The Bride Fair

by Cheryl Reavis

  “Yes,” Max said.

  “Good. Good, then.”

  “Mrs. Kinnard’s carriage is waiting. She will give you the details and take you where you need to go.”

  “The fire—what happened?” Canfield suddenly demanded.

  Max didn’t answer him.

  “What happened! Did the boys knock a lamp over—what?”

  “The fire was…suspicious.”

  Canfield stared at him. “Deliberately set, you mean.”

  “There are…some indications.”

  “Ah, God! Suzanne—” Canfield took a deep, wavering breath and struggled for control. “If that’s so, it was one of you that did it! What are you going to do about it, Woodard? Are you going to look for the son of a bitch who did this?”

  “I am.”

  “Liar!” Canfield said, lunging at him.

  “You have a lot to do, Canfield,” Max said, holding him off. “I suggest you go do it while you still can.”

  He gave Canfield a shove and braced himself for another round. The man stood there for a moment, then wiped his hand over his eyes. He gave Max one last hostile look before he let himself be escorted out.

  Max left the jail immediately, going out the back way to avoid Mrs. Kinnard’s carriage. He had done all he would do for Phelan Canfield this night.

  Now he wanted to see Maria. He rode back to the house at a gallop, hoping to lose some of the misery he felt along the way.

  He didn’t go into the house immediately. He dismounted and led the animal to the small stable where the Markhams kept their buggy horse. It rumbled softly in response to the intrusion.

  The shed smelled of dust and hay, manure and weathered wood. Max stood for a moment then began the cavalryman’s ritual of seeing to his mount, clinging to the familiar chore in the hopes of settling down his rattled nerves. He had seen death many times and many ways, and still his mind was filled with the image of Suzanne Canfield’s body wrapped in a quilt and her pale lifeless face.

  He put the horse into the closest stall. Perkins had been absolutely correct in his observation. The news about Suzanne would break Maria Markham’s heart.

  When he finally entered the house, a lantern burned on the kitchen table, and Maria was sitting there, her head resting on her arms in much the same way she had been the first night he’d come here. He stood for a moment, watching her.

  She lifted her head before he could make his presence known.

  “Suzanne is dead,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told Phelan then?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is he?”

  “I don’t think he quite…grasps it yet,” Max said instead of saying what he really meant, that the man was too hungover and hostile to realize much of anything.

  “Tell me what happened to her,” Maria said.

  “Are the boys asleep?”

  “Yes—”

  “How is your father?”

  “He wants a toddy and a cigar,” she said. “Tell me what happened to Suzanne.”

  “Are Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Justice about?” he asked, because he wanted to get through this without interruption.

  “Mrs. Russell is with the boys. Mrs. Justice is sitting with my father—because she doesn’t get on his nerves quite so much. I expect they both have their hands full.”

  He nodded and sat down at the table. He was so tired, his stamina suddenly leaving him in the way it often did since his imprisonment. He drew a deep breath and looked at her in the dim light from the lantern.

  “Most of what happened is just conjecture at this point. The fire may have been deliberate. The men got Mrs. Canfield out early on—she wasn’t burned, Maria—but it was too late. The surgeon says she suffocated from the smoke. Perhaps she had taken laudanum for her pain and couldn’t respond to the danger. Perhaps she didn’t even know. I can’t say.”

  Tears were rolling down Maria’s cheeks, but she said nothing, made no sound.

  “I’ve asked Mrs. Kinnard to make the funeral arrangements. I trust that is all right. I don’t know the customs here and I thought it best that she oversee everything, so there would be no hard feelings on anyone’s part—in so much as can be helped. And I didn’t know what Canfield’s disposition would be, and I didn’t want to just…leave Suzanne—Mrs. Canfield—unattended until somebody would volunteer to do what needed to be done. She was very kind to me that day we talked—when she had every reason not to be.”

  Maria still wept. Tears streamed down her face, completely unheeded. She was so silent about it, but her grief was almost a tangible entity in the room. He wanted to reach out to her, but he knew better than to presume that she would accept his comfort.

  “I don’t know how much the boys saw or how much they understand,” he said after a moment. “But I trust their father will come talk to them.”

  Maria wiped at her eyes with her fingertips, then stood. He could see the effort she was making not to lose control.

  “I am very sorry about Mrs. Canfield,” he said.

  She looked at him, but whether or not she believed him, he couldn’t tell. She walked out of the room, leaving the lantern with him and disappearing into the shadowy recesses of the house.

  Maria stood in the dark upstairs hallway a long while. She had to see about the boys—and her father—and all she could do was cry.

  For Suzanne. For herself.

  She stayed there, just past the second-floor landing, until she thought she heard Max Woodard climbing the stairs. Then she quickly moved on, furtively wiping her eyes as she went and slipping into her father’s room, out of sight.

  Mrs. Justice dozed in a chair at the edge of the circle of light from the lamp, and Maria’s father seemed to be sleeping, as well. She touched Mrs. Justice lightly on the shoulder.

  “I’ll sit with him now. Would you see if Mrs. Russell and the boys need anything? And then please rest. There is no need for all of us to be awake. I’ll call you if I need anything,” she whispered.

  “Those poor, poor babies,” Mrs. Justice whispered back, but she gave her no argument about leaving the room. Maria silently blessed her for it. Mrs. Russell wouldn’t have been so amenable. She would have wanted to stay and reiterate her hatred of the army of the occupation, a hatred Maria herself shared.

  Or so she had always thought.

  She stood at her father’s bedside, listening for the door to close behind her as Mrs. Justice went out. When it did, she gave in to the burning in her throat and eyes and began to cry again.

  She didn’t know what to do. Somehow she had to get through these next few days—for the boys’ sakes if nothing else—and she simply didn’t know if she could do it.

  At one point she cracked the door and peered into the hallway. She didn’t see Max anywhere—it was silly of her to have run from him. She tried to think that she just hadn’t wanted him to see her weeping, but that wasn’t it at all. She was afraid. Afraid of the memory of what it had felt like being in his warm embrace—regardless of how brief the encounter had been. Tonight she needed someone’s warmth and strength—his warmth and strength—no matter who they both were or what animosity lay between them, and she was so afraid that her neediness would show.

  He had his own worries, and perhaps he didn’t even know it. How little he understood of the people here. Yes, he had done the right thing in letting Acacia Kinnard see to Suzanne’s funeral arrangements—but people would still blame him for her death and hate him for it.

  He was being so kind. Why was he being so kind? Now she was forever in his debt—for his having sent the army surgeon to her father and for the regard he’d shown for Suzanne and her boys.

  “Suzanne,” she whispered, feeling the tears come anew.

  Among “The Three Musketeers,” Suzanne had been the first to experience all the milestones of a young girl’s life. She was the first of them to be courted, to marry, to have children. Maria had seen Suzanne’s vitality ebb
ing away every day, but still she was not prepared for this. How could Suzanne be so suddenly gone? Maria wanted desperately to believe what Max had suggested, that perhaps she had been asleep and never knew what was happening to her. It was unbearable to think that she might have been trying to get to her children.

  Maria gave a wavering sigh and sat down in the chair Mrs. Justice had vacated. She hadn’t wanted Max to be the one to bring Phelan the terrible news of Suzanne’s death, because he was the one Phelan would blame.

  But if the truth be told, there were a host of people who had precipitated what had happened tonight. Maria’s mind reeled from all the “if onlys.”

  If only Major De Graff hadn’t accosted Eleanor on the street.

  If only Phelan hadn’t taken exception to De Graff’s demand—and he wouldn’t have if he’d been sober. Eleanor had long since forfeited the right to have her honor defended, even by the likes of Phelan Canfield.

  If only Maria herself hadn’t tried to intervene and thereby escalated the situation until Max had had no choice but to exercise the law. If only Hatcher hadn’t made his reckless statement about the town needing to be punished in the first place. If only Eleanor hadn’t fallen so low and Phelan hadn’t become a worthless sot and made it his life’s work to insult every Yankee within earshot.

  Maria had been angry with Max Woodard on the street today. Even understanding his position perfectly, she had been angry. But she truly didn’t blame him for Suzanne’s death. They were all to blame, each playing his or her own part, however small, in the events that would ultimately cost Suzanne her life.

  Maria had no idea what would happen to the boys. No one could guess what Phelan would do. She had heard of drunkards who, because of some great tragedy, had turned their lives around, but she held out no such hope for him.

  She sighed again and wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron. When she looked up, her father was awake and watching.

  “What…is…wrong?” he asked, the shortness of breath that was so indicative of the seriousness of his illness very much evident. “Damn silly…woman…wouldn’t tell me…a thing.”

  “How are you feeling, Father?”

  “Maria…Rose, do not…put me…off. It…makes me…cross. I see…the shape you…are in…and I have…heard…the bells. Or…would…you prefer I go…and see…for myself?”

  She knew her father well enough to know that he just might try it.

  “There was a fire,” she said after a moment.

  “And?”

  “Suzanne…is dead.”

  She glanced at her father.

  “Poor…child—” he said, and her eyes filled with tears, because she didn’t know if he meant her or Suzanne.

  “Go get the…boys…”

  “They’re here, Father. Colonel Woodard brought them.”

  Her father closed his eyes, and Maria thought he had dropped off to sleep.

  “I want to…see him.”

  “Who, Father?”

  “Colonel…Woodard.”

  “I’m not sure he’s still here.”

  “Go…look.”

  “Father, you have to rest—”

  “Go…Maria Rose. I have…finished business—with him.”

  “Unfinished business, you mean?”

  “No—finished. I must see…him. Now—”

  She stood, but she made no attempt to leave. Her father feebly waved her away with his hand, and she had no choice but to do as he asked. Or at least seem to. The last thing her father needed was a visitor, and the last thing she needed was for the visitor to be Max Woodard.

  She took a small lamp from the mantel and lit it, then finally stepped into the hall. She only had to go a few steps to see that his door was closed. She would make an attempt of sorts, she decided, and then she would return and essentially lie to her father.

  She came and stood for a moment outside the door and, just as she turned to leave, it opened.

  “What’s wrong?” Max said.

  “I—I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked more pointedly.

  “I—my…father has asked to see you.”

  “I see. Did he say why?”

  “No. I’m not sure he’s in his right senses—I can tell him you aren’t here.”

  “I thought you didn’t lie.”

  “This is different. He’s very ill.”

  “If he’s asked, perhaps I can give him some peace of mind about something. But I will leave it to you.”

  Maria looked at him. He was doing it again. Being kind.

  “All right, but please don’t—”

  “I won’t stay if he seems the worse for my being there,” he interrupted.

  He stepped back into the room and picked up his uniform jacket. Maria was glad of that. She wouldn’t want to encounter Mrs. Russell in the hallway in the company of a Yankee officer in his shirtsleeves.

  “You don’t have any cigars in your pockets, do you?” she asked as he put it on.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Because, if you do, ill or not, my father will try to talk you out of them.”

  Max Woodard actually smiled. “You know, I think I rather like your father.”

  He felt an inside pocket and removed a letter. The letter appeared to be wet. He took the time to open the envelope and spread the sheets of paper inside it on the small folding table he apparently used as a desk.

  And all the while, Maria watched. The movement of his hands. His profile, limned in the light from the lamp.

  “No cigars,” he said.

  He followed her down the hallway to her father’s bed-chamber.

  “I mean to consult you about Mrs. Russell—at a better time,” he said as they reached her father’s door.

  Maria opened it and went inside, hoping that her father would be asleep now. He wasn’t. He opened his eyes immediately.

  “Go…away…Maria Rose,” he said. “The colonel…will fetch you…when we’re done.”

  “Father—”

  “Don’t…vex me, girl. Run along. Pull the…chair closer—please…Colonel. You can tell me…why you…have mimicked…my daughter…and are going around…with a knot on your…head—”

  Summarily dismissed, there was nothing for Maria to do but to go. And she was as tempted to stand outside the door and eavesdrop as she had been to go through Max Woodard’s belongings the night he arrived.

  But she had other things to do, not the least of which was to see why Mrs. Justice had suddenly rushed up the stairs and was motioning for her to come there.

  Maria had to force herself to walk in that direction.

  “It’s Phelan Canfield,” Mrs. Justice whispered.

  Chapter Ten

  It was only by the merest chance that Max saw them. The wick in the lamp needed to be turned up, and when he got up to do so, he glanced out the window. There was just enough moonlight for him to catch a glimpse of someone outside in the yard below. He turned the wick down instead of up and moved closer to the window where he could see.

  It was Maria, talking to Phelan Canfield. The man had what looked like a cloth sack of some kind, and he held it out to her. She wouldn’t take it. At one point, she turned and walked away from him. He caught her arm.

  Max could hear them now—or at least some of the conversation, and it struck him that he was making a habit of eavesdropping on these little tête-à-têtes with Phelan Canfield.

  “I can’t stand any more, Maria!” Canfield said.

  Max couldn’t hear her response, but he could tell she was trying to get away from him.

  He glanced at Mr. Markham. The old man was sleeping now—exhausted by the effort it had taken to say what he wanted done. Max quietly left the room with every intention of going to fetch Maria—as her father had indicated he wanted done when he had finished talking. Fortunately or unfortunately, Max knew exactly where she was.

  He went down the back stairs into the kitchen and stepped outsi
de, but he stopped short of interrupting. He waited by the well where he could hear but not see them. For all intents and purposes, he just wanted to be…on hand, in the event that some intervention was needed. Who knew how drunk Phelan Canfield was by now? The man certainly had the justification to be as inebriated as possible.

  But it occurred to Max as he stood there how much he didn’t like this association between Maria and Canfield, in spite of the fact that they had probably known each other all their lives. He didn’t like that Maria had risked her reputation on Canfield’s behalf, and he didn’t like the man coming to the house to see her now, even if his children were inside.

  “Take it, Maria!” Phelan suddenly said. “It’s for the boys—don’t look at me like that!”

  “They don’t need this,” she said. “They need you.”

  “Maria—”

  “Goodbye, Phelan,” she said.

  Max could hear her walking in his direction, but he made no attempt to evade her. When she came into view, she was carrying the cloth sack.

  “Out keeping the peace again, Colonel?” she said without stopping.

  “If need be, yes,” he answered truthfully.

  “I’m not on a public street now. Whatever happens here is none of your concern—and I don’t need your help.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Max said. He stepped in front of her. “Are you…all right.”

  “No. I am not.”

  She slipped by him into the house. And she didn’t stop. When he came into the kitchen, she had already gone up the stairs.

  Max stood for a moment, then followed after her, but he didn’t see her anywhere. The door to her bedchamber was open when he passed, and he looked in. There was a lamp lit. Except for the two little boys asleep in her bed, the room was empty.

  He went inside and looked down at them. Their little faces were clean now. He had no idea how he had managed to establish such rapport with these children in so short a time—but he realized suddenly that he was glad of it.

  He left and went down the hall to his own room. He was tired, but not sleepy enough to retire. He sat for a time, smoking a cigar and shuffling papers—and listening for Maria in the event that her business with Canfield wasn’t finished.