Honey at his heels. Samuel hastened to close the door and lock it from the inside. He looked at himself in the mirror, then he returned to the trunk, took out Father’s portrait and studied it again.
It was there—the resemblance Willie noticed.
No wonder Samuel was getting nowhere with his daughter. Come to think of it, she was acting exactly as Samuel had at Emma’s age. The difference was that Father had always responded with a switch.
He laid the portrait back in the box, then thought better of it and propped it on the mantel. He would need the reminder. Emma’s heart depended on it.
Samuel sat at the corner desk, his gaze landing on Grandfather Jonas’s sword. God, how do I learn to be the man my grandfather was? The man I preach about from the pulpit? Whose daughter feels loved and loves him back...
The soft rap on his door surprised him. “Samuel? Willie brought the carriage around, and I’ve given the children their supper. Are you ready?”
His wife’s sweet voice drifted into his room, his mind, his heart. She never raised it to Emma or Willie in anger or irritation. Her mouth never scowled, nor did her brows pull together. She knew how to show them love, to be a mother to them. He lifted his head, realizing God was answering his prayer.
Clarissa would show him how.
Chapter Nine
Her first social event as a married woman, the most anticipated party of a Natchez girl’s life. But Clarissa would rather have hidden in the kitchen, washing the dishes. Everyone here knew she wasn’t a chosen bride, a beloved wife. And that was enough to tempt her to get right back into Samuel’s carriage and race home to Camellia Pointe. At least she wore her favorite bottle-green dress, well-fitting and remade well, its frayed lace replaced with tatting she’d found in the attic.
Samuel must have sensed her fretfulness, sliding a protective arm around her waist as they entered the Talbots’ crowded center hall and passed Nettie Bates playing the violin. Or perhaps he was merely trying to keep up appearances, as was Clarissa. At any rate, his careful attention to her, his strong arm keeping her close, gave her a sense of comfort.
But if anyone said one word about an arranged marriage, she’d drive herself home—or walk.
They crossed the hall and stopped just inside the parlor, where Graham’s stepmother served them her new no-alcohol Roosevelt juleps, the current rage in Natchez, made with fresh garden mint and sugary syrup.
“Applesauce cookies. My favorite.” Samuel selected a large one from the tray beside the juleps.
Emma sat in the corner, cradling Lilliana and rocking her gently to sleep.
“I didn’t think you could look more beautiful than you did at your wedding, but you do.” Graham’s wife, Ellie Talbot, slipped up behind her, her honey-blond hair pulled up in a chignon instead of her usual curled style.
Clarissa set her cup on the drink table. “Your new hairstyle becomes you.”
Ellie turned a pretty shade of pink. “I decided I need to look more mature.”
More mature? Then her meaning hit Clarissa and she clasped her friend’s arm.
“God has blessed us with a child.” Ellie lowered her voice. “The Spring Festival will be my last party before my confinement.”
Graham strolled over then, winking at his wife and wearing a rather silly grin, clearly understanding their secret was out.
Clarissa blinked back tears as she gave her friend a hug. With her arranged, loveless marriage, she would never have the same joy. And until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she wished that wasn’t true.
Samuel rescued her by drawing her attention to the cross-shaped cake Miss Ophelia fussed over. He excused them and guided her to the cake table, his hand warm on the small of her back.
When Miss Ophelia caught sight of them, she hastened around the table, her long red curls bouncing. Grandmother Euphemia approached from the other side of the room, at a more sedate pace.
“Now, Clarissa, don’t be upset with me.” Miss Ophelia clutched Clarissa’s hands, hers trembling a bit. “I had no idea the reception would turn out this way. I didn’t invite—”
“And don’t make a scene. Just ignore it,” Grandmother said, a grim line to her mouth.
Whatever they were referring to must have been important, judging from the vehemence of Grandmother’s cane taps to the floor. “What am I to ignore? You’re not making sense.”
The room grew silent then, other than Nettie playing “Old Folks at Home,” when a blond-haired woman approached, wearing a bluish-green ball gown of the latest fashion.
Of a sudden, Clarissa understood the older women’s anxiety.
“Belinda Grimes.” How had she—the woman who had stolen Clarissa’s beau all those years ago—wrangled an invitation to this party?
“It’s Belinda Goss, and well you know it.” She sidled in closer, and Clarissa saw her ploy. Belinda’s aqua dress made Clarissa’s bottle-green look positively sickly. It probably did the same for her complexion.
Clarissa took a step back. Must all of Natchez see her looking poorly beside this woman who was now married to Clarissa’s former beau—her first and only love? She moved even farther away, to the spot where Samuel stood, watching, waiting.
“This is my husband, the Reverend Samuel Montgomery—”
“And I’m Clarissa’s dear friend, lately of Memphis.” Belinda’s gaze slid from his rich dark curls and chestnut eyes to his strong shoulders as if she’d enjoy stealing another man from Clarissa. She glided toward him and held her slender hand close to Samuel’s face, clearly expecting him to bestow a kiss.
He held it briefly, then released her.
Clarissa felt like giving him the hug of his life.
For an instant Belinda narrowed her eyes at him and scowled, then she flounced her yellow curls as she had the day of her wedding. To Clarissa’s beau. “I’ve heard all about you and your hasty marriage. I never knew anybody who got married the day they met. You move fast for a preacher.”
Samuel eased his arm around Clarissa’s waist—bless the man—and pulled her close. Very close, and gazed into her eyes like a man in love. Or, at least, the way she imagined a man in love would gaze. “What man wouldn’t hurry to marry Clarissa? She’s the best thing that could have happened to me.”
Clarissa’s face flushed hot, from his words, from the way he spoke them with his slow, deep drawl, or from his nearness, she couldn’t tell.
Clearly, Belinda wasn’t buying it, judging from her raised brow. “It looks like an arranged marriage to me. I thought preachers weren’t supposed to lie.”
Then a man stood next to Clarissa, wearing a handsomely tailored frock coat, the diamond in his cravat pin the size of one of Grandmother’s pearls. Every blond hair in place, perfect teeth and perfect smile, eyes the color of spring irises—the face she’d once thought the finest in the world. “Clarissa, you’re ravishing as always. Still wearing the old family garnets, I see.”
“Harold Goss.” Harold—out of prison camp and here in Natchez.
At her wedding reception, celebrating her marriage that wasn’t a marriage at all.
Clarissa opened her mouth to say something, anything to shatter the heartbreaking silence, but no words could ease this embarrassment, this humiliation. Harold knew her better than anybody, except Grandmother. He would see right through her wedding sham and would instantly know—probably already knew—she was an unloved bride, a wife of convenience.
She turned and saw that Samuel had left her. Where had he gone when she needed him, and where was Grandmother? Miss Ophelia? Her jaw tremoring, she cast her gaze about the room and caught sight of Samuel whispering to Miss Ophelia on the other side of the cake table.
He hastened back to her side as Miss Ophelia tapped her spoon against her punch glass. “Gather around, everyone.”
How could they gather around any more than they already had? All of Natchez seemed to be right there in Clarissa’s face, witnessing her shame—
“We’re here to celebrate the marriage of our own dear Clarissa Adams to the Reverend Samuel Montgomery,” Miss Ophelia said, her voice even more animated than usual. “And it’s a good thing he wanted to marry her right away, or that handsome man would have had pecks of trouble fending off the women in town.”
Samuel laughed with the rest of the guests, then raised his voice. “I don’t know about that, but I certainly did want a hasty marriage. I couldn’t take the risk of another man carrying off my beautiful girl while I wasn’t looking.”
Beautiful? Her? Clarissa tried to speak through the lump in her throat, but words wouldn’t come. No one had called her beautiful since Mother passed away...
“And since the wedding was private, we didn’t get to see the bridal kiss,” Miss Ophelia said. “Reverend, would you rectify this for us now?”
Samuel held Clarissa’s gaze, moving nearer. “With pleasure.”
Did he truly mean to kiss her? Here, in front of everyone she knew?
If she assumed he’d kiss her quickly and then release her, she was wrong.
Drawing her to him and holding her closer, much closer, than Natchez manners allowed, he brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek. The room seemed to hold its breath as he held her, making her wait, not hesitating but purposeful.
An Inconvenient Marriage Page 14