“Well, with any luck, the preacher will be marooned by the storm and unable to abandon us.”
She took off her rapidly fogging glasses, wiped the lenses delicately on her shawl. “Do you suppose,” she asked, carefully replacing the glasses and squinting a bit, “that he will eat all the refreshments before we get there?”
“Madam,” Nick replied, deeply grateful that she was unknowingly keeping him distracted from his own clawing fears, “I shall boldly challenge him for the last scrap of ham, right down to the very last clove. I vow it shall be yours.”
Laughing, Mollie shook her head. “My hero,” she said. “The preacher has met his match. I’ll tell him … Ohh!” A yelp escaped her as a larger carriage passed by too quickly, its wheels throwing up a wave of muddy water, splattering the hem of her dress, Nick’s trouser legs, and their feet.
“Oh, Hector’s pup!” Mollie swore, brushing at her dress with her gloves, succeeding only in muddying the gloves. “Blast and bluebellied blazes! Of all the dadblamed…!”
“My sentiments exactly, Miss Winters,” Nick interrupted, handing her his handkerchief. “Just don’t tell the preacher.”
CHAPTER 11
Marcellus Johnson, George’s liveryman, and his teenaged son Nestor were waiting in the roadway in front of the Gress’ house. Marcellus held a huge black umbrella, and when Nick finally reined Magnolia in, Nestor took hold of the horse’s bridle as Marcellus moved quickly to the side of the buggy to help Mollie down.
“Welcome, ma’am,” he said, carefully holding the umbrella out over Mollie’s head and offering her his hand. Politely ignoring the streaks and splatters of mud on her dress, he added, “Y’all watch your step now. This here ground is mighty slick, ma’am.”
When Mollie stepped carefully down beside him, Marcellus released her hand and looked up at Nick. “Howdy, Mist’ Nick. Sorry this here storm caught y’all. Mighty unfortunate, but I’m right glad y’all made it safely.”
Nick reached behind the buggy seat for another umbrella. “How do, Marcellus. I’m obliged to you and Nestor for meeting us. Y’all think Miz Ida and Miz Willie Mae will forgive us bein’ late on account of the rain?” he asked hopefully.
Marcellus shook his head. Though his tone was sorrowful, there was a hint of laughter in his dark eyes. “Not a chance, Mist’ Nick. Beggin’ yo’ pardon, ma’am,” he added, tipping his head graciously to Mollie.
“Didn’t think so,” Nick grumbled. He opened the umbrella and hopped down from the buggy, wincing as his injured leg protested. He quickly righted himself, however, before anyone else noticed his discomfort.
Reaching in his pocket, he took out a coin. Handing it to Nestor, he said, “Put her in the stable, will you, Nestor? Give her a good rubdown and some water and fresh feed.”
“Yessuh, Mist’ Nick,” the boy nodded solemnly. “I surely will. Thank you, suh.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder and saw Marcellus, still holding the umbrella over Mollie, hustling her up the porch stairs toward the wreath-and-ribbon-adorned front door, all the while cautioning her to “Mind your step now, ma’am, these here steps is slick” and “Careful of that there puddle, ma’am.”
Turning back to Nestor, Nick bent down so the boy could hear him over the gusts of wind and rain.
“Miz Ida?” he asked, hoping a second opinion would shine a happier light on the situation.
But Nestor’s brow furrowed with sympathy.
“Reckon she’s fit to be tied, suh.”
Nick sighed, nodded. “And Miz Willie Mae?”
Now the boy’s eyes turned heavenward, as though seeking divine intervention. “Worse yet, suh,” he said sorrowfully.
“All right. Thanks, Nestor.”
“Any time, Mist’ Nick.”
As Nick turned away, limping slightly as he strode toward the steps, Nestor called after him. “Mist’ Nick, suh?”
Nick stopped, looked back, squinting through the rain. “Yes, Nestor?”
“You hurt, suh? Looks like you’re favoring that leg some.”
Nick shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Just gave it a bit of a jolt.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then. But suh?”
“”Yeah?”
“I reckon y’all might limp a little more, suh. Maybe get you a pass from the lady folks outta pity that way.”
“Ah. An excellent idea, Nestor. Much obliged.”
Nestor grinned and nodded, and with that, Nick carefully lurched up the steps and across the porch like a man with a wooden leg. The door flew open and Willie Mae appeared in the doorway, her face a thundercloud.
“Mist’ Nicholas! Where you been, suh? Miz Ida’s had to give the preacher four pieces of pie just to… Why, suh, what’s wrong with your leg?”
“I’m fine, Miz Willie. Don’t fret, now. Just a little accident, but it slowed me up some.”
“Well, get in here, then, suh, and take your weight off it for a bit. Anybody has an objection, well, they can just deal with me!”
Looking even more abjectly grateful than he felt, Nick said, “Bless you, Miz Willie,” and hobbled manfully through the door.
• • • • •
Though there was no more than a handful of people in the parlor, the whirlwind of activity that erupted upon Mollie’s and Nick’s arrival was dizzying. Mollie was instantly whisked away by Ida and Willie to change into her bridal gown; Marcellus, stepping handily into valet mode, mopped and brushed Nick as he might have one of George’s fine carriage horses. George himself then took over, planting his brother-in-law at the holly-and-evergreen bedecked fireplace in front of Pastor Lewis, his own vestments newly swept of pie crumbs by the sharp-eyed Marcellus.
George stuck a yellow hothouse rosebud in Nick’s lapel. “Ring,” he said. “You got a ring?”
Nick’s expression froze in momentary panic. He patted his vest pockets, sighed in relief when he located the filigreed gold band. Mollie had asked for only a plain, simple band, but this one had caught his eye. Strong despite its beautiful and delicate design, it had reminded him immediately of the young woman he was about to, however improbably, take as his wife.
I’m only ever going to do this once, Nick thought. So I’d better damn well do it right.
Pastor Lewis’s eyes, drooping as though he were half-asleep, suddenly widened. He raised his hand in blessing, and Nick and best man George both turned toward the parlor door. With a regal air and a large corsage pinned to her bodice, Ida entered the room, walking at a stately pace toward the silver candelabra and red-and silver-ribbon-bedecked parlor spinet. With a smile and a nod, she took her place on the velvet-padded piano bench, adjusted her sheet music, then folded her hands in her lap and waited.
In the hallway, just out of sight, Willie Mae stage-whispered, “Come on now, Miss Mollie, it’s time. An’ don’t y’all jus’ look a perfect picture!”
“Please mayn’t I have my spectacles, Miz Willie? What if I walk into the wall? Or worse, into the preacher?” Mollie fretted in an even more audible whisper.
“I promise I’ll point y’all in the right direction, Miss Mollie,” Willie Mae replied. “Y’all just keep walkin’ straight.”
“But what if I…?”
Nick couldn’t stand it. Between the heat of the fire and his jittery nerves, he could feel a drop of sweat run down his spine. “For God’s sake, Miz Willie!” he bellowed. “Give her the dadblasted glasses!”
There was a collective gasp – the preacher’s louder even than Ida’s – and Willie Mae appeared in the doorway. Her face was thunderous with scandalized outrage as she propped her hands sternly on her hips.
“Now y’all jus’ hold your horses and mind your tongue, Mist’ Nick! Don’t y’all be makin’ me come over there, you hear?”
Thwarted, Nick muttered something under his breath, but sullenly resumed his wait. George tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker, and Ida glared at them both. With an indignant hmmph! Willie Mae turned back into the hall and disappeared
from sight. A moment later, she ducked back into the parlor doorway, waved her hand at Ida.
“Y’all go on an’ play now, please, Miz Ida. This here beautiful bride an’ her pretty li’l flower girl is all ready to start.”
With a theatrical flourish, Ida began pounding out “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” on the spinet. There was another flurry of whispers and suddenly little Marie, dressed in immaculate white ruffles and bright red silk bows, her hair curled into an impressive number of perfect ringlets, skipped into the room. At Willie Mae’s stage-whispered, “Slow down, Baby!” the little girl skidded to a halt, then started again with exaggerated gravity, placing her slippered feet as carefully on the parlor floor as if she were traversing an alligator-infested swamp. Marching rigidly toward her father, who beamed with love and pride, Marie held her ribbon-bedecked basket high and flung handfuls of rose petals willy-nilly as she went. When she reached Nick and George, she stopped, peering into her basket in consternation.
“I still got some left, Daddy,” she said, worrying her lower lip. She turned to the groom. “Uncle Nick, Miz Willie said I was s’posed to scatter them all, but I didn’t have time.”
“You did just fine, Maisy-Daisy,” Nick said. “Here, give me the basket.”
Marie handed up the basket, and Nick tipped it over, dumping the rest of the petals on the floor at their feet. “There you go,” he said, handing the basket back. “All done. And my, don’t you look pretty as a princess!”
As the little girl beamed, dropped the basket, and flung her arms around her uncle’s waist, Ida stopped playing. “Marie!” she said sternly. “Go stand where I showed you, please.”
“Go on, now, Maisy,” Nick whispered, patting her back.
“Okay, Uncle Nick.” Turning to her mother, Marie said dutifully, “Yes’m, Mama.” Releasing Nick, she scooped up her basket and scurried to a spot on the opposite side of the preacher, who now wore an expression of complete befuddlement. He hastily flipped a few pages in his Book of Common Prayer, then turned them back again to where he’d started.
With renewed fervor, Ida began playing the processional once more.
Shyly, Mollie stepped through the doorway, and for Nick, every atom of oxygen in the room vanished.
Her hair, piled flawlessly atop her head and woven with tiny winter roses, had a burnished mahogany glow in the light of the candles and fireplace. She wore a gown of pale pink lace that emphasized the delicacy of her shoulders and neck and seemed to float about her as she walked the few steps across the parlor.
She was utterly beautiful, and the nerves and excitement betrayed by the small trembling of the nosegay of ribbons, roses, and evergreens she carried was endearing to Nick, as his own nerves set the fingers of his left hand drumming against his thigh. With an effort, he quieted them.
The world moved then as though in a dream. Nick reached out his hand, and Mollie took it. He bent down to her, whispered, “I’m glad you’re wearing your glasses after all, Mollie. I want to be sure you see me as I am.”
“I do see you, Nicholas,” she murmured. “And we must promise to always see each other as we truly are.”
He nodded, brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. Pastor Lewis pointedly cleared his throat. Nick’s mouth quirked, and bright color flushed Mollie’s cheeks as they turned together to face the preacher.
CHAPTER 12
“Oh, it’s a lovely house!” Mollie said as they came to the end of a long, sloping drive and Nick reined in Magnolia before a neat, unpretentious, yellow-painted, two-story farmhouse-style home with tall windows and a wrap-around porch. Two pecan trees and an enormous dogwood stood in the front, shading the house, and Mollie could see a small orchard of peach trees and a border of thick pine forest in the distance beyond the house. The rain had finally stopped, although the drive was pitted with muddy ruts. None of that concerned Mollie, though, for the warmth and happiness that spread through her now banished every misgiving. Their decision to marry may have been precipitous, but the man beside her was kind and honest, and the house seemed to have been waiting just for her.
Home, she thought. I’m finally home. She turned to her new husband with a brilliant smile. “I think I shall like it here very much. It’s exactly how a home should look.”
“It needs some work, I’m afraid,” Nick said, more relieved than he’d care to admit that she liked the old house. He suddenly wished he’d repainted it and repaired the loose boards in the porch before bringing Mollie home, but what was done was done. He hoped the cleaning ladies Miz Willie Mae had sent over to spruce the place up had done a good job. “It’s just that I spend more time at the zoo than I ever do here,” he added hastily. “I’ve been thinking about building an office here, maybe downstairs by the back entrance. And maybe a breezeway to the hay shed and stable in back. There’s that peach orchard behind the house and plenty of room for a big garden, if you like. We’ve nearly six acres here….”
Nick realized he was rattling on, but he couldn’t seem to stop his runaway tongue. Mollie rescued him with a gentle hand on his knee. “Those are excellent ideas, Nick, but they will be for another day. For now, it is enough for me that we are home.”
He nodded, unsure what else to say. He cleared his throat, set the brake on the carriage, and climbed to the ground. Mollie did not miss his slight grunt of pain, and her face clouded with concern.
“What is it, Nick? Is something wrong? Is your leg troubling you? Perhaps I should have a look at it when we go inside.”
He shook his head. “It’s fine. I just banged it up a little. Nothing to worry about. I’m a doctor, remember?”
Mollie did not look convinced, but as he crossed to her side of the buggy and held up his arms to her, he seemed as strong and as steady as ever. Expecting to be set on her feet, Mollie gave a small squeak of surprise as Nick swung her up into his arms and carried her up the walkway and the porch steps to the front door.
Blushing furiously, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder, unsure which was stronger, her embarrassment or her delight.
“Nicholas! We’re making a spectacle of ourselves!” she scolded, but she couldn’t help laughing.
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon we are, but Magnolia don’t care.” He shouldered open the door, closed it with his foot, and bent his head to place a lingering kiss of promise on her lips. When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark with emotion, and he said softly, “Welcome home, such as it is, Mrs. Avinger.”
• • • • •
As Nick went back outside to take care of stabling Magnolia, Mollie began to explore the house. She was pleased to find that it was spotlessly clean, and she strongly suspected she had Miz Willie Mae to thank for that. The rooms were fully equipped with gas lamps, and she was glad she would not have to carry lanterns from room to room.
Nick had been truthful, however; the house did need work. It was sparsely furnished, and the rooms that had been largely unused, including most of the second floor, were nearly bare but for piles of books stacked randomly here and there. The curtains had all seen better days; Mollie imagined they were left over from at least one set of the house’s previous owners. They would be easy to replace, however, and she could see right away that one of the first orders of business would be to build wall-to-wall bookcases for the doctor’s overflowing library.
She wandered through the parlor, which had but one large, comfortable wing chair and a footstool covered with a tapestry of pansies – wherever had he gotten that? – set before the fireplace. Next to the chair stood a round wooden side table with a lamp and yet another stack of books piled on it.
Through the parlor doors was a smaller parlor – a withdrawing room – and then a family dining room. Neither held any furniture. Beyond the dining room was the kitchen, and it was surprisingly modern. As she surveyed the various beakers, flasks, and vials the cleaning women had washed and neatly arranged on the counter, Mollie realized with a bit of chagrin th
at, in her husband’s mind, the gas stove and icebox were little more than bulky pieces of lab equipment.
But the porcelain sink had been scrubbed and polished, and the faucets were labeled for both hot and cold running water. Pulling off her gloves, Mollie gave an experimental twist of the faucet handles and was delighted when warm water flowed over her fingers. She checked the icebox and found it held a new block of ice, but not much else.
“I reckon we’ll have to do some provisioning right enough,” Nick said, stomping his boots on the mat as he came in through the back door. He carried Mollie’s valise in one hand and a large picnic basket in the other. He set the basket on the small, scuffed kitchen table. “But with all this leftover food Miz Willie packed, leastways we won’t starve to death any time soon.”
Mollie smiled. “I told her she was packing enough for an army, but she said folks have better things to do on their honeymoon than go to market.”
The moment she heard what she’d said, Mollie blushed furiously. “I-I’d better see to putting some of this away before it spoils.”
Nick swallowed hard. How could anyone look so beautiful just standing in an old kitchen? For a moment, his eyes darted to the table and, with a rush of lust, he wanted nothing so much as to scoop Mollie up and lay her flat on it. It was such a visceral urge that he could barely find his voice. “Where … where do you want it?”
Feeling sweat run down his back, he held up the valise.
“Oh. That goes in the bedroom, please.” Oh, Lord, Mollie thought, how could perfectly normal conversation sound so wanton? Color flushed higher yet on her neck and cheeks.
Nick nodded, and there was a strangely wild look in his eyes. “I’ll … I’ll be right back,” he said, and raking his hand distractedly through his hair, he turned and left the kitchen.
As Mollie unpacked the picnic basket, her hands trembling a bit as she put the fried chicken, ham, and covered dishes in the icebox and the pies in the pie safe, Nick walked down the hallway to the front bedroom, the largest of the three on the first floor, and one of the two that flanked the bathroom. Opening the bedroom door, he quickly scanned the room, then blew out an enormous huff of relief. “God bless you, Miz Willie!” he breathed. “God bless you!”
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