Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  "So you're mad, eh?" she hissed. "Well, this is the last time I try to save your neck, pal." With an exasperated sigh, she looked up at the ceiling, then back to her husband, the anger defused.

  "I'm sorry. This isn't much fun for me, either, you know. You have the easy part." A discreet cough behind her caused her to turn around. Standing in the doorway, dressed in a crisp uniform, was Robert E. Lee. "I just heard, my dear." He walked slowly toward Margaret, but his eyes were on Ashton, an expression of fragile sorrow there. "Oh, my poor, poor boy," he mumbled to himself. He reached out and brushed his hand over Ashton's icy cheek. "You are right, Mrs. Johnson. It is by far the hardest trial to be left behind. You husband is at rest now, and he does indeed have the easy part, as you said."

  They both looked down at Ashton. Margaret's mind was churning to think of something appropriate to say, when she saw Ashton's thumb move.

  "Oh," she gasped, throwing herself over Ashton's torso. With one swift but awkward movement, she covered most of his body with her skirts.

  "Mrs. Johnson, please, my dear," said General Lee with compassion. "We must not get overly distraught. Perhaps this was really the best way, after all. . ." Ashton's arm began to flex. "No! You stop it this instant!" she cried to Ashton. "I am sorry," replied Lee. "Perhaps this is not the best time to offer ..."

  A deep groan escaped Ashton's mouth. "Please be quiet," she said harshly to her husband, who was clearly coming out of the stupor.

  "Yes, my dear Mrs. Johnson." General Lee backed away. "I will speak to you later, then."

  When the general left the room, Ashton stopped all movement. A charged panic shot through her—what if he was really dead?

  Swallowing hard, she lifted the eyelid again. There was a distinct glare in his eye. He was, without a doubt, furious.

  Dr. Parish stood beside Margaret, an avuncular hand on her shoulder. She couldn't help wringing her hands in concern, and even the doctor's comforting words did little to lessen her apprehension,

  "Mrs. Johnson, I assure you this reaction is perfectly normal. It was necessary to give him an additional drop or two of monkshood. You said yourself he was beginning to stir, and even the most passionate of mourners would no doubt notice if the body sat up and cursed."

  Margaret nodded, understanding the need for more poison, but dreading the risk. "I just want him to be well," she uttered quietly.

  "I will say this," the doctor said in a light tone. "Those Johnson boys are a strapping lot. I don't believe many men could have survived the dose of monkshood you initially gave Ashton." He ignored her expression of guilt. "And I surely don't believe many men could have rallied from their wounds the way both Ashton and his younger brother have."

  "Eddie?" Margaret's gaze shot to the doctor's. "I haven't told him about the monkshood! He knew we were planning something, but . . . oh, Doctor, I had better tell him before he hears that Ashton is dead. He might think he was executed and that the government is promoting the story of . . ."

  Dr. Parish waved his hand. "Mrs. Johnson, your brother-in-law is fully aware of the scheme. Miss Cox told him everything, and he is absolutely delighted. In fact, the news of Ashton's suposed death was the best possible tonic for young Major Johnson's shoulder."

  A staccato knock on the door startled both of them. Margaret threw a worried glance at Ashton, who was perspiring heavily after the last jolt of monkshood.

  "I'll take care of whoever it is." The doctor sighed. "You should sit by the general and make sure nobody sees his face."

  Margaret positioned herself at the head of the cot, and she tenderly wiped the dampness from his forehead and cheeks. "Oh, Ash," she murmured. "Please forgive me."

  Dr. Parish opened the door, a scowl already set firmly on his lined face. "Yes?" he demanded curtly of the visitor.

  It was a young man with a wispy attempt of a beard, so sparse that his pink skin shone through in naked patches. He was rather short, but formally attired in a dark suit and a stiff white collar with painful-looking points,

  "Is this where General Johnson is resting?" The young man carried a large tin bucket and several lengths of rubber hose coiled in the bucket.

  "Yes it is, young man," he snapped. "But as her physician, I have insisted that Mrs. Johnson be allowed to remain alone with her husband. She is of a rather nervous disposition, and for the sake of her health, she must be allowed these moments for a final farewell. I bid you good day."

  The doctor began to close the door when the young man wedged a foot in the door to prevent his dismissal.

  "Sir, I am Grover Sharpe, of Sharpe and Foote, undertakers. I have been sent by President Davis to offer a complimentary embalming of the esteemed General Johnson." Grover Sharpe squared his narrow shoulders, as if he had just issued a mighty command.

  From inside the room, Margaret blanched, stifling an urge to cry. She delicately raised Ashton's eyelid, hoping her poor husband had not heard.

  Again, he seemed to be livid with anger, yet enjoying her discomfort.

  "I'm glad you find this so amusing," she whispered into his ear.

  But her voice carried to the young undertaker, whose jaw suddenly went slack with surprise. "Is she speaking to the deceased?" He leaned close to Dr. Parish, his tone one of professional curiosity.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact," replied the doctor sadly. "She is showing symptoms of hysterical delusions, very common given the circumstance. The only hope is if she is allowed to remain with her husband. Eventually she will realize that he is not responding to her, and she will understand that he is dead. Otherwise, her sanity may never be restored."

  Grover Sharpe stared in morbid fascination at the lovely young widow with tousled hair and flashing eyes. Then he regained his businesslike composure. "I understand, sir. And I must insist that you allow me to perform my work. To be perfectly blunt, sir, she will not find it pleasant to be with her husband for much longer unless he is embalmed, if you understand my meaning, sir."

  For a moment Dr. Parish was speechless, and he glanced over his shoulder at Margaret and Ashton, Then a burst of gratified, silent elation passed through him, although he managed to speak in a sad, withered tone. "Ah, Mr. Sharpe." Dr. Parish nodded sagely. "That, you see, is part of the cure. Not only must she realize that he is dead by his inability to speak, but she must understand the rather distasteful changes in her husband in order to banish all of her romantic notions."

  The undertaker shifted his weight uncomfortably, his hand still clutching the bucket and hose.

  "Well, sir," he shrugged, wrinkling his pointed nose as he again tried to see over the doctor's shoulders. "Do you think you could explain that to President Davis? I might still be able to bill him, I beg your pardon, if he understands that I was willing to perform my trade."

  "I will inform the president," the doctor said dryly. "Thank you, sir." Grover Sharpe turned to leave, then paused. "Uh, it's a real shame about the general. I mean, even when I thought I might get a little extra business out of the incident, I was mighty sad. I saw him once with his men. Absolutely glorious, Doctor. A true inspiration." After a thoughtful pause, Grover Sharpe shook his head and left.

  "Mrs. Johnson," said the doctor the moment he closed the door. "I suggest we get this thing over with as soon as possible. Perhaps we can hold the funeral this evening."

  "Oh, no," moaned Margaret. "What will we do about the burial?"

  A smile of genuine satisfaction appeared on the doctor's face. "I believe I have a plan, Mrs. Johnson."

  With a delighted, hushed voice, he explained his complete scheme.

  "Do you think it will really work?" Margaret asked.

  "To tell you the truth, we don't have much of a choice," he responded as he examined the motionless figure of the general. "The longer he remains here, the more Grover Sharpes will flock to have the honor of embalming him."

  Margaret looked directly into the old doctor's pale eyes. "Dr. Parish, I don't believe I can ever thank you enough for all you have done." She
glanced back at her husband, a man who now had a real chance of growing old.

  The doctor waved her thanks away, a gruff motion to hide his own feelings, deeper than he would like anyone to suspect. "It has been a rare pleasure, Mrs. Johnson. I see so much death every day. I see so many noble youths suffer hideously before they are allowed to go on to the next world, that it is a something of a restorative for me to help a deserving couple live happily ever after."

  "Why, Dr. Parish." Margaret smiled. "I believe you are a genuine romantic."

  He huffed in annoyance. "No, ma'am. I am a realist who only happens to dabble in romance." Then he winked. "And if you tell anyone that, I will never forgive you."

  The casket was roomy and well-padded, comfortable by anyone's standards, but Margaret was unable to watch as two of the burly guards lowered Ashton into it. The scene simply looked too final, too realistic.

  She had requested that holes be punched in the lid so that she could still speak to her husband when he was at last in his final resting place, and the carpenter shrugged and bored the holes. It didn't matter to him one way or another, and in his day he had heard stranger requests.

  General Lee returned, along with other dignitaries, to pay their official respects to Margaret. She stood by the coffin, clad now in a black damask gown borrowed from Varina Davis.

  "General Lee," said Margaret in a suitably hushed voice. "I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I am sure Ashton would be ashamed if he had seen me behave so poorly."

  The general smiled sadly. "There is certainly no need to apologize. It is I who intruded upon you, and I most certainly should have waited until a more suitable hour."

  There was an awkward afternoon, the drawn-out visitation, as men she had never seen before nodded to her or pressed heartfelt sympathy damply into her increasingly sore hand. She tried several times to work her way back to General Lee, but she was always detained by some member of the Confederate Senate or Congress.

  Finally, just as Lee was about to depart, Margaret was able to reach him. "Sir?" she asked.

  He paused and smiled warmly. "Yes, Mrs. Johnson."

  "Excuse me, but I need to speak to you about Ashton's burial." Her voice wavered, as if with emotion. In truth she was terrified, for if this conversation did not go as she hoped, Ashton might very well be buried alive.

  "Of course. I understand that President Davis has commissioned a magnificent monument, and the general's remains will be interred in Hollywood Cemetery, right over on Cherry Street."

  "Well, General Lee, sir," she said, her eyes flying to Ashton, who was looking very handsome indeed in the open coffin. "I would really rather have him buried someplace peaceful, somewhere away from the war."

  "Richmond is safe, Mrs. Johnson. He will not be bothered here." The general began to leave.

  "No, sir." Her knees were beginning to feel like water. How dare she defy General Lee!

  He stopped, startled by her rebellious tone. "You see, sir," she continued, "Ashton always wanted to be buried in England." "England!"

  "Yes, sir. I was wondering if I could just take him over there and bury him in some nice, quiet little patch of land, far away from the ugliness and sorrow of this conflict."

  A group of men now gathered to watch Margaret and General Lee, some amused by her audacity, others furious that she would put the gallant General Lee in such an ungraceful position in front of so many other people.

  "It is winter, my dear." He was not unfriendly, just a little stiff. "And there is, indeed, a war going on. We do not have a ship to spare to send you over to England, and even if we did, the danger from those people's armed ships would be too great. You would be risking not only yourself but the entire crew. No, Mrs. Johnson, I regret to say that I cannot allow you to bury him abroad."

  Again, he started to leave. This was her last chance. "Flag of truce," she shouted, a little louder than she intended.

  The general halted.

  "I know mail sometimes passes through the flag of truce," she stammered. "This is a compassionate request, General Lee. Do you think the Yankees would prevent a grieving widow from carrying out her husband's last wish? They wouldn't dare. In fact, Ash has many friends up North, some in powerful positions. I would guess his old West Point friends would be glad to help us out, maybe even in a Yankee ship. It would be good public relations, sir. And good public relations is something the North badly needs right now."

  A Mississippi senator spoke up. "Mrs. Johnson, why on earth would we wish to give the United States any favorable press?"

  "Ah." She smiled, turning on all the charm she could muster. "Don't you see, sir, that both sides would benefit? The North would seem a little kinder to their own people, and we, the noble Confederate States of America, would seem positively saintly. Imagine if those scores of women grumbling for bread were told that their government thinks well enough of women to help a poor widow bury her husband."

  There was a murmur among the men in the room, and Margaret knew Ashton could hear every word.

  "And in England I could do a little work myself, trying to raise humanitarian aid for our cause. We would be a stronger nation if we had more food and a few extra blankets for the soldiers and civilians. I could be a sort of good will ambassador."

  With a grudging nod, General Lee took Margaret's hand. "My dear Mrs. Johnson, I had no idea how much you loved your husband. Are you truly willing to leave your home indefinitely, risk your own life for this journey?"

  "Without a second thought," she answered, looking him straight in the eye.

  "I will see what I can do, my dear. Perhaps we could raise the necessary funds. I will speak to the president myself." And with that, General Lee left the chamber.

  Within thirty minutes, the Richmond gossips were enjoying the best tidbit of the year. General Johnson's grief-torn widow had managed to challenge both the military and the civilian powers of the Confederacy. And from all accounts, the passionate Mrs. Johnson had emerged triumphant.

  The farewells were hasty, stuck between the frantic preparations for the journey, the packing and the letter-writing, and constantly watching Ashton.

  When she was forced to leave his side, she insisted that Mary B. or Dr. Parish or a rapidly recovering Eddie watch over his open casket. She managed to get a note to Ashton's mother, alluding to the plan. Eliza traveled to Richmond to help with Margaret's last-minute plans and to see both of her sons.

  Although Eliza was not overly thrilled with the thought of dosing her son with poison, Eddie had convinced her of its necessity.

  Margaret's last morning in Richmond was hectic and more than a little terrifying. Here she had allies, friends who knew exactly what was happening to Ashton. She drew often on their moral support, a funny word from Mary B., a slightly off-color joke from Eddie, a comforting pat on the back from Dr. Parish. Once she was on the ship, she would be alone. The success or failure of the plan would depend entirely on Margaret.

  In a very real sense, Margaret would be completely responsible for her husband's life.

  She had one last letter to write, one vital slip of paper that just might ensure Ashton's happiness for the rest of his life. With unusual care, she wrote and rewrote the letter, choosing the words painstakingly, making sure the meaning of each sentence was unmistakable. There could be absolutely no doubt as to the content of this letter, no part could be open to speculation.

  With ink on her hands, she threw the badly splotched or imperfect copies into the fire grate, watching as each piece of paper darkened illuminated on the edges with a red glow, and finally burned into a darkened pile of ash.

  She then addressed the letter—'To General Robert E Lee. Do not open until January 1, 1868 —and hand-delivered it on her way to the ship.

  Of all the men in the Confederacy, she knew that General Lee alone would save that letter for four years and never once be tempted to open it.

  CHAPTER 18

  London was especially cold, a chilly mist wrapping itself
around everyone, penetrating clothes and carriages, making it impossible to get warm.

  The patrons of the Maiden's Arms tavern were doing their best to forget the nasty weather blowing outside. A few mugs of ale seemed the best remedy, comforting the body and making the world seem a far more hospitable place indeed.

  The rough oak door flew open, and there were the usual good-natured grumbles from patrons complaining of the sudden gust. But when the loudest com-plainer realized who the visitor was, his face melted into a welcoming grin.

  "Why, look who it is, mates!" he bellowed. "It's Bertram Butler of that noble ship the North Star! Maiden, an extra special pint for my friend here."

  The bartender, a surly man with arms the size of Highland sheep, glared at the request but sullenly pulled the tap and poured a glass of murky, room-temperature ale.