The Bride Fair

by Cheryl Reavis

  She looked like Tragedy in a tableau—if she were being played by an unhappy, overage schoolgirl.

  She went first to her father’s room. One of the army orderlies informed her that her father was getting his bath and would be available to her shortly.

  Maria hesitated then went quickly down the back stairs. All that food that had arrived yesterday, and she didn’t see any of it. She did see Colonel Woodard, however. Surprisingly, he was in the backyard under the shade trees, sitting at the small folding table she’d seen in his room, working away.

  There was no one in the kitchen or dining room. In fact, she didn’t hear anyone in the house at all. She took a deep breath. There was no time like the present. She would go right now and tell him what she had decided. She picked up her skirts and went outside, losing her nerve about halfway to where he was sitting and almost at the very moment he looked up and saw her.

  He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her expectantly. She forced herself to keep going, stopping when she reached the edge of the shade.

  “Did you have a good sleep?” he asked.

  “I—yes,” she answered. If he wanted pleasantries, she would give him pleasantries. “Very well, thank you.”

  “The boys have gone on a wagon ride with Perkins. To get supplies.”

  “I see,” she said.

  She continued to stand.

  “I wanted to—” she began.

  “Would you mind sitting down?” he interrupted, putting aside the papers he was holding. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m making you nervous,” she said.

  “I’m afraid so,” he answered. He looked up at her. “I don’t throw out marriage proposals everywhere I go, Miss Markham. Actually, this is my first.” He pushed a wooden crate near the camp table. “Sit,” he said.

  She didn’t, and he moved it farther away from him and then gave her a pointed look. She sighed and sat down.

  “I’ve seen your father—no, I didn’t mention anything to him,” he quickly added, apparently because of her look of alarm. “He seemed to be feeling better. I understand Mrs. Kinnard sent a telegram to John Howe’s mother-in-law. And she sent back her recommended remedies for his condition—parsley tea—and I’ve forgotten what else—something to do with willow bark. Anyway, he seems a little perkier to me. Did you find that to be so?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet today.”

  “Ah. Well. I’ve also spoken to Nell Hansen. She came by very early—to the edge of the yard, that is. Hoping to catch a glimpse of you.”

  “How is she?”

  “Very sad, I think. She says to tell you if you want Phelan Canfield shot, she will be more than happy to help you. I’m not sure she wasn’t serious.”

  Maria had nothing to say about that. She glanced at Max. He was watching her closely, and it occurred to her that this might be what it would be like if they were married. They would meet at some point during the day, and he would share information with her. It was not an altogether unpleasant notion.

  But this was clearly the point where she could say that she was declining his proposal. She didn’t, however. She simply looked back at him, wondering again, Why?

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  But he didn’t say what he had been thinking about. He reached over to a tin plate of peaches sitting on yet another wooden crate and selected one. Then he began to peel it with a knife apparently placed on the plate just for that purpose. He didn’t ask her if she wanted any. He merely peeled it and removed the pit—and held half of it out to her.

  She didn’t take it.

  “These came in on the train this morning,” he said. “My mother sent them. I believe you’ll like it.”

  She took the peach, and, eventually, she even took a bite. And another. And another. It was wonderful.

  “The growing season is a little later in Pennsylvania,” he said.

  “Colonel—”

  “Max,” he corrected.

  “Colonel—” she repeated.

  “Before you continue, I would like to say something first. If you don’t mind.”

  She stared at him, wondering now if he was about to withdraw his offer.

  “Go ahead,” she said. Her hands were juicy from the peach, and he gave her his handkerchief to wipe them on.

  “I’ve been thinking that I haven’t been entirely fair to you.”

  “In what way?” she said, sounding more wary than she intended.

  “I’ve expected you to make your decision based entirely on the dire circumstances of your situation. And I think we should put all that aside for a bit. There are things you should know—about me—before you make up your mind.”

  He stopped long enough to eat his half of the peach, and she waited for him to continue, more than a little bewildered.

  “It would help if you didn’t frown so,” he said.

  She held up both hands. “What is it you want to say?”

  “I should have given you some personal information. I should have said that I’m twenty-eight years old. I will be twenty-nine in December. I’m in good physical health—considering—and my mental health—well, you’ve seen the nightmares firsthand. My mother and father are both living. He’s in shipping. I have one sister, who is younger than I. Her name is Kate. I’m very fond of them all—particularly her. Would you like to see their photographs?”

  It was her polite upbringing and only her polite upbringing that made her say yes.

  He reached for a small worn leather case hanging on the back of his chair and brought out two daguerreotypes—one of a man and woman—he sitting, she standing. His parents, Maria guessed, because he looked a little like each of them. The other one was of an incredibly beautiful young woman and two Yankee soldiers. She recognized them both. Max Woodard and John Howe.

  “This is your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” Maria said, because it would have been nearly impossible not to.

  “Yes, she is. The remarkable thing about her is that she doesn’t seem to know it.”

  “You and John Howe have been friends a long time,” she said, still relying on her early training for something to say.

  “Long enough for the friendship to end. Twice,” he said.

  He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask any questions. She handed him back the daguerreotypes.

  “I’m reasonably well off financially,” he continued. “I didn’t earn it, however. It came to me from my mother’s father. I’m not sure how he got it. He was a bit of a rascal, so it’s probably best that I don’t know. I was in my last year at Harvard when the war broke out. I didn’t sit for my final exams, and, much to my mother’s dismay, I joined a cavalry unit. Rush’s Lancers. I was young enough that I just couldn’t resist the fine military figure they cut. John used to say we were nothing but nerve bred of ignorance and Philadelphia’s best tailors.

  “Ultimately, I ended up here—also twice. I’m not much of a church-goer, but that I would remedy, if need be. I drink occasionally and smoke a lot—cigars. I don’t believe in beating horses, children, or women—even wives. I don’t gamble—but I’ve had enough practice in my time to know how. I guess you could say, before the war, I led a man’s life.

  “You should also know that at some point, your father will be consulted. I will make whatever arrangements with him required to make sure he is easy about entrusting you to me.”

  “What does that mean? Money?”

  “If need be. It should not be offensive to you. It’s done all the time, I can assure—”

  “Perhaps where you come from.” She looked away. “You and I have every reason to hate each other.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Regardless of the fact that I personally had nothing to do with your imprisonment and I have no way of knowing whether you actually encountered my brothers at Gettysburg—we can’t just establish some kind of blanket forgiveness for all that.”

&
nbsp; “No, we can’t.”

  “I loved the man I was going to marry,” she said bluntly.

  “I know.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I heard you say his name,” he said simply, looking into her eyes.

  She frowned, but she didn’t say anything. The silence between them lengthened, and she looked down at her hands, the rough skin and the ragged nails. These were not the hands of a prospective fiancé for the son of a Yankee shipping magnate who was “reasonably well off.”

  “You…haven’t asked me about the baby,” she said finally. She had no intention of telling him anything, even if he had. It was a secret she would carry to her grave.

  “I assumed that the father is not really a consideration here. Is he?”

  “No,” Maria said.

  “If it’s over and done, I have no need to know the details.”

  “I still don’t understand why. Why would you ask me to marry you? If you need a Southern wife, this town is full of eager young women who will oblige.”

  “The bride fair.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s what Perkins calls it—this interest in marrying army officers.”

  Maria tried to be insulted, but the descriptive term hit far too close to home.

  “So I’m to believe that it’s because of our supposed intellectual compatibility and my usefulness as an occupation colonel’s wife.”

  “Those are two reasons, yes.”

  “But not the only ones?”

  “No.”

  “Am I to be advised of those?”

  “No. Those are quite…personal, the details of which aren’t mine to share.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. Some things we won’t discuss. Like the identity of the father of your child and my personal reasons for the marriage proposal. Neither matter in the overall scheme of things.”

  “Colonel Woodard, I—”

  “There is one last thing,” he interrupted.

  “What?”

  “It wouldn’t be a marriage of convenience,” he said, and she could feel her cheeks flush as the question she’d barely dared to entertain was answered.

  “It will be a true marriage in every way. We will take care of these two boys as best we can—and as long as need be. Neither of us has any way of knowing when Phelan Canfield will return or what he would do about them if he did. Your child will be made legitimate and my heir. Regardless of whatever rumors may surface, he or she will be raised as mine.

  “This marriage will be an alliance for that purpose and to aid me in my military career. If you agree, I will ask for your word of honor that you will do your part to make this a success. I can’t do it alone. I believe the union will be beneficial to us both—but neither of us should enter into it blaming the other for the political and personal circumstances that have ultimately brought us together.

  “Now. You have much to consider, and I must leave shortly. I will be away for about three days on army business. When I return, I trust you will give me an answer. Do you think that is possible?”

  “Very possible,” she said, grateful for the reprieve in spite of her conviction that the answer would be no.

  And she had no intention of changing her mind.

  “Good,” he said. “Until then.”

  He was gone longer than three days. Nine to be exact. Long enough for her to alter her decision—several times. The house was very…empty without him somehow, in spite of having the boys very much in evidence. She still didn’t know exactly where he had gone. “Army business” could mean anything and likely dealt with something which would not favor the people here.

  Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Justice continued to spend part of each day helping with both the children and the chores. Maria was more grateful than she could ever have expressed. The three of them managed to set up some routine for Jake and Joe, and her father.

  She actually thought her father was improving. He was drinking his parsley tea without complaint, which caused her to entertain the notion that he might somehow been enhancing its flavor with spirits of some kind. He certainly enjoyed having the company of the Yankee orderlies. She had even caught him playing cards.

  He also enjoyed having the little boys in his room for a time every afternoon. As far as she could tell, Joe and Jake seemed to be doing all right. Neither of them mentioned Suzanne or Phelan except in their bedtime prayers. Max Woodard had been moved onto their prayer list, as well. They called him “Con-el Mac” and made sure he was blessed every night.

  By the seventh day Max had been gone, Maria began to think that perhaps he wasn’t coming back. Perhaps he’d been reassigned. Perhaps he’d had such a change of heart regarding his offer to her that he’d asked to be sent someplace else.

  It which case, she had been suffering the agony of making and unmaking her decision for nothing. It surprised her somewhat that his being gone wasn’t general knowledge. She knew that because Valentina Kinnard came to visit her father and bring him some damson preserves from the Kinnard cellar—she said. But all the while she listened intently to every footfall in the house like a cat listening for the tread of an unwary mouse.

  The “mouse” didn’t show in this case, and eventually Valentina was driven to ask about Colonel Woodard’s whereabouts. Maria told her the truth.

  She didn’t know.

  When Max returned on the ninth day, Maria was in the backyard scrubbing dirty linens, her sleeves rolled above her elbows and her hair coming undone from its braiding and falling into her face. She had been lifting piece after piece of scalding hot laundry out of the iron wash pot with a long stick and carrying it to a wooden tub and washboard to be scrubbed with lye soap.

  Jake and Joe ran around and around her with their usual exuberance. She smiled from time to time at their antics in spite of the sorrow she felt at the loss of their mother. There was a fire under the big black pot where the sheets and pillowslips were boiling, and she kept a close eye on them to head off any interest in it. For once, they left it alone, she supposed because they now had all the experience with fires their young minds could handle.

  The boys saw Max first, and she had to grab both of them to keep them from rushing his horse. She was surprised to see him and showed it, in spite of her wish not to. He looked…tired. And out of sorts. But he dismounted and endured both boys grabbing him around the knees. Maria went back to her scrubbing, all the while marveling at how glad she was to see him.

  Not glad, she immediately decided. Relieved. Though why she would have been either, she was hard-pressed to say.

  Max picked up Jake and gave Joe to his shadow, Perkins. They all went into the house—just as she expected.

  She continued with the washing, letting her mind wander almost where it would. She considered the fine morning and the fact that there was breeze enough to dry the sheets quickly when she had them all rinsed and spread on the shrubbery. She considered the birds singing and the smell of the bread she had baking in the oven and the fact that the garden was doing well—but she would have to carry buckets and buckets of water to the plantings later, because of the lack of rain.

  She didn’t consider Max Woodard—at all—and she was so diligent at it that she didn’t realize he was standing just beyond the wash pot. How long he’d been there, she had no idea, and once again she’d jumped because he’d caught her unawares, which was so disconcerting that she kept scrubbing long after that particular sheet needed it.

  “How is your father?” he asked without prelude, as he was wont to do.

  “I think perhaps he is better,” she said, still scrubbing. She glanced at him. He was looking at her intently, and he was still unhappy.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Wrong? Nothing—as far as I know. No, that’s not true. I had to lock De Graff up again. I arrived back in town just in time to see him go straight to the source of his misery. He was supposedly on duty—and he was drunk.
He royally insulted Mrs. Russell on the square and with half the town watching. His language was so vile, it’s a wonder the birds didn’t fall out of the trees. Mrs. Russell already has her bad opinion of him—us—and he handed her all the verification she would ever require—wrapped up and tied with a bow. The man is an idiot.”

  Maria didn’t say anything. She thought his assessment of the situation was quite accurate.

  “This trip turned out to be more than I planned,” he said after a moment. “I ended up having to go to Washington and then to Wilmington—by ship—which was…an experience. I’m not a good sailor—much to my father’s dismay. He would have preferred not to have a son who is always too seasick to get out of his bunk every voyage he’s ever taken. Shippers are supposed to produce better, I suppose. I did get to see him before he goes to London, though. He and my mother came down to Washington while I was there. They’re waiting to hear—as am I.”

  She looked at him, not quite understanding what he meant. Surely he hadn’t mentioned anything to them about this exceedingly tentative marriage proposal.

  “That was a very broad hint, Maria,” he said after a moment. “Have you made your decision?”

  She ignored the question. “You told your mother and father about…me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do that!”

  “Why? Because they’re my parents and I don’t see them very often. Call me peculiar, but I thought the possible marriage of their only son would be of interest to them. I can make no excuses for telling them. When they asked what was new with me, it just fell out of my mouth. And as long as you’re already upset about that, you might as well know, I’ve told my sister, as well. And she will likely tell John and Amanda Howe.”

  “But I haven’t agreed!”

  “I know that. They know that, too.”

  “You didn’t tell them…everything, did you?”

  “Only that I’d asked you. And that your father was very ill—so if you said yes to me, we would likely marry in haste so that he can be witness to it.”