The Bride Fair

by Cheryl Reavis

  Maria waited a few minutes, then opened it again.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the soldier posted outside said. “I can’t let you pass—except to go to your father if he needs you—or to the little boys. And they’re all asleep.”

  “I want to know what’s happening,” Maria said.

  “Nothing yet, ma’am. But the colonel—he don’t take chances.”

  Except when it came to marrying, Maria thought.

  She closed the door again and went to peer out the window. She could see her bridal bouquet lying on the table next to the wedding cake where she’d put it aside. Everyone seemed to be leaving. She couldn’t locate Max or Perkins—or any of the officers.

  She sighed heavily and stepped back from the window, hesitating for a moment, then closing the draperies and lighting one candle. She realized as she did so that the room had been made ready for the wedding night. Whatever clutter she had left had all been neatly put away. The bed now had a crocheted wedding ring counterpane on it, and it had been turned down, and someone had sprinkled the crisp, white sheets with rose petals.

  Who had done this? she wondered with some dismay. Was she expected to lie down with Max Woodard on rose petals?

  More roses had been placed in vases around the room—the same lilac-pink Hermosa roses that had made up her bridal bouquet, the ones that could have only come from Acacia Kinnard’s side yard.

  A nightdress made of a fine sheer lawn lay spread out at the foot of the bed. Not hers—any more than the wedding dress was hers, or the one-piece chemise and drawers, the corset, the stockings and the petticoats she had on under it. They were all part of an unexpected trousseau that kept magically appearing, piece by piece, whenever she needed yet another undergarment of some kind. Because of her “Southern pride,” she had to be handled delicately.

  Cornered.

  Trapped.

  Eventually, she sat down on the same low table where she had had to perch before the ceremony. Without help, she couldn’t get out of the wedding dress; she could only sit here and wait—and take off the veil and coronet at least.

  At one point she heard Kate and Mrs. Woodard—apparently being shepherded to their room, as well. She considered opening the door again, then let it go. Encountering the two Woodard woman in a room so obviously made ready for the intimacies of a wedding night was far too daunting.

  An errant breeze billowed the curtains and blew the candle out. She continued to sit in the dark. There was nothing else to do—except challenge the soldier outside the door to see how far he would go to carry out his orders. She looked down at her hands. She could just make out the gold ring on her left hand.

  This is ridiculous, she thought, intending to stand up again and open the door. But she heard voices suddenly.

  Max.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  “In here, Sir.”

  “Is she mad?”

  “I…couldn’t say, Sir.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Max answered.

  He didn’t knock. He just came in without a by-your-leave—and she could have been standing in her birthday suit for all he knew.

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked.

  “I’m making the regimental surgeon happy,” she answered. “What’s happening?” She got up from her perch too quickly and stepped on her dresstail. He had to grab her to keep her from stumbling.

  “Everything is fine,” he said, letting her go.

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Answer your questions instead of mine. I didn’t ask you if everything was all right. I asked you what was happening.”

  He moved to light the candle, then stood looking at her in a way that was nothing if not disconcerting.

  “So you did,” he said. “Will you sit down?”

  “No.”

  “Then do you mind if I do?”

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand for him to sit. He did so—on the bed—after he picked up the nightdress and looked at it with far too much interest, in her opinion, and set it aside.

  “I thought I saw Nell,” she said.

  “You did. She came to warn me.”

  “About what?”

  “About a man named Jimmy Julian,” he answered, unbuttoning his tunic—as if they had been together like this for years.

  “The vigilante.”

  “Yes,” he said, clearly surprised that she had that much information. “Nell thought he was going to try something here this evening—against me. He was looking to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means that getting me out of the way—or least an attack upon my person—could be blamed on ex-Confederates. And that would give him—and his so-called army—a free rein to do as they please, even more so than they already do. I believe he’s the one who set the fire that killed Suzanne Canfield. Somehow he’s gotten the notion that he has the authority to punish the Rebels at will. It rather surprised him to discover that I took exception to that. He managed to get away, but he’s not very happy with me—are you going to sit down or not?” he suddenly asked.

  “I need help,” Maria said.

  “Help,” he repeated, as if it were a foreign word which had no meaning to him whatsoever.

  “I can’t sit down in this dress and I can’t reach the buttons.”

  “Do you want me to get Kate or—”

  “No!” she said with a certain amount of alarm. “I…think you should unbutton them.” She realized immediately that it was far less mortifying to have him perform the rightful honors than to have his mother or his sister come in and see all those rose petals.

  “Ah,” he said. She thought he was going to smile, but he didn’t. He rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger instead. “Well, then, do you want me to come over there or are you coming over here?”

  Maria gave a small sigh and gathered up as much of the skirt as she could and dragged herself and the dress closer and presented her back to him.

  “If you would just turn around again first,” he said.

  “The buttons are in the back,” she whispered.

  “I know where they are—why are you whispering?”

  “Because I feel as if everyone in this house is listening,” she said.

  “Well, I expect they are.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you, I suppose.”

  “Not particularly—people take an inordinate amount of interest in the first night a newly wedded couple spends together. Will you turn around this way again?”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he said. “Turn around. Please.”

  She turned and faced him—eventually. He sat calmly on the side of the bed and looked at her. She was absolutely determined not to let his inspection get the best of her.

  “You look very beautiful, Maria,” he said finally, and that was the last thing she expected to hear.

  “So do you,” she answered. “We have both benefited considerably from a more elegant style of dress. I suppose it’s good that we are able to appreciate it.”

  “Are you always this difficult to compliment?”

  “It all depends on where the compliment originates.”

  “Harder to accept if it comes from a damn Yankee, I guess.”

  “Something like that.”

  He took off his uniform tunic and draped it on the bed post.

  “Suzanne told me something once—about you. She said you would never believe what I said—only what I did.”

  “Why would she tell you something like that?”

  “I asked her why. She said it was because of her illness. It made it possible for her to get away with having opinions about things. I think she rather enjoyed the freedom.” He motioned with his hand that she was to turn around again.

  She did so, but she was too far away. He put both hands on her waist and backed her up so that he could reac
h her. His hands were warm and strong—the way she remembered the night of the thunderstorm. She had to close her eyes against the surge of feeling the memory evoked.

  “Did she tell you about the crystal candelabras and the waltz, as well?” she asked.

  “No. Nell told me about that.”

  Maria sighed.

  Nell.

  She had very informative friends, it seemed. “Nell said it was something you always wanted. I didn’t intend to offend you,” he said.

  “I wasn’t offended,” she said truthfully. And she hadn’t been. It wasn’t offense that she had felt at seeing what he had arranged for her, but an incredible sadness.

  There were a lot of buttons on the dress, and it was taking him a long time. At one point, she thought his fingers trembled.

  “Now what?” he said when he had finally undone the last one.

  She considered this carefully. She had made what was essentially a business agreement with him, and she was not a shy virgin bride. Or she wasn’t a virgin, at any rate. It would be hypocritical for her to behave as if she were.

  “The corset laces?” he suggested when she had no answers forthcoming.

  She realized immediately that he was not a man bewildered by the logistics of undoing a woman’s under-clothing. The laces were tied in front, and his hands slid around her waist beneath the dress to pull her corset cover up so he could reach them. Then he deftly untied and loosened them.

  Who else had he done this for? she wondered. He had a definite expertise—but he was not entirely blasé about it. She was certain now that she could feel his hands trembling.

  “I can do the rest,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Would you…allow me?” he asked. “Now that we’ve set a precedent,” he added. The question was a token one at best, and she knew it. She couldn’t see his face, but she had the distinct impression that he was somehow…amused.

  She turned around to face him again and, after a moment, she let go of the bodice she’d been holding so tightly. The high-necked dress slid off her shoulders slightly, but no farther.

  He stood to help her get her arms out of the sleeves and to lift the dress over her head, gathering up the rose-bedecked skirt as best he could. One of her hairpins still got caught and fell to the floor.

  He took the dress and spread it out carefully over her grandmother’s upholstered rocking chair, then picked up the hairpin before he came back and sat down on the edge of the bed again.

  She stood very still while he searched for whatever kept her hoop slip in place, his hands sliding around her waist front to back.

  More buttons.

  He undid those without making her turn around, and she studied his face as he did so. He was looking at her, but he was still concentrating on mastering what he couldn’t see.

  With his help, the hoop slip collapsed in concentric circles at her feet. He unloosened the ties on her under petticoat so that it fell, as well, and held her hand so she could step out of them.

  “Shoes,” he said, and she dutifully stepped out of her white satin slippers.

  She would have bent to pick up the petticoats and put them away, but he wouldn’t let her. He merely pushed them aside with his foot.

  Once again he put his hands on her waist and brought her closer. And he looked into her eyes for a moment before he proceeded. For what, she didn’t know. Not permission. She understood that much, regardless of the polite request he’d made earlier. Did he expect revulsion on her part? Panic?

  She was…uneasy, but she was not panic-stricken.

  Yet.

  “I have thought about this for a long time,” he said, reaching up and taking a dangling pin from her hair and placing it into the palm of her hand. Then another. And another and another—until her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. His fingers searched carefully through the tresses for more pins. She didn’t say anything, but she wanted to. Surely he didn’t mean this? And if he did, then when had it first come to mind?

  “Have I shocked you?” he asked easily.

  “No more so than usual,” she answered, and he smiled. How very different he looked on those rare occasions. Younger. More vulnerable.

  He was still smiling when he reached for the corset cover and began undoing yet another row of tiny buttons. He slipped it off her. She stood there in her stockinged feet, glad that there was no more light in the room than one candle. He let his fingers move lightly over her shoulders and downward, stopping just short of the swell of her breasts.

  She closed her eyes and felt him undo the top hook on the front of the corset. Then the next one. He was in no more of a hurry than he had been in his search for hairpins. There was nothing between the backs of his fingers and her bare skin but the thin material of her chemise.

  He undid the last hook on the busk and gave the corset a toss, not particularly noting where it landed. She stood there in the one-piece chemise and drawers that was supposed to be the very latest style. Perhaps it was. He seemed fascinated by it.

  He reached out and rested his hands on her waist again. “Are you afraid of me?” he asked after a moment, staring into her eyes.

  “No,” she said, grateful that her voice didn’t give her away, because she was afraid now. Afraid of the pounding of her heart and the weakness of her knees and the growing warmth in her belly.

  “I always thought you were.”

  “At first,” she qualified. “When I thought you would be like Hatcher.”

  “Am I not…like him?”

  “No,” she said again.

  He was waiting for something. She could feel it.

  For what? she thought.

  He kept looking at her, and she stared back, unabashed now, her shyness giving way to curiosity—and anticipation. She was acutely aware of him again, in the way she had been that day on the back stairs. And, if she were truthful, the way she had been since that first day at the train station. Impulsively, she reached up to touch the stubble of his beard. When she did so, his eyes closed, and he gave a soft exhalation of breath.

  She immediately leaned into him and his arms slid around her. His mouth almost…almost…touched hers. She could feel his warm breath as he gently nuzzled her cheek.

  He was holding back, and he trembled with the effort it took for him to do so. Why was he holding back—when he wanted this, when they both wanted this?

  But when he kissed her—finally—she knew why. The first touch of his mouth on hers took her breath away.

  I love the way he tastes, she thought. I love the way he smells. I love the way he feels.

  She had to cling to him to keep from falling. The hairpins spilled from her hand. He lifted her up off the floor and placed her gently amid the rose petals. She could smell their heady scent, and she lay with her knees bent, watching while he took off his shirt and undervest.

  He undressed quickly and came to her naked, letting her see all of him, letting her witness his desire. She was not a virgin, she thought again, and yet she was. The other time, the only time, had been all fumbling and desperation. It was not the same as what she knew—knew—she would experience with this man.

  He lay down beside her and brought her to him, holding her close as he stroked the length of her body. She took a deep, wavering breath, and his arms tightened around her. He was lean and strong. She pressed her face into his shoulder. His skin smelled of soap and the outof-doors.

  He’s not Billy, she thought. And incredibly she didn’t want him to be. That part of her life was over and done.

  He was impatient now, too impatient to be bothered with removing the chemise and drawers. There was no need. The inside seam, thigh to thigh, was open. She felt his fingers seeking her bare skin above her stockings and then moving higher. The first touch made her jump, but he didn’t stop. His mouth found hers, and he kissed her deeply, caressing her between her legs until her body rose to meet his hand. And then he was kneeling between her thighs, lifting her hips, pushing himself inside. Her head
arched back, not in pain, but in acute sensation.

  At his first thrust, she gave a soft moan, her fingers digging into his back. He thrust deeper, and her need for him intensified. She could identify a pinpoint of pleasure deep inside her, and suddenly she had to bring it to the surface. Her body began to meet his with the same ardor, the same need and hunger, the urgency growing until the pleasure soared and soared and finally burst in them both.

  He lay heavily on top of her for a moment, then moved away from her, heaving himself onto his back, his breathing still ragged—as hers was. He didn’t say anything, and she lay there, feeling the abandonment, not knowing what to say or do.

  Had she done this all wrong—offended him with her wantonness?

  After a moment he reached down and took her hand, his fingers sliding between hers, a gesture so needed and so comforting that it made her want to weep. She held on to his hand until his fingers suddenly relaxed, and she realized that he was fast asleep.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  The question surprised him, because he had been lying in the dark wondering the same about her. There was a faint rumble of thunder in the distance, and a strong breeze that heralded a storm billowed the curtains outward.

  “The truth,” she said before he could answer.

  He took a deep breath and stretched, wondering, too, how long he had been asleep.

  The truth.

  “I was thinking about Gettysburg,” he said. “About your brothers. And your fiancé. I was thinking about how little I remember of the battle—it’s all run together now. What I remember most are…the little girls.”

  “Little girls?” she said, turning her head to look at him.

  “Schoolgirls—standing on the streets…singing us into town. Singing—because they didn’t know what hell on earth really is or that they—and we—were about to fall headlong into it.”

  He was looking at her, but he couldn’t make out her features in the darkness. “Did I…hurt you?”

  “No,” she said, and her answer came quickly enough that he believed her. She sat up on the side of the bed, and he moved so that he could rest his hand on her shoulder, because he suddenly had the feeling that she was about to flee. At his touch, she came to him. He held her tightly in his arms, immediately feeling the return of desire.