An Inconvenient Marriage

by Christina Miller

  He’d traveled hundreds of miles just to see Samuel?

  What other suffering had the man endured? Samuel reached out and clasped the thick, muscled hand. The tremble in their grasp could have come from either of them; Samuel didn’t know which.

  “Well, I’m not here to pray,” the woman in blue said, the whine in her Yankee-accented voice breaking the moment and grating against Samuel’s nerves.

  “Then why did you come?” He dropped the sergeant’s hand and spoke with all the gentleness he could muster, which wasn’t as much as it probably should have been.

  “You say you’re the Fighting Chaplain, but you’re not wearing your sword.” The Yankee woman turned on Samuel, her youthful face marred with peevishness. “The article said you always wear your sword.”

  “What article?”

  She drew a newspaper clipping from her blue-beaded reticule and thrust it at Samuel like a bayonet. “It says you’re the most dangerous man in the South, and no one has ever beaten you in a swordfight. I paid good money to see the Fighting Chaplain and his sword that killed twenty-one of our good men. All I see is some preacher dressed up like a dandy.”

  A dandy, in his black minister’s suit?

  He reached inside his jacket for his eyeglasses, but the pocket was empty. He handed the article to Clarissa.

  She took the folded page. “‘Meet the Fighting Chaplain and tour his palatial home on the outskirts of Natchez, Mississippi, the South’s most beautiful city. See his grandfather’s sword, with which he cut down a platoon of despicable Yankee soldiers at the Battle of Chickamauga. Sit in the sanctuary, a tiny chapel where the Fighting Chaplain now writes his inspiring sermons. Hear the legend of hidden gold and search for it yourself on the estate’s thirty acres. Only ten cents per person for a one-hour tour, every day at 1 o’clock. Camellia Pointe, East Melrose Street and Franklin Avenue, Natchez.’” Clarissa folded the clipping and slipped it into her pocket. “This is a mistake. We don’t give tours.”

  “We paid for a tour, so give it to us.” The tallest of the shabbily dressed men started toward Samuel.

  He held up one hand, stopping him. “My sword is not on display, and we’re not giving tours.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Absalom and Beau strode out of the garden and through the middle of the crowd as if they already owned the place. The long-haired renegade tipped his outrageously huge stovepipe hat to the woman in blue. “They each paid ten cents to tour the house and grounds, and to see the Fighting Chaplain in all his glory.”

  Tour the home? Had Absalom lost his mind? “Adams, you’re a fool. I have no glory, and you’re not taking a bunch of strangers through Clarissa’s house.”

  “The blazes I’m not.” Absalom closed the gap between them, his garlicky breath heavy in Samuel’s nose. “I’m going to recoup the money I spent on repairs.”

  “You’re not turning our grandparents’ home into a circus,” Clarissa said in a harsh whisper.

  Despite the flash in her eyes, Absalom crooked his elbow at the Yankee woman, clearly planning to guide the tour himself. He steered her around Clarissa and toward the angel statue, his long salt-and-pepper hair blowing in the breeze. “We’ll see the grounds first. My great-grandmother planted this camellia and rose garden from slips she brought with her from Virginia back in—”

  “Send them away, Adams.” Samuel stepped in front of him, his voice lowered to a growl.

  The sergeant joined him, stopping a foot from Absalom’s now pale face. “I’ll throw them out for you, Chaplain—”

  A whoop from Willie interrupted him. The boy raced across the lawn toward the garden steps, waving his sword.

  The sight shot fear into Samuel’s heart and twisted his gut. He sprinted toward the boy. “Willie, stop! Don’t run with it unsheathed...”

  The boy tripped on an uneven step, fell the rest of the way down and let out a shriek.

  “Willie...” Samuel poured on the speed, each jagged breath a prayer. He slid to his knees at the boy’s side, the sergeant a fraction of a second behind.

  The sword lay with its point a good two inches from Willie’s belly.

  “Turned my fool ankle,” he said, rolling to a sitting position.

  Samuel’s pulse began to slow when he saw the boy was safe, but the weakness washing over him would take a minute to abate. “You know better than to run with an unsheathed sword. You almost killed yourself.”

  Clarissa caught up to them and fanned her face with the hated news page. “How bad is your ankle?”

  “It’s nothing.” Willie scrambled up and hopped on one foot a couple of times. “I had to do it. You gotta stop Absalom.”

  Samuel stood too and laid his hand on the little troublemaker’s shoulder, his strength coming back. He glanced behind him. Absalom had led the crowd toward the sanctuary. “Stop him from what?”

  “Absalom and Harold Goss got an agreement. They’re looking for something hidden here at this house. They’re not just doing these tours for money. Absalom gives them to distract you while that poor sap Harold Goss searches the property.”

  “What are they looking for?”

  “Hidden gold. They’re going to dig around until they find it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When me and Pete went for more bricks, we saw ol’ Absalom and Harold Goss skulking around the sanctuary, so I sneaked over there to make sure they weren’t causing trouble. They were talking about gold and pointing at a newspaper, and when they left, they crammed the paper inside the altar urn. Said they might need it later, when the tourists show up.”

  “And after they were gone, you fetched the paper out of the urn and read it,” Samuel said, a snippet of amusement in his tone.

  “I had to know what they were all het up about. If there’s gold at Camellia Pointe, I don’t want Absalom to find it.”

  Clarissa let out a huff. “Absalom needs to grow up. He always believed the old stories about our great-grandfather hiding valuables on the estate. They’re not true.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you were running with the sword.”

  Willie puffed out his chest. “I couldn’t let him start the tours. The poor sap might find the treasure.”

  Clarissa glanced around the property. “I don’t see Harold anywhere. I think you misunderstood.”

  “The article said there’s hidden gold here.”

  “That still doesn’t mean—”

  “I can prove it,” Willie said. “What newspaper is the ad in?”

  She pulled the clipping from her sleeve and unfolded it. “The Daily Memphis Avalanche.”

  “Who owns it?” the boy asked in a cheeky tone.

  She checked the clipping and then raised her gaze to Willie’s, her eyes wider than Samuel had ever seen them. “‘Publisher, Harold Goss.’”

  Wait—the Daily Memphis Avalanche...not a local paper as Samuel had assumed? It couldn’t be.

  Willie snorted. “I heard him tell Absalom he was gonna use that paper to cause a Mississippi avalanche.”

  “This isn’t the first time he’s tried to snow me.” Despite Willie’s boyish reasoning and conclusions, Samuel wouldn’t put anything past Goss. “Remember when I told you of Miss Emily St. John, the young woman from Memphis who tried to trap me into marriage?”

  “The one you spoke of your first day here?”

  He nodded. “The rumor started with a gossip column in the Avalanche. Harold Goss is Miss St. John’s cousin, and he did all he could to forge a marriage between us.”

  Clarissa studied the clipping again. Then she let out a gasp that carried a pain-filled edge. “The sanctuary—Grandfather’s private little place—on the front page.”

  Samuel looked over her shoulder and squinted at the picture. Stepping back a little, he could finally see the sanctuary’s outline. “How did some
one get that photograph without us knowing?”

  Willie pointed at the clipping. “Ain’t a photograph. It’s a drawing.”

  Clarissa held the paper closer to her face then turned to Samuel. “He’s right. And Drusilla must have made it. She spent all her time drawing until she left for Memphis.”

  No doubt. “Willie, please put your sword away with mine in my room.”

  The boy’s shoulders drooped but he quickly pulled them back again and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  Samuel started to reach into his coat pocket for his key but then stopped. “How did you get it? I keep my door locked.”

  “I used the key that hangs on the little tack above the door trim.” At a more sedate pace than before, Willie headed for the house.

  Samuel glanced at Clarissa for her reaction. “I didn’t know a key was up there.”

  “Nor did I.” Her gaze turned suspicious as she watched her cousin blathering in front of the sanctuary. She eased herself onto the stone bench beside the walk. “Perhaps I should check the spare-key ring in the kitchen. Absalom or Beau might have taken the spare and hung it there so they could search your room whenever they wanted.”

  Suddenly weary down to his marrow, Samuel sank to the bench, keeping a little distance from Clarissa. Perhaps he should offer his services as tour guide. Then he could keep an eye on the crowds—and Absalom.

  He cast a glance at the sergeant, his gaze fixed on Samuel as if awaiting orders.

  What if the tough-looking soldier would do that for him? Not be the guide but rather the estate watchman... “Sergeant, when must you return home?”

  “Got no home to return to. Yankees burned everything, and my family is long gone.”

  “If my wife approves, I’d like to capitalize on this situation instead of shutting it down.”

  He chanced a glance at Clarissa but the reluctance he’d expected to see wasn’t there. Rather, she leaned forward a bit, a light of interest in her eyes.

  “The ad could bring us a lot of guests. I’d like you to stay with us and keep the estate secure.” He drew a deep breath, knowing his wife might well object to the rest of his plan. “They’re coming to see the Fighting Chaplain. What if we oblige them—turn this circus into a ministry opportunity? Every afternoon, I could deliver a gospel message in the sanctuary. Camellia Pointe would become a preaching point for the Gospel.”

  Judging from the way Clarissa’s brows shot up and her eyes grew large as camellia blossoms, she didn’t like it. Maybe it was a bad idea, but he felt it had come from the Lord. Now what should he—?

  Her beautiful smile broke out like the sun emerging through the clouds. “Grandfather Hezekiah always said we should take every opportunity to preach the Gospel.”

  The prospect suddenly interested him even more than preaching in the church. And his amazing wife was behind him, his partner in the ministry. Something he’d dreamed of for years. “We’ll have a lot of people trampling through here every day. You’re sure that’s what you want?”

  “If Sergeant John can stay and help.”

  “I’m your man,” the soldier said.

  “You might as well get your sword and start now.” The shine in her eyes, her clear confidence in Samuel, took his breath and confirmed what he’d been afraid to admit—even to himself.

  He was in love with Clarissa. The realization sliced through him like that stupid sword, carving his heart into little pieces with its razor edge.

  But he was a failure as a family man. So how could he trust himself not to let her down as he had Veronica? As he still did with Emma? He didn’t deserve a happy marriage, a second chance at love, and he never would.

  He turned abruptly from her and made for the house before she could see the truth in his eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grandfather never would have dreamed of his sanctuary becoming a preaching point. But if he had, this is what he’d have wanted to see.

  Clarissa stood off to the side, in case Samuel needed her, as he hovered his hand over the hilt of his grandfather’s sword. Only she realized the depth of his disdain for the fuss and flurry that always surrounded the Fighting Chaplain. Yet today, as always, he submitted to the title’s indignity for the sake of those gathered to listen.

  And did it wholeheartedly.

  Except for the moments before he took off at a run to the house, presumably to get his sword. In those seconds of hesitation, his eyes had burned with shame, almost regret.

  Samuel drew the sword now and slashed it through the air, demonstrating the Bible story of the Apostle Peter cutting off the Roman soldier’s ear in Gethsemane. “Big, strong fisherman Peter likely aimed for the soldier’s head,” he said, “hoping to split it down the middle rather than merely slicing off an ear. And Jesus, probably an equally big, strong carpenter, reached down with compassion and gently placed the ear back on the soldier’s head, healing it.”

  Strength out of control, strength under control.

  Clarissa was beginning to see the extent of her husband’s strength—under control.

  The faces of Samuel’s audience—the disheartened soldiers, the Yankee woman, Sergeant John, the children and their tutor—assured her he was reaching their hearts with his message of forgiveness and second chances.

  All but Absalom, who stood a safe distance from Samuel and his sword, and Harold Goss, who had appeared from who knew where when Samuel started preaching.

  If only Clarissa could have a second chance—at life, at love. Entering into this marriage agreement, she’d known she’d never experience love, didn’t want to experience it. Perhaps she’d been wrong to think so. She rubbed her bare wrist, the one Harold had once ornamented with a silver bangle. Why was she so inadequate? What did she lack? What intangible essence made other women capable of keeping their beaus, their husbands—their fathers?

  “Missus Montgomery, will you sing ‘Jesus Paid It All’ as we close?”

  She jerked up her head at Samuel’s voice. So deep had been her musings, she hadn’t realized he was closing the meeting.

  Clarissa met his brown-eyed gaze, its intensity making her blink. She saw his intent: to give the Lord the opportunity to use his preaching voice and her singing voice together, as He had on Sunday, to reach this little crowd with the Gospel.

  She drew a breath from deep within and started the song in breathy tones. The simple yet profound message warmed her, solidified her confidence in the One who’d made her. He would help her, would love her even though she’d never know the love of a man.

  Of the good man, her fine husband, who stood watching and silently encouraging her.

  When she’d drawn out the last notes, she slipped away, up the slope to the house.

  “What’s going on down there?” Grandmother said, Lilliana in her arms, when Clarissa entered her bedroom minutes later.

  After Clarissa brought the older lady up to date on Absalom’s nefarious activities and Samuel’s redemption of them, Grandmother gave an unladylike grunt. “There’s no treasure hidden at Camellia Pointe. When the Yankees left, your grandfather retrieved the few sentimental items stashed away here.”

  Well, all but one silver bangle.

  Grandmother raised her voice over the sound of the baby’s whimpering. “Samuel preached every bit as well down there as he did on Sunday.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I opened the window and listened.”

  “You heard him from up here?” Clarissa took Lilliana and walked the fussy baby about the room. Had Grandmother gotten any rest this afternoon? Joseph had been right. They needed Maisie’s help.

  “Your grandfather used to say that if God hasn’t equipped a man with a voice loud enough to carry to the back of the church, then He hasn’t called him to preach. I could hear Samuel from my bedroom window.” Grandmother sat at her dressing table, took out her
hairpins and picked up the brush from her familiar amber vanity set. As she brushed her long, gray hair, she watched Clarissa in the mirror. “I could hear you too. You have a special gift of helping Samuel in his ministry.”

  The rare, unexpected compliment brought a sting to Clarissa’s eyes. “How can you tell?”

  “I have fifty years of experience as a pastor’s wife. When your grandfather started out in the ministry, he insisted I sing before he preached. He always got a peaceful look on his face. Samuel had the same look on Sunday.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “For one thing, it means he’s starting to trust you. To depend on you.” She laid down her brush and turned around. “To develop feelings for you.”

  Feelings? “You’re mistaken. Marriages of convenience don’t end up happy.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? Mine was arranged and your grandfather and I couldn’t have been happier.” She returned to the mirror. “Unless Absalom and his father hadn’t turned out so odd.”

  “Absalom’s parents were never happy, and Grandfather arranged their marriage.”

  Grandmother parted her thick hair down the middle and twisted it into a chignon, speaking to Clarissa’s image in the walnut-framed mirror. “I told you before, they were strange people. But I can’t believe they’re the reason you think all arranged marriages are unhappy.”

  How did Grandmother’s steely gaze manage to slice open Clarissa’s heart and look inside, even through a mirror? Why did she need to know the reason Clarissa didn’t like arranged marriages? But the gray-haired lady wouldn’t give up until Clarissa told her the whole truth. “Fine. If you have to know, I used to think the man of my dreams would show up one day and tell me he’s been looking for me. For me, not just any woman who would agree to marry him. I want a man to want me, specifically.”