Eleanor giggled. “I cannot believe I am ready to marry him.”
“Here we go.”
The wedding march began for a third time, and Eleanor’s stomach fluttered with excitement. Her gown trailed magnificently behind her, and she felt Hattie tug at it, so it would lie just right. Straightening her veil, she moved toward Nathaniel as though pulled by an unseen force. She was certain an ample audience still remained to witness the strange proceedings, but she couldn’t name a single person. For her eyes never left him. His squared jaw and regal facial structure remained solemn until she reached him. Then he looked upon her with a smile colored by heaven above.
He held her hands and repeated the preacher’s words.
“I take thee, Eleanor, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold.”
His whispered words seemed only for her and the Lord. She blissfully wrapped her memory around each syllable, storing it for future use. She would remember always the warm expression on his face, the sparkle in his eyes, the warmth from his hands.
“I take thee, Nathaniel, to be my lawfully wedded husband.”
The ring ceremony was next, and Eleanor’s eyes widened. Do you have a ring? her expression asked. But without hesitation Jeremiah, Nathaniel’s best man, pulled a gem from his pocket.
Rather than the simple gold band Eleanor expected from her pauper groom, Nathaniel held out a gold filigree crown-shaped ring, which held an elegant emerald, but in a brilliant green circle.
She couldn’t help her thoughts from tumbling out. “Where did you get this?”
“It was the one thing I brought back with me from California.” He slipped the gorgeous ring onto her finger. “You are the only reason I returned.”
Eleanor wiped away a tear and sniffed as the preacher glared at her until she echoed his words: “With this ring I thee wed.”
Finally, they were pronounced man and wife. Together they turned and faced their friends and smiled at one another.
“We are married, Ellie. I thought this day would never come.”
She peered up at him, his startingly handsome face sending a fresh wave of exhilaration through her stomach. “But it has come, and I shall cherish this day, and you, for always.” That feeling. No longer did she fear harsh kisses and coarse talk. Nathaniel’s very presence set her heart at rest.
“We shall start our lives together as we should have done years ago.” Nathaniel kicked the ground. “I’m sorry my folly stalled us for so long, dear Ellie.”
Ellie’s lips trembled. “I should have waited forever once I saw you return from California, even if it meant I might be a spinster. I knew then my heart could never truly belong to another.”
“How could we have known what God would use for good? My father has restored me to half of the inheritance as before I left. With Andrew in jail, I daresay we’ll have to live at Woodacre for a time. And we shall have Rosamond as well, thanks to your father’s change of heart.” Nathaniel shook his head. “I am truly a prodigal son, and I have our Lord to thank for it. I shall spend my days preaching on His infinite grace.”
Eleanor smiled. “And I shall be at your side, Nathaniel. Whatever life brings us, wherever we might dwell.”
“Do you trust me, Ellie? Do you trust God to lead us?”
She felt her head nod up and down. “I do.”
Nathaniel drove Eleanor to Woodacre in an elegant, open black carriage strewn with yellow roses and white silk ribbons. As the carriage turned up the drive, she caught her first glimpse of the mighty house where she would be mistress.
“Oh Nathaniel, I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” She drew in a deep breath. “Woodacre is so massive, and it’s been such a long time since a woman saw to it properly. I don’t know if I’m the one—”
He silenced her with a kiss. “You are the only one, my sweet. God ordained you personally. He’s returned us to one another for life. I love you, Ellie Pemberton.” He caressed her face in his strong hands. “Welcome home, my love.”
Kristin Billerbeck is a bestselling, Christy-nominated author of over forty-five novels. Her work has been featured in The New York Times and on “The Today Show.” Kristin is a fourth-generation Californian and a proud mother of four. She lives in the Silicon Valley and enjoys good handbags, hiking, and reading.
Chapter 1
Pickens County, Alabama
May 15, 1865
Grace Cunningham shoved the hoe deeper into the potato patch and yanked off her threadbare gloves. “I hate this broken-down hoe!”
“Thou shalt not hate,” Elizabeth Cunningham called from the porch.
“And thou shalt not hoe with a splintered handle!” Grace rallied, picking at the splinter in her thumb.
“Thou shalt not hoe isn’t any kind of command,” Elizabeth called, smiling at her daughter.
Grace pushed the wide-brimmed straw hat back on her blond hair and looked at her mother, who was, as always, reading her Bible.
“Neither is thou shalt not hate,” Grace muttered, “but I do.”
She couldn’t resist getting in the last word, and she felt a whiplash of guilt in her conscience. After losing her father and brother to a senseless war that had destroyed their lives and devastated Riverwood, their little farm, Grace just couldn’t have the kind of faith her mother had.
She leaned against the hoe and studied her frail mother.
Mama’s pride is damaged, too, she thought. The brown hair that had turned gray the past year looked only half-brushed and now slipped carelessly from the chignon, dangling about her face. Grace’s father, Fred Cunningham, had promised her that they would always be taken care of, but in spite of his promise, they had ended up broke and alone, struggling to survive.
Her father, always conscious of his duties, had worked hard to provide for his family. That sense of duty had compelled him to join Commander Braxton’s army in the fall of 1863 when the Union troops were moving deeper into southern territory.
Grace took a deep breath and glanced up at the sky. The noon sun was moving westward, and a gray cloud thickened overhead. The kind of dense heat that usually preceded a thunderstorm was enveloping her like a steam tub. Her scalp itched, and wisps of damp hair bobbed around her cheeks. She yanked off her straw hat and tossed it toward the grass; then she wound the ends of her thick hair around her fingers, skewered it back in a chignon, and adjusted the hairpins.
As she did, her eyes scanned the land bordering the backyard. A dusty, whitewashed cabin had been converted to a storage shed, and the barn, her father’s pride, was sadly in need of paint and repair, with buckled boards along the side. Knee-high weeds filled the pasture where a lone mare tossed her head to chase away a horsefly. Mr. Douglas, their neighbor at Oak Grove, had loaned Molly to Grace after the Yanks took their last horse. Molly had a slight limp and could no longer pull a wagon, but Molly and Grace got along just fine. The faithful old mare carried Grace into Whites Creek to trade unused farm tools for garden seeds and food supplies.
Beyond the pasture, paint-chipped fences outlined barren cotton fields stretching to the Tombigbee River. Those fields were the reason her father had brought them from Sand Mountain to Pickens County five years before the war. His dream of growing cotton had come true on the five hundred acres of rich, river-bottom land. In the old days, farmers could get their cotton loaded on boats going downriver to Mobile. But cotton no longer grew along the river’s edge.
Grace turned and surveyed her garden. Okra, beans, onions, corn, and potatoes grew in the rich soil, holding for her and her mother the promise of better days to come.
“Mother, we’re going to have fine Sunday dinners, just like before,” she called. “We’ll spread the dining table with one of the nice lace tablecloths you treasure, and we’ll eat to our heart’s content. I can see it now.” She swept a hand through the air. “Ripe tomatoes sliced thin on a platter with green onions and sweet pickles. We’ll have fried okra, fresh snap beans, creamed corn, and boiled potatoes. Lots of sw
eet iced tea.”
“And fried chicken,” her mother offered, her head tilted slightly, her eyes staring dreamily into space.
Grace glanced back at her mother and sighed. She hadn’t the heart to remind her there were no chickens to fry and no way to raise their own. Their last six chickens had been taken by Union soldiers. Grace had watched in horror as the soldiers strapped the chickens onto their saddles and rode off with them squawking and flapping. She later learned it was a common practice for soldiers, particularly those in a hurry. At the time, however, she could not believe her eyes as their prize chickens were swept away.
She heaved another sigh, squared her shoulders, and reached for the hoe with new determination. She was finished with the potatoes; time now to thin the corn. Despite the cloud of gloom that hung over the farm she loved so dearly, Grace began to feel a sense of comfort as she thought about the seeds she had planted just a month earlier.
She looked over the neatly weeded rows and remembered how she had waited with anticipation and pride as the seeds began to sprout. Other women could rave about their beautiful flower gardens, but to Grace, true beauty came in vegetables, all colors, sizes, and shapes. She and her mother couldn’t eat flowers, but vegetables had half a dozen monetary rewards. She could sell them, cook them, preserve them, swap with her neighbors, or barter with Mr. Primrose at the market in Whites Creek. She could even dry some of her vegetables on cheesecloth over the root cellar and string them on a rope to decorate the kitchen. But that had become a luxury she rarely enjoyed. Nope, these vegetables were for gracing their table and their stomachs, and she smiled at the thought. She picked up the hoe and went back to work.
A few minutes later, Grace heard the whinny of a horse out on the front drive. She glanced at her mother, who was so deep in her reading that she didn’t look up as the horse whinnied again. Grace wouldn’t bother to tell her they had company until she went around front to see who was riding the horse. Rarely did anyone come up the drive to their house these days, and that was just fine with Grace.
While she was only nineteen, she had earned the right to be recognized as the boss of Riverwood, and she quickly prepared herself to act in that capacity now. She brushed her hands against the side of her father’s overalls to freshen up a handshake, then she hurried around the two-story frame house to the front lane.
Accustomed to the sight of neighbors, or even the occasional beggar, she came up short as she met the eyes of a stranger riding tall in the saddle on a fine black stallion. For a split second, she was more interested in the horse than its rider, for it was exactly the kind of proud, muscled horse she had always longed to own. The horse had a white blaze on his forehead and three white-stockinged feet.
Her eyes moved from the horse to the man. From the looks of both, it had been a long journey. While the man’s dark frock coat and pinstriped trousers were of quality broadcloth, wrinkles in the cloth suggested time in the saddle. He tipped his top hat, revealing dark brown hair that tucked under just above his collar.
She studied his face—long with broad cheekbones and eyes the blue of an October sky. Then he smiled at her, a smile that lit his eyes and showed off a row of even, white teeth. Grace wondered who he was and what he wanted from them.
“Good morning,” he said. “My name is Jonathan Parker.”
At the sound of his greeting, all admiration of horse and rider fled. Immediately, her spine stiffened. A Yankee!
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.
He did not flinch at her rude words. Instead, his blue eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, looked toward the front porch. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Cunningham.” His tone was polite yet formal.
“She does not receive visitors. My name is Grace Cunningham, and I’m her daughter. What do you want?” she repeated, her gaze slicing up and down his fancy suit and coming again to rest upon his face.
Not a muscle moved in his face in spite of her blunt talk, and she gave him credit for that. Either he was not easily shocked, or he had the ability to conceal his emotions.
She watched him take a long deep breath. She decided he must be reconciling himself to the fact that he would have to deal with her, however unpleasant the task might be.
“I’m on a mission from your father,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “I left him in the military hospital just outside of Chattanooga about three weeks ago. He asked me to return something to his wife.”
Grace gasped. “You left Father? In Chattanooga? I thought he was…is he…?”
She choked on the words, unable to say more. Two years had passed since his last letter; then this February she had seen his name on the list of wounded soldiers in Tennessee. There had been no further word about Fred Cunningham, and he had not returned from the war that had ended just last month. While her mother had never lost faith that he would return, Grace had given up hope.
She blinked, staring into the stranger’s face, unable to ask, afraid to hope. Her heart pounded so hard that she pressed her hand to the base of her throat. She could feel the drum of her pulse against her fingertips.
“I’m sorry, but he was dying when I left the hospital, Miss Cunningham.”
She swallowed hard, felt her world dip and sway for a moment before she could speak. Then she remembered her manners. “Won’t you…come up and sit down?” she asked, turning to climb the porch steps and feeling the weakness that had suddenly taken over her legs.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt,” he was saying from behind her.
“I left you no choice,” she answered, sinking into the cushions on the cane-back rocker. So her father was not coming back home after all.
She sat there, staring at this stranger, Jonathan Parker, as he swung his long frame down from the saddle and tethered his horse to the rail at the corner of the porch. Then he walked back to his saddlebag and lifted the flap.
She watched his every movement. She had not asked for proof that he had been with her father. His level gaze and sincere manner left no room for doubt. She believed him.
Her eyes widened as he withdrew the black leather Bible she had seen in her father’s hands on so many occasions. Then he turned and walked slowly up to the porch. Grace could see the broad muscles of his shoulders straining against his dark frock coat as his climbed the steps and took the chair she had indicated, opposite her.
He was close enough now that she could look him straight in the eye. She realized with a sudden flutter of her heart that he was even more handsome than she had first realized. Her nose twitched at the new scent he trailed over the porch as he passed her. He smelled of fresh pine, as though he had just come from the woods. She liked the smell, and she watched him carefully, taking in everything about him.
“It’s been so long since we’ve had any word from Father. It’s just so…amazing to think you left him less than a month ago. I have dozens of questions to ask you—”
“Who is it?” Her mother’s voice floated from the hallway.
Again, Grace’s heartbeat quickened. She looked from the door to Jonathan Parker. “My mother is very fragile now,” Grace said under her breath, her eyes imploring this man to understand her meaning. “My only brother was killed at Vicksburg. Then, when it seemed that things could not possibly get worse, our neighbor, Mr. Douglas, saw Father’s name on the casualty list at the town hall in Tuscaloosa.”
She glanced over her shoulder to the front door to be sure her mother was not on the porch to hear what she was saying. “She…has never been the same since we got the heartbreaking news about Father. In some ways, she has lost touch with reality,” she finished quickly just as the creak of the door signaled Elizabeth’s presence.
Jonathan nodded, turning in his chair to look toward the door where the little woman stood, hesitating to come out.
“Mother, we have a visitor,” Grace said. “You will want to hear what he has to say.” She looked back at Jonathan. “I think it’s time she faced the truth, and I won’t shiel
d her from it any longer.”
Elizabeth stepped out onto the porch, her head lowered slightly. She glanced quickly at Jonathan Parker.
He stood up, removing his hat. “Hello, Mrs. Cunningham.”
Like Grace, the sound of a voice that was not southern startled Elizabeth. She took a step back from him, her hand clutching the door.
“Mother, he brings news about Father.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in shock. It seemed to take a moment for the words to register with her. Then a sob broke from her throat, and she rushed toward Jonathan, reaching for his hand.
“You’ve seen Fred?” she asked eagerly. Her entire countenance had been transformed by the news. An expression of hope lit her eyes, tilted her mouth upward, and colored her cheeks.
Watching her mother come back to life with false hope, Grace was astonished, and for a moment she felt her heart would break in pieces. Pain racked her emotions, and Grace wanted to scream in agony and rage at the injustice that the war had hurled upon their loving family.
“I left your husband in the military hospital up in Chattanooga,” Jonathan Parker said to Elizabeth, speaking in a kind, gentle voice.
Grace went over to stand beside her mother. “Mother, before you get your hopes up,” she felt compelled to say, “Mr. Parker has already assured me that Father…did not survive.”
Her mother shook her head, as though warding off the verbal blow. “No, I won’t accept that. Will you please tell me about my Fred?” she asked, still clutching Jonathan Parker’s hand as her eyes searched his face.
For a moment, he said nothing. He seemed to be choosing his words as he studied the little woman who clung to him, then he gestured toward the other vacant chair. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Cunningham?”
As Jonathan spoke to her mother, Grace smiled sadly. She was touched by his sensitive nature. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for the way he so tactfully delivered the heartbreaking news.
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