The Bride Fair

by Cheryl Reavis

  Still, it was a relief to know that he wouldn’t be underfoot.

  Perkins arrived with the boys almost immediately.

  “Ah! The Js!” Maria said when she saw them. They both ran to her and hugged her knees. Joe let go almost immediately, but little Jake clung to her until she had to bend down to pick him up.

  “Come here, sweet boy,” she said. “How is Mrs. Canfield?” she said to Perkins.

  “The doctor’s been to see her, miss. He’s given her something to make her sleep—and there’s a lady coming later to sit with her. I’m to tell you that it’s a Mrs. Warrie Hansen. The doctor says he will wait until she arrives.”

  Maria looked at him in surprise. Warrie Hansen had been gone from this town for well over two years. Thanks to the downfall of her only daughter, Warrie had become one of those people Acacia Kinnard had declared unfit for decent society. And thanks to Maria, her own poor father would likely join the group.

  But, outcast or not, Suzanne couldn’t be in better hands than Warrie’s. For the first time in months—years, perhaps—Maria felt a certain element of relief.

  She glanced at Perkins, who seemed to be waiting for some reason.

  “Are you hungry, little sir?” she abruptly asked Jake, who was holding on to her pinafore with both hands in case she held any notions of putting him down.

  He let go with one hand to put his fingers in his mouth and nodded. Maria smiled, and he smiled his own endearing smile in return. He looked so much like Phelan—and Billy. Both boys did.

  “Oh, good. Let’s go pick out our plates. Come along, Joe.”

  Joe was already on his way to see what the soldiers camped at the edge of the yard were about, but he turned around and came running.

  Picking out a plate had become a great treat for them at the Markham house, because Maria had such a variety of remnant sets to choose from. Some had belonged to her mother’s family, and some she had bartered for during the war—more to accommodate a friend who was in need of the dried fruit Maria offered than because she wanted another mismatched piece of earthenware or porcelain. And she let the children select any one they wanted, no matter how rare the plate might be. Jake was very partial to flowers and gold bands. Joe liked the English “castle house.” But it wasn’t the varied selection that pleased them so much as the process—the fact that they could actually choose.

  They decided on a plate for Maria’s father, while they were at it, and set his place carefully in the dining room. Then they went outside again to pick some wildflowers for the table—daisies and Queen Anne’s Lace—which, if there happened to be small children around, became Kiss-Me-And-I’ll-Tell-You. The game was a time-honored tradition in the Markham family, and Joe had already learned it well.

  “What’s the name of this flower,” he would ask mischievously.

  “Kiss-Me-And-I’ll-Tell-You,” Maria would say dutifully, much to his delight, because the reply was an open invitation for him to plant one of his wet, little-boy kisses on her cheek, supposedly to her great astonishment.

  Today, they played the game at length as they gathered the flowers from the meadow behind the house. Each time little Jake saw a kiss coming, he hid his face—which brought him even more kisses from Joe and Maria both—which led to a wild chase and more giggling and kissing.

  In the midst of it, Maria realized that Colonel Woodard had come to stand on the back porch, the cue, apparently, all of his subordinates to snap to attention. An eager private, at Perkin’s hand signal, quickly brought a magnificent red dun gelding around, and Maria had to grab Joe by the seat of his pants to keep him from running and soliciting another ride.

  Colonel Woodard gave Maria and the boys a curt nod, mounted the horse and rode away.

  He stayed gone a long time—which Maria was certain suited her perfectly. The less she had to worry about running into him, the better. She fed the boys—and her father—washed the pots and the dishes while trying to keep all three of them out of mischief, and she remembered too late that she had never baked the bread she had rising.

  She took the boys to the summer kitchen and set about making loaves for supper, standing both children on wooden boxes and giving them each a piece of dough of their own to worry. The project went well, as long as she refused to be overly concerned about flying flour.

  While the bread baked, she set the boys on Nell’s back and walked them around the yard under her father’s supposedly critical eye. The truth was that he was as taken with the Canfield boys as she was, and he praised their horsemanship at length. At one point they let Nell return to her grazing, and all four of them sat under the big shade trees in the yard. The boys hunted for bugs and sticks and acorns while her father dozed.

  Or so she thought.

  “Maria Rose,” he said, his eyes still closed. “You have the makings of a fine parent.”

  “I had a good example,” she said without thinking, meaning her mother more than he. He was a loving father in his way, but his idea of raising a child was to disappear into his sitting room and close the door.

  “I had hoped to see you settled by now.”

  “I know, Father.”

  “I can’t help being concerned, when I can feel it so acutely.”

  “Feel what, Father?”

  “Time. I can feel time going, running fast.”

  She looked at him, thinking of Rob and Samuel and how much their dying had taken from him. He was so frail now. His family name would not be carried on—and she had ruined whatever chance she might have had to give him legitimate grandchildren.

  He reached out to pat her on top of her head, the way he had often done when she was a little girl. The gesture left her throat suddenly aching with unshed tears, because she knew exactly what he meant. Time was running out for her, too.

  “My bread!” she said suddenly, and escaped to the kitchen. The bread had not burned, but she shed a few tears as if it had. When she had composed herself, she brought out still-hot samples spread with apple butter, much to the boys’ delight.

  It was midafternoon when her father went to his sitting room and she finally put the boys down for a nap. She let them lie on quilts on the floor of her room, deliberately placing them near the window that opened onto the upstairs porch, because there was a breeze there and because she planned to sit on the porch to recover, and she wanted to be able to hear them if they woke up. It took a bit of doing to get them settled down. She’d had to sing to them and ultimately resort to issuing them an irresistible challenge to see who could go to sleep first.

  She stood watching them for a moment before she left the room. She did love them so much—in spite of the exhaustion they inspired. After a moment she stepped out onto the upstairs porch.

  Colonel Woodard sat in a rocking chair on the shady end—in his shirtsleeves and whittling, of all things. She had no idea that he had returned, and once again his presence startled her.

  “Wait,” he said when she would have left without a word.

  She stood there, then turned to face him, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Would you be so kind as to take a seat?”

  “I don’t think it would—” she began.

  “Please,” he interrupted.

  She drew a quiet breath and sat down as far away from him as she could.

  “You’re very high-strung, aren’t you?” he said.

  “No, I just don’t expect to see you at every turn.”

  “I live here,” he said reasonably.

  She had no argument for that, and so again she said nothing.

  “Your turn, Miss Markham,” he said after a stretch of silence. The remark was designed to annoy her—and did. He was coercing her again. Perhaps he had forgotten who now owed whom.

  But he would not best her this time. She could hold a conversation with the Devil if need be.

  “I see you found the pine blocks Perkins brought,” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  But he didn’t say any
thing else. Neither did she. In that one foray into polite dialogue, she had changed her mind. She had made an effort and that was it, as far as she was concerned.

  She looked out across the front yard toward the street—and prayed that no one she knew passed by. He kept whittling, and she found herself watching his hands. He had beautiful hands. They were still bruised, but didn’t seem to cause him trouble as he worked the wood. And he was using such a peculiar instrument—not a knife exactly, but obviously sharp enough. It looked as if it had been fashioned by someone who didn’t quite understand what he was making.

  “My given name is Max,” he said, still whittling away.

  Disconcerted, she looked at him. “I cannot call you by your given name—”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that you should. I only wanted you to know it. It’s Max. Maxwell, actually. I already know yours,” he added.

  She frowned and went back to watching the curls of wood drop onto the porch.

  “This is something I never expected to do,” he said. “Whittling.”

  “You seem very…accomplished at it,” she said in spite of her decision not to participate.

  “An old infantryman taught me. I never had much use for the walkers before then. I learned well because there was nothing else to do.” He stopped and looked at her. “In the prison.”

  She could feel her face flush.

  “I’m making a train,” he continued. “For Joe and Jake.”

  “Their father won’t allow—”

  “Yes, I know. But I’m making the train for them nonetheless.”

  Maria looked at a robin running across the yard.

  “Tell me,” he said. “How would you assess my performance as the military commander here so far?”

  “Your establishing what amounted to martial law the first day you arrived has stirred up a lot of resentment,” she said without hesitation.

  “Perhaps. But I think the resentment people feel now is considerably less than it would be if I had allowed the arsonists to continue as they please.”

  Maria stood, intending to go—because she didn’t want to sit here and spar with him and because he was right and she didn’t want him to be.

  “Before you leave, I have something I’ve been meaning to give you,” he said, shaving another curl of wood off and letting it drop to the floor.

  “That is not necessary.” Maria took a step toward the door.

  “It is necessary. It’s your property.”

  She turned to look at him. He reached into the uniform tunic that hung on the back of the rocking chair and held out a red-velvet box.

  “Where did you get this?” she said, snatching it out of his hand.

  “Hatcher left it behind. I understand it belongs to you. I apologize for the delay, but the truth of the matter is that I forgot I had it.”

  She looked down at the box, clutching it tightly.

  “The earrings are still there,” he said.

  She was going to cry—if she didn’t get away from here, he was going to see her do it. And she was in real danger of fainting again. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears, feel herself sway.

  She made her way blindly back into the house. She had but one thought in her mind. To get away from Max Woodard.

  Chapter Eight

  “They’ve found them all, Sir,” Perkins said.

  Max gave no indication that he heard. He continued to stare out the window at the street below, his attention taken by a passerby—the prostitute Perkins had identified as belonging to Hatcher. Max wondered idly if the woman knew the earrings she’d coveted—or perhaps earned—were back in Maria Markham’s possession.

  He hadn’t spoken to Maria since he’d returned them to her—more than a week ago. She had been deliberately avoiding him, all the while making certain that he had no complaint about the timeliness or the quality of the meals he took at the Markham table. She was quite adept at absenting herself. Her father’s shirts and dirty linens had to be boiled. The weeds had to be pulled before the sun got too hot. She had to make a shut-in visit to Suzanne Canfield. Once or twice, she was simply “indisposed.” And she never presented her excuses herself. They all came via Mr. Markham.

  In Maria’s diligent absence, Max had had a number of worthwhile conversations with the old man. Mr. Markham had given him more information about all three of his children than Maria herself ever would have. The problem, however, was that he missed the challenge.

  And perhaps—incredibly—he missed her.

  Apparently his having Sunday dinner with the Kinnards had been the right move. As far as he could tell, Maria hadn’t suffered because he had unwittingly aroused the Kinnard woman’s wrath. He knew something of how these things worked from his mother and his sister, Kate—but, all in all, the ins and outs of polite society were far too complex for him. He’d entirely missed that he had affronted Mrs. Kinnard at the reading, and even if he hadn’t, it would never have occurred to him that Maria would be the likely candidate to bear the brunt of the retaliation for his uncouthness—until Lieutenant Carscaddon’s wife enlightened him.

  He’d accepted her interpretation of the situation, and made his apology to the Kinnard woman at church—with a considerable audience—and he had gotten stuck with an invitation to dine at the Kinnard house, after all. He’d put himself out well above the call of duty, endured all manner of unsubtle manipulation for what seemed an endless meal, and all for one of those Southern woman who, as Perkins had so delicately put it, would just as soon gut a Yankee soldier as look at him.

  Perkins was still fidgeting behind him and pointedly cleared his throat. “Sir?”

  “What?” Max said, finally acknowledging the sergeant major.

  “The burial trenches, Sir. They’ve located all of them now, as far as we can tell.”

  “Have you got the chaplain on hand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “What about the local preachers—is there a priest in this town?”

  “I’m not sure, Sir. It’s never come up. I ain’t run into one.”

  “Well, find out, and if there is, get him over there. And the rest of the clergy, as well.”

  “All of them, Sir?”

  “Yes, all of them. Get the mayor and his bootlickers, too, while you’re at it. They tolerated having that hell-hole of a prison on their doorsteps. The least they can do is be on hand when these men finally get a decent burial.”

  “Am I to invite them, Sir, or just bring them?” Perkins asked, still working on the fine points.

  Max gave him a look.

  “Yes, Sir!” Perkins said. “Would you be wanting the entire garrison on hand, Sir?”

  “I would. And I mean everybody.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Perkins said again, saluting and barreling down the stairs to rattle the composure of any number of privates on the street below. The man absolutely lived to exercise military authority.

  Max stood looking out the window again, but he was no longer mindful of the street below. He’d sent letters to Washington to get the prison burial ground established and maintained as a military cemetery. That had been the easy part. The hard part was yet to come. For all the effort he had put into it, he wasn’t looking forward to this. The news that the quest for his comrades’ remains was finally over had made them all real again. He kept seeing their faces in his mind, hearing their voices, little flashes of memory that seemed to come at him from every direction.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the makeshift knife he still used to whittle. The old soldier who had helped him make it and who had taught him how to carve wood lay somewhere in the trenches. Max had done the best he could for him—for them all. It had been apparent immediately that the bodies couldn’t be separated, and so they had been left as they were. The recovery detail had continued to dig ever-widening probes, branching out in all directions to try to locate the unmarked graves.

  And now it was finished.

  He looked around because Perkin
s was back again.

  “What is it?” Max asked.

  “Well, Sir, see, this is what happened. Major De Graff was wanting to marry this here town girl—Miss Russell, her name is—but her family wouldn’t have none of that, so they up and hid her from him. And ever since—”

  “The short version, Perkins!”

  “Yes, Sir. Major De Graff and Phelan Canfield is about to fight over a whore, Sir—and Miss Markham is right smack in the middle of it.”

  “For God’s sake, where?”

  “Right down the street, Sir. I figured maybe you’d want to handle it—there’s a pretty good crowd gathering.”

  “Pretty good” was a sizable underestimation. Max couldn’t see the ruckus over the heads of the people who had gathered, but he could hear it. He left the task of getting through the throng to Perkins and his men and followed in their wake. Maria was indeed in the middle of things. And Canfield, for once, seemed to be only moderately inebriated. In any case, he was in a better condition than De Graff. It appeared to Max that Canfield was actually exercising some sense—at least he seemed to be listening to whatever Maria was saying to him. She had him by the arm, and as badly as he obviously wanted to push her away, he didn’t.

  The fourth person in the melee was the woman he’d watched from the window earlier—Hatcher’s former strumpet. De Graff clearly had plans for her, which, for whatever reason, she neither welcomed nor found convenient. He kept trying to get to her—and Canfield kept trying to get to De Graff. The woman moved in front of Canfield, digging in her heels and pressing both hands against his chest to keep them apart. De Graff suddenly grabbed her by her hair and hauled her backward. Canfield lunged for him, but the woman was in the way, and Maria was still hanging on to his arm.

  “Get Miss Markham out of there, Perkins. De Graff!” Max bellowed when De Graff’s side arm came out of the holster. “That is enough, Major!”