A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  Jeremiah caught her staring. Barely noticing the two children still frightened of him and of his resurrection, he clomped toward her.

  “Children, your father is in the barn. You might want to go to him,” Abigail said.

  But they were rooted to the spot. The boy’s eyes shone at Jeremiah. “Captain Calhoun, we’re glad you’re home. And I might as well say you got yourself a humdinger of a wife. She ain’t even afraid of snakes.”

  Jeremiah’s jaw jutted forward. “She ain’t my wife, Josiah. She mistook me for someone else.”

  “She don’t know her own husband?” Betsy laughed. “No one’s that addled. Besides, she’s living with you, ain’t she? If she ain’t your wife, then don’t tell Ma, ’cause she don’t tolerate such goings-on.”

  His brow seemed to lower until it rested on his nose. Maybe an exaggeration, but Abigail had to look twice to clarify.

  “Your ma is a good woman, and you should heed her, but Miss . . . er—”

  “Miss Stuart,” Abigail supplied.

  “Miss Stuart is a guest of my ma’s, and she won’t be staying long.”

  The youngster looked to her for a reply. “I’ll be here until my colt is born. After that, we’ll see what God has willed.”

  Jeremiah’s jaw tightened at the contradiction. “While the children will undoubtedly miss you, it’d probably be best to go before they get any more attached.”

  Abigail motioned Betsy closer and cheerfully wrapped an arm around the child. “Oh, we’ve already bonded, Captain Calhoun. I count Josiah and Betsy as some of my dearest friends.”

  “That’s right.” Betsy’s grin was as crooked as her pigtails. “We love Mrs. Calhoun—especially the younger one.”

  “Come on,” Josiah said. “Let’s find Pa and leave Miss Abigail to do her husband’s laundry.”

  With a last grin, they ran as if hound dogs were nipping at their heels, obviously forgetting that Jeremiah couldn’t catch them even if he’d wanted.

  The steam from the cauldron sent sweat running down Abigail’s spine. She plucked at her shirtwaist to peel it from her sticky body, then picked up a pair of Jeremiah’s trousers and dropped them into the mix, trying to think of a topic besides her departure.

  “How was Laurel?” she asked.

  “It’s time for you to go.” He took his weight off his crutch and stood straight. “I’ll get the money together for a ticket, traveling expenses, whatever you want. It’s going to take work to get everything back to where it was before the war, and you’re definitely a distraction.”

  “You can’t go back,” she said. “The war changed everything. Doesn’t it make more sense to let me help you around here?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What about your family? Don’t you have someone who’d take you in?”

  Another line of sweat ran down Abigail’s back. How had she thought she could mislead people with a clean conscience? If this man knew why she wasn’t welcomed at home, he’d never let her stay.

  “There’s no one.” Not after their fight.

  “Not an aunt? A brother? A distant cousin?” His sharp gaze warned her that he wasn’t easily fooled.

  “No one.” Abigail tried to meet his eyes but failed. She had family, but they might as well be dead. “I could stay with Laurel.”

  “Stay away from Laurel.” He loosened his simple cravat. “Look, I don’t want to be crude, but how am I supposed to court a lady when a woman claiming to be my wife is living under my roof? Betsy’s ma won’t be the only one to think it ain’t fitting.” Jeremiah’s face had turned the same shade of pink as hers, and he wasn’t standing over a boiling cauldron of laundry.

  With the wooden paddle, Abigail pushed the trousers beneath the water, grunting with the effort. “I can’t leave without my colt.”

  “As for that, first off, Josephine is mine, so at the most you might own half the colt. Secondly, if I was charging you room and board for the last two months—”

  She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare! If anything, you owe me for the work I’ve put in here.”

  “But now I’m home and you aren’t needed.”

  The water boiled, sending slow white bubbles popping up at her. Not needed. Would she always be the one on the periphery—locked out, chased away?

  He leaned in closer, trying to catch her gaze, and his voice gentled. “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I can’t be held responsible for whatever promises another Jeremiah Calhoun made you. Go back to St. Louis and look at the register again. Maybe another Calhoun was mistakenly identified as being with my division. Check if you’d like, but you’ll find that I had nothing to do with it. I’m innocent.”

  Abigail pulled the paddle out of the cauldron and planted the end into the rocky ground. “I’m not asking for your permission to stay, Jeremiah Calhoun. I came here and found a family that needs me. I’ve invested in this farm, and I’m not leaving my investment behind. If you kick me out, I’m taking the horse with me. Take me to court and see what they say.”

  “Nice try, but there’s no fair court hereabouts. No man who fought the Federals is allowed to be on a jury or vote.”

  “Then we’ll let the Union sympathizers decide the case, if that’s what you want. My service should bolster my testimony.”

  His jaw hardened. “I fought a war to keep invaders off my land. Some treaty in Washington City might say I lost, but I haven’t surrendered this farm.”

  His shoulder muscles strained against his raggedy suit coat. Abigail told herself that it was his determination that she admired, not his sturdy build. But shouldn’t she of all people understand what it felt like to have an intruder invade the family? She took a long breath.

  “I’m not asking for your farm. I’m merely asking that my investment be returned. I’d leave if I could, but I won’t throw away my savings.”

  “Once Josephine has her colt, I could sell it and send the amount to you,” he said.

  Was he really that desperate to get away from her? But Ma wanted her to stay. She still had Ma . . . and her promise to look after Rachel. Besides, the arrogant man really did need her. Maybe he could use a reminder.

  She handed him the paddle. “That’d require a lot of trust, wouldn’t it? To just leave and believe that you’d send me anything, especially the correct amount? But then again, if you plan to keep this place up without me, you should have some practice. So, go on and finish this load of laundry. The wringer is on the back porch. I’m going inside to see about supper.”

  If he’d missed some stains, his family better keep their complaints to themselves. Jeremiah had never done the washing before in his life, and this was fixing to be the first and the last time combined. Holding the clothespins in his mouth like he’d seen his ma do, he shook out the dripping sheet. Why bother with a wringer? The sun would dry it soon enough. Getting the heavy sheet over the line wasn’t easy balancing with a crutch under one arm, but he managed. Then pinned up his pants—a fancy trick that required three pins per pant leg—wool held a lot of water.

  Jeremiah had just tossed a tablecloth over the line when his world fell apart, or at least the clothesline did. The clean clothes tumbled to the ground, ruining his labor.

  Have mercy. They needed to be washed again—preferably by someone else. Of course Rachel couldn’t. She kept his mother scurrying about at her beck and call with no free time on her hands. They needed more help, especially with the house chores. He needed . . . well, he needed Laurel to just go on and marry him, but she wasn’t keen on the idea. Not yet.

  How many months until Josephine foaled? Nine? If he let that beguiling woman stay until February, could he keep her in her place? Still looking at the crumpled clothes getting muddied on the ground, Jeremiah gritted his teeth. His ma, Rachel, Laurel, and Abigail—no man since Solomon had been so beset by troublesome females.

  “Jeremiah?” Jeremiah looked up to find a friend of his father’s ambling toward him, agile as a goat. “We thought you’s dead.”


  He remembered to remove the clothespins from his mouth before answering. “A common misunderstanding.”

  Caesar Parrow hitched his pants up his bony hips and nodded. “Wish I was wrong more often. Just had to come see for myself.”

  Caesar had also joined with the Missouri State Guard but had been placed under a different division when they enlisted with the Confederate forces. He’d spent much of the war in the artillery, which explained his lack of hearing.

  “Glad to see you made it home,” Jeremiah bellowed.

  “Home don’t mean nothing, does it? We’re like to get killed yet.” The man moseyed closer, frowning at the duds scattered in the grass. “You doing washing, boy?”

  It was Jeremiah’s turn to be hard of hearing. He stepped over the soggy clothes to his guest. “Have you had any trouble up your way?”

  Caesar nodded. “Strange tracks. Dogs barking at night. No-account soldiers from both sides are taking their time getting home.”

  Jeremiah’s heart skipped a beat when a man broke through the trees on a scrawny mule. It was the postmaster, his mail pouch bulging with deliveries.

  “Well, I’ll be. Jeremiah Calhoun. Didn’t think we’d see you again.” He dismounted and nodded at each of the men.

  “You shouldn’t count me out too soon, Finley.” Jeremiah’s spine stiffened. Never did like the shifty man.

  “Well, when your wife says she saw you buried, I ought to believe her.” Finley handed Caesar a creased envelope.

  “Aww, Mrs. Calhoun?” Caesar stuffed the envelope into his half-buttoned shirt. “I met her when I got burned smithing. She’s uncommon pretty, she is.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “Miss Stuart and I are not married. She’s only here for a few months.”

  Caesar smiled. “Let her live with you for a few months, and you’ll be full sorry to see her go.”

  The two men wheezed their amusement. Jeremiah counted to ten. Then counted again. “I haven’t decided whether or not to let her stay that long, but she has no family. Nowhere to go. What am I supposed to do?”

  Finley stroked his beard. “No family, you say? Don’t Yankees know how to take care of their own?”

  “I didn’t realize she was an orphan.” Caesar removed his floppy hat and scratched his head. “That makes me right sad for her.”

  “Especially with her husband pretending he don’t know her.” Finley’s bottom lip drooped in a pout.

  Hilarious. These men thought they were hilarious.

  Jeremiah gathered the wet clothes and dumped them back into the wash cauldron. She had to go. Perhaps laundry was a chore he could learn to love.

  Nothing made Abigail feel more like a nurse than carrying a tray of food. She ascended the narrow staircase, her blue skirt brushing the wall on both sides, and knocked on Rachel’s door.

  “Who is it?” Rachel asked.

  “I brought your dinner.”

  A grunt, not necessarily permission, but acknowledgment nonetheless, so Abigail entered. With her stocking feet propped up on the footstool before her, Rachel fanned the air with her mother’s journal.

  Abigail took one sniff and frowned. “You may be able to whisk the tobacco smoke out of the room, but not out of your lungs.” She deposited the tray on the bed and pulled the still-warm pipe from beneath the pillow. “This could start a fire.”

  “Have we got any mail?” Rachel’s eyes watered from the smoke. A red rash crept above her collar. No wonder she hadn’t made it downstairs. The same rheumatism that flared up on her skin would inflame her joints, as well.

  “Mr. Finley didn’t come to the house, so probably not.” Abigail emptied the bowl of the pipe into a damp flower pot and stashed it into her pocket. “How are you feeling?”

  Rachel eyeballed the pocket. Her lips pressed to white. “Fine, I suppose. The rheumatism is in my knee today, and I’m dizzy when I rise, but what else do I expect?”

  “Especially when you’re depriving yourself of clean air.” Abigail lifted Rachel’s hand from the arm of the chair. She pressed her thumb against the back of her wrist and then checked her fingernails.

  “Dr. Hopkins does that, too.” Rachel narrowed her eyes. “What are you looking for?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know much about your condition. The prisoners kept us busy with battlefield injuries, pneumonia, and dysentery, but Dr. Hopkins informed me of your bout with rheumatic fever and the progression. Just as your joints swell up and cause your pain, so do your heart valves. These black spots under your nails are hemorrhages that have traveled from there.”

  “And every time the fever comes back, it’s worse. I already knew that. Please tell me your nursing instructions involved more than chatting with Hopkins.”

  Pain and fear brought out the worst in people, yet as poorly as Rachel behaved, Abigail recognized some things admirable in the woman—determination, a grim humor—things that drew Abigail to her. Although she would tend Rachel no matter how Rachel treated her, she longed for even a small sign of respect.

  Rachel reached over and picked up the jar of preserves. Her neck tensed as she struggled to open it. Abigail smiled. Like her brother, Rachel needed her, but she wouldn’t admit it. Abigail turned as if to leave.

  “You forgot to open the jelly,” Rachel called out.

  “I beg your pardon?” Abigail lingered in the doorway. “Do you have a request?”

  Rachel held out the jar. “You forgot to open the jelly. Ma always opens it.”

  “Your mother. What a gem! And I’m pleased to help if you’ll but ask.”

  Rachel’s chest expanded and her mouth turned a healthy shade of pink. She clunked down the jar, picked up her dry toast, and tore a vicious bite from it. Maybe they wouldn’t be friends, but Rachel wouldn’t find Abigail as malleable as her ma. Abigail couldn’t help but chuckle as she left, but she hadn’t expected to find someone waiting at the foot of the stairs.

  “Laurel?”

  With a finger to her lips, Laurel motioned Abigail to follow her into the parlor.

  “I saw Jeremiah out front, so I slipped around back.” The wool fringe on her shawl swung as she paced the room.

  “He’s still washing?” Abigail could tell the girl was distraught. Poor thing. She must have had quite a shock. “Have a seat, Laurel. You don’t look well. Do you want me to get Ma?”

  “No.” She cast a glance out the window. “He came to see me this morning, and the encounter didn’t please him.”

  “He does have high expectations.”

  She snorted as delicately as Abigail had ever heard. “What about my expectations? He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “I told him the same thing.”

  Laurel’s fine black eyebrows knitted together. “And married! You told me he was married.”

  “Turns out I didn’t marry Jeremiah Calhoun after all. I’m not sure who I married, but if he weren’t already dead I’d have hot words for him.”

  Laurel put a hand to her forehead and seemed to wilt. “What am I going to do? I never stopped caring for Jeremiah, but he’d been gone forever, and then Newton treated me so nice, and then I thought Jeremiah wasn’t coming back, and then Newton started calling, and then Mrs. Calhoun got a letter from the army saying Jeremiah had died, and then . . .”

  Poor lady. Two men in love with her and she had to choose one. Abigail couldn’t begin to imagine what that would be like. Unfortunately.

  “So you wouldn’t have even spoken to Dr. Hopkins, but you thought you were free?”

  “I didn’t choose him over Jeremiah. Jeremiah was dead. But now I’m not sure I’m willing to let Newton go.” She picked up one of Ma’s knitting needles and tapped the point against her finger. “I’m not the same girl he knew before. I’m different. We’d be starting from scratch.”

  “But don’t you owe him that chance?” Why was she helping him? Heaven knew she owed him nothing.

  “What will Newton think?”

  “That you’re sensible and thoughtful.
That you want to know your heart before you give it away.”

  “You’re right. Jeremiah deserves a chance, but he needs to understand that getting yourself declared deceased does come with consequences. We can’t pretend that he never left or that the last months didn’t happen.” Laurel sighed. “Thank you, Abigail. I didn’t expect to come to you for advice on your dead husband.” Her eyes rolled in mock horror. “Our lot in life is a strange one, but before I go I suppose I should visit Rachel. Do you think she’d mind?”

  Abigail gestured to the staircase by way of answer and followed Laurel up.

  “Laurel?” Rachel’s forehead creased in genuine puzzlement. “What are you doing here?”

  “I kept meaning to drop by sooner, but you know how busy planting season is.”

  How smoothly Laurel could make an excuse. How quickly Rachel blew it away.

  “I wondered if you’d feel more friendly now that Jeremiah’s home.”

  Laurel had the grace to blush. She fiddled with Rachel’s keepsakes on her dresser. Abigail had just gathered Rachel’s supper dishes when Laurel opened a pocket-sized picture case. The golden frame of the interior caught the sunlight as she eased the hinges open. A flash of light beamed onto Abigail.

  “You haven’t heard from Alan, have you?” Laurel’s dark braid swung forward as she bent over the picture.

  “Not a word after his last letter.”

  A strange foreboding made Abigail’s skin pucker. The dishes rattled as she dropped the tray onto the dressing table and approached Laurel. She peered over her shoulder at the leather-covered case in the girl’s hands.

  “Such a handsome man,” Laurel said, “and so merry. We’ll pray he’s on his way home even now.”