Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  "They both rode on top. Okay?" Margaret took a deep breath and began again. "Well, here they were, all alone at last. But what they didn't know was that there was a crazy man in the woods, escaped from a home for the criminally insane. He was a desperate murderer who had been hacked away by his victims, so all he had left was an arm with a hook in it . . ." One of the scouts laughed, and Margaret again paused, with all the amusement of a substitute teacher. "What's so funny this time?" she asked.

  "Well, ma'am. You say this fellow was crazy and all, and that he was hacked away. I beg your pardon, but this man sure sounds like General Hood."

  The scouts and Mrs. Thaw all chuckled, thinking of the Confederate general who was so beset by war wounds, his arm was useless and one leg had been amputated. He was so crippled that he had to be strapped into his saddle before each battle. In addition to his physical infirmities, Hood was known for his recklessness, taking risks in battle that most felt were imprudent, to say the least.

  At once the scouts stopped laughing, aware that Ashton was unusually quiet, and the scout remembered that General Johnson was a friend of Hood's. Ashton's head was bent, even Mag could not see his expression, and she was suddenly afraid for the young scout.

  Ashton's voice was steely. "Private, as you know, I am well acquainted with General Hood." He then glanced up, revealing a broad grin. "And as far as I know, General Hood was never an inmate in an institution for the criminally insane."

  They all laughed again in camaraderie and a shared joy that their general was a man like Ashton.

  The laughter dwindled to chuckles, and Margaret saw Ash shift his wounded leg to a more comfortable position. She reached out to touch him in the darkness, and his strong hand clasped hers, pulling her softly to him. His arm then rested on the small of her back, and she found it hard to concentrate on the story.

  "Back to my gripping tale of horror," she said wryly, and they leaned forward again, smiles on all their faces—even Mrs. Thaw. "Now, here our lovers were in the wilderness, unaware that a madman lurked just behind the bushes. Suddenly, on top of the carriage they heard a tap, tap, tap ... All right. What's the problem now?"

  It was the freckled scout. "Miss Mag. Why didn't the horses hear the madman? I swear, most horses I know would hear such a sound well nigh before any human . . ."

  "Because the horses were eating. They had feed bags on and blinders, and both animals were partially deaf from the infernal questions of their masters."

  They were quiet again, but Margaret could tell they were all on the verge of hilarity. "Well, they suddenly decided to leave the place . . ."

  "The horses?" Ashton didn't attempt to hide the glee in his voice.

  "No, General." Her teeth were clenched now. "The young lovers decided to leave. And it wasn't until they got home that they found something on the roof of the carriage. Something strange and sinister and terrifying . . ."

  "The new Confederate paper money?" offered another scout, and they all laughed heartily as Mrs. Thaw handed out mugs and poured the peanut shell brew.

  "No, you've ruined it all! The hook! They found the crazy murderer's hook! You see, the man was about to murder them both, but they left and . . ."

  "Paper money would have been more frightening," proclaimed Ashton, and they all applauded, except for Margaret. After a few moments she, too, began to giggle, and she leaned closer to Ashton, resting her head on his expansive shoulder.

  In the still darkness, one of the scouts began to sing. Softly at first, then his voice—sweet and plaintive and without artifice—rose slightly. The song was "Somebody's Darling," about the body of an unknown soldier who was a cherished son, a lover, a husband, or a brother or friend. It was a song of unabashed sentimentality, the words overlush, the tune simple.

  Yet Margaret's eyes were suddenly brimming with sharp tears, and she dashed them away with her palm, embarrassed at how the song had moved her.

  Ashton ran his hand up her back, a gentle gesture, but he stopped. What he felt made his smile fade, for under his hand—prominent even beneath her heavy wool dress and shawl—he could feel each of her delicate ribs. He knew she had lost weight, but when he had embraced her at Rebel's Retreat it had been under blankets. Even holding her when they rode, he had not realized how wasted she had become.

  Then he recalled the last time he had seen her in that indigo blue dress. She had been tightly corseted, and still her generous figure had made the dress appear bewitchingly snug. Now the dress was loose. No corsets. No stays.

  The song ended, and conversation turned to food. They discussed lavish feasts of country ham and roasted turkey, fried chicken, and savory vegetables. Potatoes crackling with sage and cheese, fresh corn roasted in butter. Wine and champagne and sweetmeats and luscious fruit tarts.

  But all Ashton could think of was Margaret. She was starving to death before his eyes, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. His finger traced her spine, and he could feel the sharp edges there.

  "General?"

  Someone had asked him a question, but Ashton didn't hear a word.

  "I said it's beginning to rain, General." It was Mrs. Thaw. "Shouldn't we turn in for the night?"

  "Yes, yes. Of course."

  Slowly they all rose from the fire, sputtering now with the large, cold drops of rain.

  He stood up and reached down to help Margaret. "Where did you put your India rubber blanket?"

  She gave him a blank look, squinting against the increasing rain. "My what?"

  "Your waterproof rubber blanket,” he repeated gently.

  A sudden image came to her mind of an ugly brownish sheet of rubber and some scratchy blankets. She had left them all back at Rebel's Retreat.

  "Oh, Ashton. I feel so stupid, but I left it back at Rebel's Retreat . . ."

  Instead of scolding her or giving her the tongue-lashing she so richly deserved, he quietly wrapped his arms around her. He wanted to protect her from the weather and the cold, from hunger and danger, from soldiers on both sides. But this was the best he could do.

  "I thought we'd be staying at a hotel," she admitted weakly, her arms around his waist and her cheek resting against his chest. He laughed and put a finger under her chin, tilting her face toward his.

  Even in the black, moonless night, she could see the emotion in his eyes, and her breath caught in her throat. "You may use my bedding, Mag." He brushed a kiss on top of her forehead. "I am accustomed to sleeping in the open . . ."

  "No, Ash. Absolutely not. You'll catch your death out here." She swallowed. "Maybe I can double up with Mrs. Thaw."

  Just at that moment Mrs. Thaw brushed by, scurrying about the camp like a frenzied housemaid. Margaret stopped her and asked gently if she could sleep with her. Mrs. Thaw opened her mouth, her eyes softening on Margaret when she heard that she had left the bedding back at Rebel's Retreat. Then she stopped, putting one hand on her hip.

  "Well, Missy," she began, "this will teach you to pack for yourself. No. I sleep alone."

  "Mrs. Thaw, if you please . . ." Ashton began.

  "When are you two getting married?" she asked abruptly.

  "Why, as soon as possible," Ashton said evenly. "When we reach Petersburg in a few days."

  "Well," began Mrs. Thaw, "you keep each other warm, and I won't tell a soul." She then gave Margaret a comically broad wink and bustled away.

  Stunned, she looked up at Ashton, who was smiling. Without another word, he retrieved his own bedding, stopping only to speak to the scout assigned to the first shift watch. Within minutes he fashioned a makeshift tent with part of a fallen log and the rubber blanket, and he beckoned her within.

  There wasn't much room for one person, much less two. And the interior was not dry, just less wet than the outside. But they were alone.

  He took off his jacket and folded it into a pillow, then leaned back and motioned for Margaret to follow. With gentle fingers, he loosened her hair from the snood, combing the silken tresses with his splayed hand.r />
  "Come," he said softly, gesturing to the small space between the log and himself. She slid into the space and, pulling down her bunched-up skirt, settled herself beside him.

  His arm immediately closed around her, and with the other hand he smoothed a rough blanket over them both. She was on her side, her head resting on his chest, her arm slowly moving up his shirt. She could feel the crisp hairs there, light brown and clean-smelling, and the steady beat of his heart throbbed against the length of her whole body, encompassing her completely.

  Without realizing what she was doing, her hand slid up to his face, and she could feel the new sharp growth of whiskers, the softer texture of his mustache. He kissed her hand lightly, and she gasped at the shock that seemed to flash down her arm. He smiled in the darkness and pulled her closer.

  "Ashton?" she said softly.

  "Mmm?" he replied, too aware of her body resting so very near to bother with words.

  "That man today, the Union lieutenant," She felt him stiffen, but she continued. "Do you think he was telling the truth when he said there was a price on your head?"

  For a moment he held his breath, then he exhaled harshly. "Yes. I believe it is the truth."

  The only sounds were the plopping of raindrops on the tarp, and Margaret swallowed. "Ashton?"

  "Yes." His voice was wary.

  "What happened to my parents?"

  Again there was silence, and Ashton's hand slid up her side, resting on her bare neck, "You don't remember?" His voice was so tender, she was almost unable to speak.

  "No. Ever since the other day ... I seem to have forgotten more than just how to ride a horse."

  He took several deep breaths before speaking. "When you were eighteen, your parents and your brother and sister were killed in a boating accident."

  Margaret suddenly felt as if she, too, were drowning. "It can't be," she whispered, her voice unsteady. "Oh, my God," she moaned. "How can it happen twice ..."

  Ashton suddenly rose, propping himself up on an elbow, slipping his jacket under her head. But she didn't seem to notice.

  "I'm a freak here, too. Everyone must look at me and wonder why I'm still alive . . ."

  "Margaret, stop." He was still gentle, but his voice was a command. "It was a terrible tragedy, but not a single person thinks ill of you. Mag, listen. Everyone has had their share of tragedy—especially since this damned war."

  She stopped crying and lay very still, waiting for him to continue. "Look at Mrs. Thaw—both her husband and son and two of her brothers have been killed within the past eighteen months. Mike Norris, the scout with freckles, why he's lost his father and three brothers, two of whom fought for the North. Aside from the war, Mag, everyone's faced death. I myself have lost my father, two sisters, and a brother ..."

  "Oh, Ash. I'm so sorry."

  "We're not talking about me, Mag." But she could hear the smile in his voice. "It is normal to mourn, but it is not normal to blame yourself."

  "Ah. Survivor's guilt—I know all about it." She reached up to touch his face, but placed her hand on his throat instead, feeling him swallow as she stroked him.

  "Maybe," she said, more to herself. "Maybe that's why I'm here. In this time I'm not so unusual—people seem to forget and accept family tragedies more readily. Perhaps it's because death is so common here, and—"

  His mouth was on hers, soft and gentle at first, then strong and demanding—and all thoughts of psychology vanished from her lips.

  Gently, he rolled over, cradling her on his chest as his tongue entered her mouth. She fleetingly cursed the rearrangement of her dress—the many small buttons were now in the back rather than the front. Her breath was coming quicker now, and she felt Ashton's hand on her breast, teasing through the cloth of her gown.

  "Ash." She breathed and backed away, hoping to see his magnificent face in the darkness.

  But her head moved the rubber tent, and instead of getting a full view of him, the tent deposited several cups of very icy water onto his surprised face.

  It took him a few startled seconds before he realized what had happened. And then he began to laugh his wonderful laugh, gently pulling her against him as he readjusted the tent. She, too, laughed, wiping his face with the edge of her shawl.

  "I think," he said at last, "that was a message from above. In spite of the permission of the powerful Mrs. Thaw, an even higher authority wants us to wait."

  With a remorseful sigh, they took up their original positions, her head on his chest. And both slept contentedly in each other's arms until the first light of morning.

  CHAPTER 9

  Robert Edward Lee was looking old. Acquaintances who had not seen him since spring hid their surprise at his appearance, muffled the exclamations, and averted their widened eyes. There had been a change in him brought on by illness and disease and by watching the army he so passionately loved march irrevocably toward defeat.

  Still handsome, maintaining a serene dignity and grace even under news of disaster, there was a slight stoop to his shoulders now. His hair, still a startling white, seemed limp, the dashing beard a little less stiff. His aristocratic face was turned downward, contemplating the telegram that lay in his lap.

  There was a single sharp knock on his door, and Lieutenant General James Longstreet, Lee's second in command, entered the room.

  "General, sir?" Longstreet moved softly, not wanting to jar his commander. Longstreet, brusque and battle-hardened, loved his general very much.

  "Have you seen this telegram from Ash Johnson?" "No. Has he returned to his command, sir?" General Lee tapped the rectangular slip of paper and glanced out of the window, squinting against the bright light. "He's just reached Petersburg, The Oaks. He's reported some troop movements. Accurately, I assume."

  Longstreet was silent for a moment. "Why, sir, is he in Petersburg? Is it his wound?"

  General Lee's eyes snapped to Longstreet, his voice low. "He's going to marry her, James. He's going to marry that woman, then return to his command."

  For the first time since the defeat at Gettysburg, Longstreet was struck speechless. "May I sit down, sir?"

  Lee answered with a nod, and Longstreet eased himself into a Chippendale chair.

  "We should have told him, sir," Longstreet said at last. "We should have told him of our suspicions. There is evidence against her, sir. Once he realized it, he would have—" "No." "Sir?"

  Someone outside was shouting, and there were sounds of hooves and wheels. But those noises seemed distant, and there was the measured click-click of the pendulum from the wall clock.

  "I've known Ashton since he was a boy," Lee said at last. "I urged him to attend the military academy. He learned to ride a horse with my nephew. And I've always known he loved that girl, even as she grew into a woman. After his own father died, Ash looked up to me. He became like another son." Lee's finger smoothed the telegram. "Did you know that it was I who urged him to join our cause? I spoke of Virginia and honor and duty and finally told him it was what his own father would have wished."

  Longstreet was about to speak, but Lee hushed him with his black gaze. "I cannot in good conscience interfere with the one fragment of joy he may receive from his marriage."

  "But, sir—"

  "He's a brilliant man. If something is amiss, Ashton will perceive it soon enough. He will not endanger our cause. He will not risk the lives of his men, even for her."

  "He loves her. She is his one blind spot."

  "We will wait and see. We will post a man to watch her after he returns to his men."

  The air was thick with silence until Lee spoke again. "Ashton," he uttered in a half moan. "I pray to the Almighty that we are wrong, but half the Confederacy knows your bride is a spy for those people."

  The faces.

  Never had Margaret seen such faces as on the road to Petersburg. The men, mostly clad in some sort of makeshift gray uniform, had long shaggy hair or short-cropped or medium length, with faces clean-shaved or whiskered. But bey
ond the hair were the most extraordinary faces she had ever passed.

  Every one of their life's experiences seemed to leave an imprint on the men. Childhood illness was remembered with pock marks; an adolescent fall left gashes that, when healed, traced the path of the wound. And now, in early or middle or even late adulthood, their faces bore the marks of suffering, of witnessing death, of escaping themselves only to be tormented by the loss of others.

  The only uniform feature to the men was their leanness, no extra flesh to pad the features, to soften the glazed expressions. It was as if they had been given a physical truth serum—they could not hide what they had become. Their very beings told the tale before they could utter a word.