“He didn’t, least I reckon, not for more than five minutes. He freed me and Sadie the moment he claimed our papers. James, too.”
Oh...so he told the truth about that.
“When Mr. Henry learned about my Robert he tried his best to find him. Then came the war and—well, he says now that the fightin’ has ended, Robert might turn up yet. He’s been askin’ of him at the Freedmen’s Bureau, askin’ of him by way of his friends in the government, as well.”
Rebekah swallowed hard, that conflicted feeling rising inside her once more. How many men would spend the time, the money to track down a former slave? No wonder Hannah thinks so highly of Henry.
The woman then turned the conversation in a way Rebekah had not expected. It told her Hannah knew more about her and Henry’s relationship than Rebekah realized.
“You and Mr. Henry will settle in time,” she said. “The good Lord will help you.”
Rebekah didn’t know how to respond to that. From what she had experienced, the Almighty did not concern himself with her. Jesus had died for her sins, yes, and Rebekah had bowed the knee, promised to serve so that she could escape eternal punishment. But even though the Scriptures testified to the existence of a supreme loving Father, Rebekah could not conceive any guardian who did not forcefully subdue and rule those weaker than He.
And yet, something deep down told her otherwise—that the example her father had given her was not the true reality. There was something more. There had to be. Something that made Hannah believe in the return of the man she had once and still loved. Something that made Henry do what he had done tonight.
Was there more to God the Father than punishment and perfection? Rebekah would have liked to believe so. She would have liked to believe that her husband was more than just a vote seeker, a man hungry for power.
But believing something, no matter how sincerely, doesn’t necessarily make it true.
Chapter Eleven
Summer sunshine baked the streets of Baltimore. In the Nash home, however, a chill remained. Rebekah never displayed any hint of coldness before Grace and Kathleen. When they were present, she engaged Henry in polite everyday conversation. She smiled. She even laughed once or twice when he made silly faces at Kathleen. The moment the children were out of sight, though, so was she.
As Henry’s father had so ruefully predicted, Rebekah appeared to be resigning herself to the present situation. She dutifully and efficiently managed his household, cared for his children and attended public worship at his side, but was never alone with him. Henry did his best to encourage interaction, to engage her in meaningful conversation. He complimented her often on her skill with the children, sometimes asked if she would care to take a stroll about the garden with him.
She always declined, insisting she had charity work that must be completed. Rebekah had already managed to sew more shirts for the Freedmen’s Bureau than he could count. It wasn’t that she was behind in her charitable responsibilities. She just didn’t want to be with him.
Henry was surprised at how badly her rejection stung. If she was content with the way things were, shouldn’t he allow her peace? The problem was, he wanted more from his wife than distant courtesy, and he was at a loss for how to go about achieving it. How did you court a woman you had already wed? Especially one who did not wish him to do so?
One oppressively warm morning at City Hall, Henry was trying his best to concentrate on his civil responsibilities, yet his wife remained prevalent in his thoughts. Apparently most of his fellow council members were having a hard time focusing on the business of Baltimore, as well. All they seemed to want to discuss was the ongoing aftermath of Lincoln’s assassination.
While Michael O’Laughlen’s and Lewis Paine’s cases had proceeded to trial, Maggie Branson’s had not. She and the rest of the members of the Eutaw Street boarding house had been set free.
“The trials won’t last much longer,” one councilman predicted, “and that Surratt woman will be executed with the rest of them.”
Henry sighed. He didn’t know if Mary Surratt was guilty or if she had simply been drawn into events beyond her control by her son and his associates. But whatever the truth indeed was, Henry certainly couldn’t imagine the United States government executing a woman, especially a widowed mother, no matter what role she might have played in the president’s death.
His shoulders rose, then fell with a labored sigh. He would be grateful when the entire matter was put to rest once and for all. As long as the Lincoln assassination was still a topic of conversation, he would be reminded of his foolish fears. And as long as Rebekah is reading the newspapers, she will be reminded of them, as well.
“I don’t like this,” George Meriwether whispered.
Henry pulled himself out of his reverie and looked at the man seated beside him. “You don’t like what?” he asked.
George gestured toward Mayor Chapman and their fellow councilmen. “All this discussion of the trials...all it does is generate anger and suspicion. It keeps us from our local issues. We have veterans in need of work, former slaves who are struggling to assimilate into society. They need our attention far more than Mrs. Surratt or Mr. Paine.”
Henry nodded in agreement. He couldn’t help but think again of his wife, this time with a smile. She was already seeing to the needs of former slaves, and with such dedication. Beneath her defensive exterior was a kind heart, one he admired and respected. One he deeply wished to know better.
When the council adjourned that afternoon, Henry started down the front steps of City Hall, eager to be on his way home. Having remembered that Rebekah had once expressed an interest in the education of freedmen, Henry wanted to tell her how he and George had persuaded the council to set aside funds for books and slates today. He had just stepped onto North Holliday Street when Detective Smith came up alongside him.
“Well, if it isn’t the honorable Councilman Nash,” the man said. “I see you have been hard at work, as usual.”
Henry stopped. He wasn’t certain if the comment was a compliment or a cut. The detective had a knack, it seemed, for injecting suspicion and fear into every situation.
“Your name came up in a conversation I had recently,” Smith said.
“Is that so?” Henry replied, wondering where Smith was going with this.
“Evidently Miss Branson knew your wife.”
Henry immediately felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His pulse quickened.
“Why didn’t you tell me they were employed together at the hospital?” Smith asked.
“I didn’t think it important. There were many people employed there.”
“Indeed. Countless numbers...countless wounded and convalescing men. It must have been a dreadful place for a lady. No wonder your wife chose not to continue.”
Henry’s fists clenched in indignation. Was Smith implying Rebekah hadn’t the stomach or stamina to serve her country? Or is he implying something in reference to Lewis Paine’s escape from the hospital? He called him to account immediately. “Detective, are you implying that my wife might have aided in your suspect’s escape from the hospital? If you are—”
“Of course not, Councilman. Your wife had an impeccable record of service. I understand she served for well over a year and received several commendations. When she left, it was at her father’s request.”
Henry wasn’t surprised to learn she had left “at her father’s request,” but he was taken aback by the mention of commendations she had received, not because he didn’t think her capable of earning such but because she had never told him. The thought that Smith knew more about his wife’s service than he gnawed at him.
“What exactly is this about, Detective?” Henry asked.
“I assure you, Councilman, I mean no disrespect to your lovely wife. It was simply a matter of convers
ation.”
Conversation? Since when did this man ever engage in simple conversation?
The detective tipped his blue kepi. “Well, no doubt you are anxious to return home... A good evening, sir.”
Henry watched Smith walk away, thoroughly confused by the entire exchange. He didn’t know what direction the man’s investigation was now taking, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, despite Henry’s innocence, Smith was working his way back to his family.
Sweat soaked his collar, yet a chill shimmied down his back, strong enough to make him shiver. Henry hurried up Holliday Street. Rebekah wasn’t in the house or the garden when he arrived, and neither were the children. The shiver remained. It isn’t like her to be gone.
He asked Hannah what she knew.
“Miss Rebekah left after the midday meal,” the cook said.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but she asked for a bottle for the baby.”
“And she didn’t say when she would return?”
“No, sir.”
Henry tried not to worry. Rebekah could be in any number of perfectly safe places. Still, he could not get Detective Smith’s conversation out of his mind. The dinner hour came and went, yet Rebekah had not returned. She might not have been in the habit of spending time with him personally, but she had never once neglected a meal or strayed from the children’s routine.
Something is wrong.
Heart pounding, Henry donned his sack coat and hat, determined to search for her. Just as he laid his hand on the front door, it opened. In walked his wife, the baby asleep in her arms, her skirt hem stained with mud, and an equally dirt-dusted four-year-old at her side.
Henry didn’t know what he felt more, relief or resentment. Didn’t she realize how she had worried him? “Where have you been?” he immediately asked. “I have been waiting for you all afternoon!”
Rebekah blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. “I took Kathleen and Grace to the public gardens.”
Having heard voices, Sadie came to claim the children. All was well, but even so, Henry’s nerves were on edge. After the maid had gone, he said to Rebekah, “It would have been good of you to let me know. I had no idea where you were. Neither had Hannah. I was just about to come looking for you.”
“Why?” Rebekah asked.
“Why? Why do you think?” Because I was worried! He didn’t want to say exactly why he was so worried. He didn’t want to tell her about the encounter with Smith, the fact that her name had come up in a conversation about Maggie Branson. Henry didn’t want Rebekah to think he suspected her of some wrongdoing.
But for her protection... “I think it best for you to remain at home until—”
She visibly stiffened, lifted her chin. “Until what?” she snapped. “Until I prove my worthiness? Until you are assured I will do nothing to embarrass you?”
Embarrass me? “Rebekah, I—”
“You are just like my father! You’d keep me captive to your plans!”
There it was again, that charge. Henry’s frustration was building. Yes, he’d given into fear of imprisonment. Yes, he’d made a political pact he had no business entering into. Yes, he had used her—and deserved her ire and distrust for doing so. But he was trying to make amends. He wanted their life to be different. Couldn’t she see that? “I am nothing like your father! I am trying to protect this family!”
“Protect it from scandal, no doubt! You insist I play the role of charitable hostess, and you think by buying me off—”
“Buying you off?”
Stained skirt swishing, Rebekah strode to the parlor fireplace. On the mantle behind the matchbox was a piece of paper. Henry didn’t know what it was until she tossed it at him. It was the document he had instructed her to give to William Davis in the event of his arrest. His heart was crushed. So was his pride. “You think I signed my property over to you as a bribe?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Rebekah, I signed my property over to you because you are my wife, because I wanted to be certain you’d be cared for in the event of my imprisonment or death! And as for playing hostess... I asked you to stay with me during the Wainwrights’ interview because I thought you would find it interesting. And the sewing circle? I thought you would enjoy spending time with your friends. I am not trying to make you a prisoner! I’m trying to be good to you. You, however, won’t let me!”
She said nothing to that. The look on her face was stone-cold. Clearly she did not believe him.
Henry was exasperated. Why can’t you see? What more can I do to make you understand? Suddenly, from out of nowhere, he had the strong desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her. He bit back the foolhardy desire, however, and just in time. Kathleen came bouncing into the room. Rebekah’s hardness quickly turned to a look of fright. Obviously she hoped the child had not heard any of the previous exchange.
“I changed my dress,” Kathleen announced. “All by myself.” She twirled to show off her accomplishment.
Henry wasn’t going to let his niece see how conflicted he was. Offering the best smile he could muster, he patted her shoulder, then turned on his heel. Going to his study, he shut the door behind him. He ripped off his coat and tie, tossed them to the desk. Then he paced about the room. I am so sick of all of this! Sick of politics, sick of Detective Smith and this colossal trial!
But what affected him most of all was the tension between him and Rebekah. Never in his life had he felt so inadequate, so incompetent. How is it I can get opposing council members to find common ground for the people of Baltimore, yet I cannot communicate, let alone make any progress, in my relationship with my own wife?
And how on earth could he be so angry with himself and with her, yet long to take her in his arms at the same time? The desire to march back into the parlor and kiss her was as strong as ever.
What would she do if I suddenly did so? Slap my face, most likely, he thought, for he’d seen the scathing look, the mistrust in her eyes. He remembered her biting words.
“You are just like my father!”
Henry sighed. His anger spent, discouragement alone remained. God forgives, but a woman wronged does not forget, he thought. Help me, Lord, please...if not for our sake, then for the sake of the children.
Going to the shelf, he once more picked up his Bible, sank into the nearby chair and tried to read. He could barely concentrate on the words, much less retain them. Even so, he continued, for he had nowhere else to turn.
Sometime later, Henry noticed Rebekah had come into the garden. Grace was once again tied to her bosom. Little Kathleen was at her side. Laying his Bible on the table, Henry moved to the window. He watched as Rebekah ran her hand over the orange daylilies, now in the peak of bloom. His heart was stirred by the sight. He’d observed some time ago that she seemed most at peace when surrounded by God’s creation.
For a moment, he wondered how much happier she would have been to marry a simple farmer or even a wandering aeronaut. He remembered how her eyes had danced when he’d told her of drifting over green fields and groves with nothing but the whisper of the wind in his ear and the warmth of the sun on his face.
Henry couldn’t help but think of a letter he had received a few days ago. One of his old comrades from the balloon corps, Allen Tilney, had written to tell him of a new venture in which he was now involved.
“Two hundred acres of farmland,” Tilney had written. “The richest soil in Ohio. Come and see it, or better still, come and give me a hand.”
Henry had not yet replied to the letter, but he had passed off the offer with a laugh at the time. Farming wasn’t his forte, yet now he seriously wondered if a drastic change of lifestyle wasn’t exactly what his family needed. Rebekah had been born into a society in which every word and deed was carefully calculated, observed by th
ose in powerful positions and weighed for worth. She in turn now did the same.
What would happen if I took her away from this life? Would she be happy if we left behind politics for good? Would he?
The question plagued him for the rest of the evening.
* * *
Rebekah could not sleep that night. Those moments in the parlor with Henry troubled her deeply. Of course Henry would have been concerned over the children, she thought. She knew she shouldn’t have let her temper get the better of her. She knew it even while she was letting it happen, but the rage inside her demanded to be unleashed.
One of these days I will go too far.
She feared she had done so today. She’d seen that look of intensity in Henry’s eyes. She was certain she would feel his hand, bear the mark of her disobedience upon her cheek. Then Kathleen came into the room, and he left. Was I rescued by a child? Or did he actually mean the things he said? Does he truly wish to be good to me? Am I the one keeping him from doing so?
Questions hounded her. Answers evaded her. Rebekah didn’t see her husband for the rest of the evening. He didn’t come to supper, and he didn’t join them in the parlor afterward.
Kathleen had asked where he was. Rebekah had told her he was doing important work and could not be disturbed. She tried to teach her a new stitch, but the girl was not interested. She wanted her uncle.
For the past few nights, Henry had taken it upon himself to read aloud to her. They were navigating the Old Testament, reading all the familiar stories—creation, Noah’s ark, David and Goliath. Kathleen loved it. Rebekah found it torturous.
The sound of Henry’s voice as he read to the child, the way he sheltered her on his lap, made Rebekah long for things she knew would never be. Henry would never speak to her that softly, nor hold her so gently. To him she was little more than a governess, an employee, and an unruly one at that. How long would it be before his patience wore thin?
A child’s sudden cry forced Rebekah to her feet. Snatching her dressing grown, she hurried across the hall. Grace was still asleep in the cradle, but Kathleen was tossing fitfully, trapped in a nightmare.
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 17
