Trinity: Bride of West Virginia (Amercan Mail-Order Bride 35)

by Carré White

The water closet held a commode and a bath, the clawed-foot tub attached to plumbing with hot and cold water. I gazed at myself in the mirror over a sink, finding that although I felt starved and exhausted, a happy light danced in my eyes. In the bedroom, someone had brought in a tray with a teapot and a cup, a pair of daintily cut sandwiches arranged on a gold-trimmed plate. I grasped one, biting into it, tasting cucumber and butter.

  “Um … thank goodness.” Alone for the moment, I eyed my luggage, the bags tattered around the edges. “Perhaps this won’t be such a disaster after all.” I strolled to the balcony, finding seating here with a chaise lounge and pillows, the awning providing shade. I stared at the lawn, seeing a carriage traveling by in the distance. “Such a pretty view.” The wind held a slight chill, the leaves on the trees in the process of turning gold. “I could sit here for hours.” Would I truly be able to do that? “It’s like a dream. There has to be a catch.” In my heart, I knew what it was. I had married a man I had absolutely no feelings for. I would be his wife until one of us died. “This is forever.”

  The music continued, drifting out through an open window beneath me. I listened to the refrains of “Lullaby” by Brahms, thinking how soothing the melody sounded. Having a cup of tea, I sat in solitude, the music threading its way through me, filling me completely. It wasn’t until someone touched my shoulder that I realized I had fallen asleep on the chaise.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Mrs. Witherspoon.”

  Groggy and slightly disorientated, I glanced at the woman standing beside me. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Someone had placed a knitted blanket over my shoulders.

  “Mr. Witherspoon was worried about you. Supper will be served soon.”

  I tossed the blanket aside. “I do apologize. I must’ve dozed.”

  “You were tired.”

  “Yes.” I cast a glance towards the lawn, noting the shadows, the sun having disappeared behind the mountain. “It’s later than I thought.”

  “Mr. Witherspoon wanted you to have a rest, Mrs. Witherspoon. It’s no worry at all, but they do expect you to come down for supper.”

  “Yes, of course. Please, call me Trinity. We needn’t be so formal.”

  She smiled slightly. “Trinity in private and Mrs. Witherspoon amongst the rest of the staff.”

  “I see.” I hadn’t changed clothing, having nothing clean to wear. “I’ll just tidy myself, and I’ll be down.”

  “Certainly.” She took the tray away, noticing I had cleaned the plate. “They’re waiting for you in the parlor.”

  “Thank you.”

  After she left, I splashed water on my face from a pitcher and bowl on a dresser. Brushing my hair out, I gathered it into a knot at the top of my head, wishing I had the time to heat rods and curl it, but I hadn’t that luxury. Perhaps my husband would provide a maid for me. I would have to ask him about that. The outfit I wore was the same from earlier, the shirtwaist and skirt, the fabric many years old. I knew I looked dowdy and severe, but there was little to be done about it at the moment.

  As I left the room, the aroma of something delicious cooking teased my senses, my belly grumbling again, wanting to be fed. I strolled to the steps, my boots sinking into thick carpet, which lay upon a polished wooden floor. The chandelier in the entranceway glowed now, the light catching on the various crystals, making it look like a glorious, floating ball of light. Mesmerized, I stared at it while descending. On the first floor, I turned to cross the foyer, finding the men in the parlor, a conversation in progress. They hadn’t seen me yet.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” Nathanial said. “You should be thoroughly examined by Doctor Watson.”

  “I have been. He says I’m in fine condition, although the gout in my leg has become worse. He’s prescribed a change of diet that should alleviate the symptoms somewhat. I’m not terribly worried about it.”

  “It’s your mental faculties that concern me, your wits and reasoning. Those need to be assessed.”

  Laughter filled the air. “Everything is functioning well there. You may think me a fool, but I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?”

  I stood in the doorway, my hand on the frame, listening.

  “I don’t wish to die without the benefit of female companionship. I adore women. I’m not so old where I cannot enjoy such a thing. You may be able to go on forever without marrying, but I loathe being alone.”

  “I’m waiting for the right woman.”

  “That’s a rather telling statement, Nathanial. You’ve the lovely Victoria. She’s well bred and quite beautiful, from what I recall. I thought you’d settled on her already. What’s the delay?”

  From where I stood, I glimpsed Nathanial by the mantel, his hand wrapped around a glass of brandy.

  “I didn’t come here to discuss my personal life. It’s you I’m fretting over. I came as soon as I got wind of this insane scheme you concocted. Sending out for a mail order bride.” He laughed, “It’s something they do in the west. You’ve dozens of ladies to choose from, father. You didn’t need to contact this matchmaker woman. It’s ridiculous. It makes you look desperate.”

  “And that would be why you weren’t invited to the wedding. I don’t need someone telling me what I should or shouldn’t do with my personal life. I’m quite capable of making my own decisions.”

  “She’s entirely unsuitable. I doubt she’d even know what fork to use at dinner. Have you seen her hands? I had the misfortune of touching them today. They’re as rough as sandpaper.”

  “Rose water and cream will take care of that in due time. She was a factory worker, after all.”

  “That outfit she’s wearing is a stiff wind away from falling apart. Is it wool or cotton? It’s been washed so often it’s hard to tell if it’s grey, blue, or brown.”

  “She’ll be given an entirely new wardrobe soon enough.”

  “Blast it!” He glared at his father, who sat on the sofa. “You’re not listening to a single thing I’m saying. You’ve possibly made the worst mistake of your life, and she’s my stepmother!”

  Laughter filled the air. “I find her lovely just the way she is.”

  “Your eyes are failing, that’s why.”

  Having been insulted in every way possible, I forced a smile, not wanting them to know I had overheard their conversation. Stepping into the room, my resolve faltered for a split second, having been seen by Nathanial, who stared at me.

  “You heard every word of that, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to,” I said, hating how nervous this man made me feel.

  Mr. Witherspoon grasped his cane, getting to his feet. “Now, then, there you are. My lovely wife!” He approached, grinning, the skin around his eyes creasing. “You’ve rested, I hope.”

  “I have.”

  “Mrs. Dexter says you had a nap on the balcony.”

  “It was quite comfortable. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Her new life is so diverting, it put her straight to sleep,” murmured Nathanial, taking a sip of brandy.

  I ignored that, saying, “You play the violin so … so competently.”

  “I try,” he said dryly.

  “It helped put me to sleep. What was that, ‘Lullaby’?”

  “It was.”

  Mr. Witherspoon took my hand, kissing it. I shivered slightly at the coolness of the touch, his lips leaving a moist, cold patch upon my skin. “My dear, let’s have a drink before supper, shall we?”

  “Yes.” He led me to the sofa, where I sat, crossing my feet beneath my skirt. A servant brought in wine, handing me a glass. “Thank you.” Feeling awkward and inadequate, I kept my gaze on the carpet, noting how plush the fibers were.

  “Now then,” said Mr. Witherspoon, smiling placidly. “How do you like your new house, my dear?”

  “It’s far grander than I could’ve imagined.”

  “You’ve yet to take a tour of the grounds. If my leg wasn’t in shambles, I�
��d be delighted to escort you.” He glanced at Nathanial. “How long do you plan on staying, son?”

  “I should leave tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps, you could delay another day or so? Why travel such a distance for only a day?”

  “Work.”

  “It’ll keep.”

  “I’ve clients waiting on me. I’ve postponed two court dates to be here. Incurring the wrath of the judge isn’t healthy for my career.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I'm a solicitor.” He stepped away from the mantle. “Speaking of which, I should go over some things while I'm here.”

  “Preston’s seen to it. My affairs are in order. Despite your doubts over my mental faculties, I’m managing the coal mine and everything else with extraordinary ease, Nathanial. I don’t need you meddling.” He nodded soberly. “The will remains unchanged.”

  “Until you change it.”

  “Which I have no intention of doing.”

  “Let me remind you of what occurred just this morning. You married this woman.”

  Mr. Witherspoon grinned. “I did. It was delightful.”

  That statement seemed to exasperate Nathanial, his brows furrowing. “You plan to have a family with her.” He muttered, “If you’re able. Where exactly will those children fit into an old will?”

  “Ah, now I see what you’re getting at. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I haven’t even had a honeymoon yet.”

  A prickle of unease slid down my spine. I listened to them speaking, too timid to interrupt, and staring at Nathanial, who failed to smile. I did not want to think about what might happen later … after we had eaten. I chewed on a nail, pondering the predicament, reluctant to look at my husband.

  Chapter Five

  We dined on roast turkey with dressing and potatoes, the meal arriving in nearly twelve courses, with two vegetable side dishes, citrus ice, dinner rolls, fancy cakes, and coffee. I had never experienced anything like this before, my belly far too full, the corset pinching me. The tenseness of the pre-dinner conversation drifted away, as servants often refilled our wineglasses.

  Mr. Witherspoon appeared ruddy-cheeked and in high spirits. Knowing what might occur later, I became incrementally more apprehensive, yearning to hide in my bedroom. An escape presented itself after the dessert dishes were taken away, and I excused myself then, hurrying for the stairs.

  It wasn’t long before a knock sounded on the door. I jumped at the noise, eyeing myself in a mirror, seeing a woman in a nightgown and robe, my feet encased in slippers.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s your husband, my dear. Might I come in?”

  I had hoped and prayed he wouldn’t expect this of me so soon. “Um … of course.” I remained rooted to the spot, watching as the heavily carved door swung inward, one of the hinges squeaking. Mr. Witherspoon wore a robe and slippers as well, his expression far too eager.

  “Well then, I suppose this might seem a tad sudden to you.”

  “Sudden?”

  “I plan on taking you away on a proper honeymoon soon enough, but until then, I can find no reason why we should delay things. What do you think?”

  Oh, please go away. This is the last thing I wish to do. “Well, it is your right to … to be with your wife, sir. I … I hardly know what to say about the matter.” The prospect of having to be intimate with him left me ill, my belly twisting into knots.

  He approached, his expression keen. “I do wish to put you at ease. I realize you’ve little experience with such things.”

  “True.”

  “Would turning off the lights be beneficial?”

  “Yes.” Why must this happen tonight? I hardly knew the man. Oh, do go away!

  With surprising agility, he flicked the switch, the room plunging into darkness. A moment later, I detected the feel of his hands on me, the coldness producing goose bumps on my arms. He led me to the bed, where he kissed me then, smelling of brandy and something foul, an odor I could not quantify, with hints of perspiration and vinegar—of all things.

  I closed my eyes and wished myself somewhere else, as the robe came away and then the nightgown. Thankfully, the darkness gave me a small measure of comfort. The coldness of my husband’s touch did warm a little, but his kisses left me cringing, the stench of his breath repulsive. He seemed to relish feeling my form, his hands exploring, touching places that had never seen the light of day.

  When I was little, I imagined growing up and marrying, being deeply in love with my chosen mate. Sometimes, in the privacy of my mind, I had dreamed of what this person might be like—how I would feel in his arms. As I gave myself to my husband, none of those imaginings compared to this experience. I turned my head to avoid kissing him, submitting to him in every way, wishing it would end as soon as possible.

  When things did not finish as quickly as I liked, I desperately sought something to distract myself, an image popping into my mind. A man’s face appeared then, his disapproving scowl firmly fixed. When he spoke, his richly timbered voice sounded insulting and callous, his barbs hitting close to the heart. But, why did I think of Nathanial at this particular moment?

  The deed over, my husband fell to his side, panting. I stared at nothing overhead, seeing deep shadows where the canopy hung. Snores resonated a moment later, my heart sinking. He wouldn’t sleep in this bed, would he? To compound matters, I needed to wash. Slipping from the mattress, I dressed quickly, wrapping the robe around myself. I hurried from the room, yearning to escape.

  In the water closet, I filled the tub, finding tooth powders, horsehair toothbrushes, face cream made out of orange flower and olive oil, and rose water, using the latter to scent the bath. Stepping into the heated water, I lathered my skin with soap, wanting desperately to wash away any trace of my husband, hating the way his perspiration lingered on me. I cleaned my hair as well with bicarbonate of soda, which had been mixed with fragrant herbs.

  Emerging clean and refreshed, I dressed, sliding my feet into the slippers. Combing through the wet hair, I let it hang down my back, dampening the fabric. Having a bath to myself was a luxury, because I had to share a communal one at the boarding house, often with little privacy and bathing with women and their children.

  “It wasn’t so bad, was it?” I whispered, thinking of what had happened not that long ago. No. It hadn’t been as horrid as I thought, but I dreaded having to repeat the experience, although I knew I would.

  Turning off the light a short while later, I left the room, traipsing down the carpet to my bedroom, waiting by the door. I heard snoring within, the sound quite loud. I leaned my forehead against the door, not wanting to go in. What would I do? How could I sleep with such noise? I left then, taking the stairs in the dark, although a light or two had been left on.

  Wandering around aimlessly, I listened to the sound of a clock ticking in another room, the snoring from upstairs still audible from where I stood. Entering the parlor, I escaped into the shadows, the darkness welcome. Approaching the curtains, I moved them aside, staring at the vast expanse of the lawn, the light of the moon barely visible. A dog barked somewhere, a light flashing in the distance from another house.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” asked a voice directly behind me.

  Stunned, I gasped. “You scared me.”

  “I thought I heard someone in the bath.”

  I faced Nathanial, seeing a man in shadow, who loomed imposingly, the breadth of his shoulders filling my vision. For some odd reason, I had thought of him earlier, when I had been with my husband, the image inappropriate, yet comforting.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No,” I whispered, startled that I had answered honestly, tears filling my eyes.

  He drew me into his arms, where I went willingly, inhaling the lightly floral scent of him, which came either from cologne or the freshly laundered nightshirt he wore. He had insulted me terribly earlier, treating me with cynicism and distrust, yet I found solace in the embrace, tears falling fre
ely.

  “I’m not sure it can be annulled now,” he murmured.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You overheard our conversation earlier, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” I sniffed.

  “You must understand why I question things. It came as quite a shock to discover my father was about to marry a woman younger than myself.”

  “I realize that.” I soaked up his warmth, pressing my nose to his shoulder.

  “Why on earth would anyone agree to become a mail order bride?”

  “The factory I worked in burned down. All of us girls were without jobs, and there was little hope of finding new ones.”

  “Don’t you have family?”

  “No. I’m an orphan.”

  His arms around me tightened fractionally. “I didn't know that.”

  “My parents died when I was young. They came from Germany.”

  “Kroger. That explains it.”

  “I didn’t want to marry a stranger, but all the girls were doing it. A matchmaker, Elizabeth Miller, arranged everything. She said these men were legitimately looking for wives. I had no idea your father was … so old, or so rich. I came with only the knowledge of his name and place of residence.”

  “A horrible way to begin a new life.”

  “But still better than the old one.”

  “I suppose.”

  He stepped away, dropping his arms to his sides. This left me feeling wanting and bereft. I yearned to be held again. I stared at him expectantly.

  “You should go to bed.”

  “I can’t. Your father’s in it.”

  “And snoring quite soundly.” Humor laced his tone.

  “Yes. How will I sleep?”

  “I’d invite you to mine, but … that would be scandalous, wouldn’t it?”

  Alarmed he had said such a thing; I rallied for strength. “Well, yes, that wouldn’t be … good.” I wrapped my arms around my waist, holding the robe together securely, suddenly embarrassed at my weakness. “I had been … rather emotional a moment ago. You caught me at my lowest, sir.”

  “It’s odd to find a bride weeping in despair, isn’t it? I do hope when I marry, my wife won’t be staring out a window crying, longing to be somewhere else.”