by Amanda Cabot
“He sounds like some of the preachers I’ve met.”
“He was a preacher.” Though Ethan’s eyes widened in apparent surprise, Abigail smiled, remembering her father. “Papa was a brilliant man. His faith in God was strong, and he knew how to share that faith with others. Mama used to tell us that many people claimed Papa’s sermons were the best they’d ever heard and that he’d been blessed with the ability to make complex subjects seem simple.”
Abigail stared into the distance for a moment, watching the wind chase clouds across the sky. Though the sun had set, the moon was large enough to light the sky. “All that was good, but Papa could also be dogmatic. When he was convinced he was right, he wouldn’t listen to others’ views. Although I was too young to realize it at the time, I suspect that’s the reason we moved so often—that he antagonized congregations with his strong views. As it was, it seemed that we lived in a different town every year until I was sixteen.”
“That must have been difficult.” A hint of sympathy colored Ethan’s voice, and Abigail wondered whether he understood how much a child—at least the child she had been—craved permanence.
“I hated it. We’d just get settled, and then we’d move. It felt as if I was always getting used to a new house and a new school. The worst was having to make new friends. If it hadn’t been for my sisters, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
Ethan’s eyes darkened with an emotion she hoped was not pity. She welcomed sympathy but didn’t want pity. “As you know, I have no experience with siblings, but the part about frequent moves sounds a bit like the Army. It can be difficult until you get used to it.”
“That’s one of the reasons I was surprised when Charlotte married Jeffrey. I thought she hated the impermanence of our childhood as much as I did. It appears I was wrong.” The change in Charlotte’s mood since Abigail had arrived, coupled with her comments about wanting all three of them reunited, made Abigail suspect that the problems she had sensed from Charlotte’s letters were caused by loneliness, and that was something Abigail understood. As much as she enjoyed teaching at Miss Drexel’s, she missed her sisters.
Ethan raised his eyebrows slightly. “Perhaps Charlotte’s feelings for Jeffrey were strong enough to overcome the obstacles. Or perhaps she’s like many of us and considers seeing new places an adventure.”
“Is that why you went to West Point, for an adventure?”
“Not really. As a child, I wanted to be like my father. He was a soldier, so I decided to be one too. I figured that the best way to do that was to attend the academy.” Though his words were light, Ethan’s expression told her there was more to the story, and—judging from the shadows Abigail saw in his eyes—it wasn’t all happy.
“Your father must be very proud of you.”
Ethan shook his head. “My father was killed in the war. I’m not sure he even knew I was born.”
And yet, even knowing that he too might be killed, Ethan had volunteered. Abigail didn’t pretend to understand that. What she did understand was that his father’s death would have left a hole in Ethan’s life. “I’m sorry.” It was inadequate, but Abigail wasn’t certain what else to say. Her family’s frequent moves seemed trivial compared to the loss Ethan had sustained. “Did your mother marry again?”
Ethan’s face turned to an impassive mask. “She died when I was less than one, leaving me to be raised by her father.”
That must be why Jeffrey had spoken of Ethan’s grandfather. He was the sole parent Ethan had known. Abigail could only hope that he’d been a loving one, and yet she doubted that, for Ethan had said his grandfather would not have ransomed him. At the time, she had been shocked by the statement, but she hadn’t realized its full significance. Now she wondered if his relationship with his grandfather had contributed to Ethan’s decision to become a soldier.
Her consternation must have been reflected on her face, for Ethan said brusquely, “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Why don’t you tell me about the school where you teach.”
Though her heart ached for Ethan, Abigail recognized the wisdom of his request. The dance would end soon. It would be best if they could return to the party with smiles on their faces, and so she said, “Miss Drexel’s is a small girls’ school in Wesley, Vermont. Normally we have no more than forty pupils. The founder had dreams of having a hundred girls, but forty is all the house can hold.”
As the wind whistled, Ethan raised an eyebrow. “It must be a large house if it can accommodate that many children, plus the teachers and classrooms.”
Abigail walked to the edge of the porch and gestured toward the large white building that had formerly served as bachelor officers’ quarters. Nicknamed “Old Bedlam” because of the raucous parties the men had held, it was one of the oldest buildings on the fort. “It’s smaller than Old Bedlam, but it is three stories high and made of marble.”
“Marble?” Ethan’s eyebrow rose another quarter of an inch. “That sounds ostentatious.”
Abigail would hear no criticism of the place that had given her both a home and an occupation. “That’s no more ostentatious than using lime grout here. There’s a marble quarry only a few miles away from Wesley, making that one of the least expensive building materials.”
“I stand corrected. I should never have challenged a schoolmarm.” Ethan gave her a teasing look, his earlier sadness if not forgotten at least hidden. “So, what do you teach, besides building techniques?”
“English, German, and French, although I’ve had to handle other subjects when one of my colleagues was ill.”
“How many colleagues are there?”
“We’re five in total. Mr. Barnett is our headmaster. His wife teaches art and music. Miss Thayer is our arithmetic teacher, and Woodrow is in charge of history and geography.”
“Woodrow?”
Abigail felt the blood rise to her cheeks at the realization that she had referred to him so informally. “Mr. Morgan,” she corrected.
Ethan’s smile faded. Surely it wasn’t the fact that she’d called Woodrow by his name. After all, she called him Ethan. “He must be the one Jeffrey mentioned, the one you’ll probably marry.”
Abigail tried not to frown. Though she had told the other women about her expected betrothal, somehow it didn’t seem appropriate that Jeffrey had mentioned it to Ethan. But now that the subject had been introduced, there was no point in denying it.
“That’s Woodrow,” she said firmly.
What a fool he was! Why had he asked all those questions, practically forcing Abigail to speak of Woodrow? He’d been so anxious to avoid speaking of Grandfather that he’d thought any other subject would be preferable. He’d been wrong. Now he had the memories of the sparkle in Abigail’s eyes when she pronounced the man’s name and the certainty in her voice as she’d confirmed that Woodrow Morgan, professor of history and geography, was the man she intended to marry.
The thought shouldn’t have rankled. It was only because he’d been out of sorts this evening, first because Oliver had made them late, then because the conversation had turned to Grandfather, that he was bothered about Woodrow Morgan, but he was, and so after he escorted Abigail back to the dancing, Ethan returned to the porch, hoping that the cool evening air would clear his head. It did not.
Swallowing deeply, Ethan stepped off the porch and made his way to the rear entrance. His throat was so dry that he needed something to drink, even if only the sweet punch the ladies seemed to think was the proper beverage for a dance.
“She’s more beautiful than I imagined.” Oliver’s appearance at Ethan’s side dashed his hope for solitude. Though the rest of the assembly remained in the parlor, awaiting their hostesses’ signal to gather in the dining room for refreshments, Oliver must have spotted Ethan. For once, the young lieutenant appeared to have no interest in food and ignored Ethan’s suggestion that he pour himself a cup of punch. Instead, Oliver continued to wax eloquent about the guest of honor. “She’s beautiful. Polite too. Why, she
never once said anything about my nose.”
Ethan forbore suggesting that no well-bred woman would embarrass a man by alluding to a physical imperfection, just as he would tell neither Mrs. Montgomery nor Mrs. Alcott that the punch would have benefited from less sugar.
“She dances better than any partner I’ve ever had. While she was in my arms, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” Oliver continued the litany of praise. “I tell you, Ethan, she’s the perfect woman. You’ll see what I mean when you fall in love.”
Enough. Ethan had had enough of the sickeningly sweet punch and enough of Oliver’s sermons. “Save your breath, Oliver. No matter how many times you tell me about Eve and the animals in the ark, it won’t make any difference. As for love—that’s for the poets.” He spun on his heel, anxious to leave.
Oliver followed, talking all the while. “That’s what they all say, just before they fall. I tell you, Ethan . . .”
“And I tell you, enough is enough.”
But though he tried to dismiss Oliver’s words, they continued to reverberate through his brain. Love. His grandfather had told him about love the day he’d discovered the cook’s granddaughter was visiting. A few years younger than Ethan’s ten years, she was in Ethan’s estimation the most beautiful creature on Earth, with long blonde braids and eyes a deeper blue than the bluebells the gardener claimed had been Ethan’s mother’s favorite flower.
“Nonsense, my boy. You’re not in love. Love is a delusion poor people indulge in,” Grandfather had announced when Ethan had declared that he loved little Hilda. “It’s their excuse for marriage. We know better. Marriage is designed to strengthen alliances.”
“Is that why you married my grandmother?” Ethan had seen the daguerreotypes of his grandparents on their wedding day. They both looked so solemn that he had no trouble believing they had never felt the way he did about Hilda.
Grandfather took no offense at the question. “Of course. Her father owned the largest coal mine in Pennsylvania, and my railroad needed that coal.”
Though he was old enough to have known the folly of asking Grandfather questions he didn’t want to answer, Ethan had blurted out the one that had been on the tip of his tongue ever since he’d discovered there were no pictures of his father in the big old house that made Grandfather so proud. “Why did my father marry my mother?”
Grandfather had clenched his hands around his cane, and his face had turned such a deep red that Ethan wondered if he was ill. “Your father . . .” He spat the words, turning them into an epithet. “Your father wanted to get my money. He tricked Veronica into marrying him, using the oldest of traps.” At the time, Ethan hadn’t understood what Grandfather meant, but as he’d grown older and listened to servants’ gossip more carefully, he’d learned that his mother had been expecting a child—him—when she and Father married.
“His scheme didn’t work,” Grandfather had sputtered. “That despicable cur never got a penny of mine. I saw to that, even before he ran off and joined the Army. He claimed he was going to make the world a better place. Hah! The world was a better place the day some Rebel had the good sense to put a musket ball through Stephen Bowles’s heart.”
When he’d left Grandfather’s house for the last time, Ethan had decided that, in addition to his other sins, his grandfather was a hypocrite. How dare he condemn Ethan’s father for marrying for money—if that was what he had done—when he himself had married for coal? How dare he try to expunge all memories of his daughter’s marriage, as if Veronica Wilson had never become Veronica Bowles? And how dare he demand that Ethan bear his own name rather than be known as a Bowles?
Though he’d dreamed of confronting his grandfather, Ethan had known it would accomplish nothing. Grandfather would simply tell him he was mistaken or, even worse, he would ignore him. And so Ethan had bided his time, taking advantage of the fact that no one would connect his real name with Curtis Wilson, the railroad magnate whose reputation caused ordinary men to tremble. By the time Ethan had been accepted at the Military Academy, there was nothing Grandfather could do.
He’d done enough. He’d taught Ethan that duty was more important than anything in the world and that duty was the only reason he had taken Veronica’s child into his home. He had taught Ethan that most men cherished money above all else. And, most important, he had taught him that love was nothing more than a fairy tale.
6
Abigail wakened to the sound of retching. Grabbing her wrapper, she hurried to Charlotte’s room, heedless of her bare feet, and found her sister bent over the chamber pot.
“What can I do to help?” Either some of the refreshments at the party had not agreed with Charlotte, or she was having a relapse of her morning sickness. Abigail hoped it was the former. Since her sister had not been ill since she arrived, both she and Charlotte had believed that Charlotte had finally passed that stage of her pregnancy.
“Shall I brew some peppermint tea?” Abigail asked. There had to be something she could do to help, and Charlotte had agreed that the herbal infusion had steadied her stomach the first time she’d drunk it.
Charlotte looked up, her face so gaunt and lined with pain that anyone who didn’t know her true age would have believed her ten years older. “Just the thought of anything in my stomach makes me ill.” She wiped her mouth and put the cover on the chamber pot. As she struggled to rise, Abigail slipped an arm around her shoulders and guided her back into bed. Though Jeffrey might have helped, he had left soon after the bugles announced reveille, his boots clattering on the stairs as he’d headed for the company’s dress inspection. It was, Charlotte had told Abigail, a weekly event and the reason worship services were not held until afternoon.
“There is something you can do.” Charlotte’s voice was weak and thready as she leaned against her pillow. “Fetch Mrs. Grayson.”
Abigail tried to hide her alarm. Though she had not seen Charlotte’s previous bouts of morning sickness, today’s must be much worse than usual if she wanted the midwife to visit. “Of course.”
Within minutes, Abigail had gotten directions to Mrs. Grayson’s home and had dressed. Though she hated leaving Charlotte, even for the time it would take to summon the midwife, there was no alternative. Descending the stairs, Abigail found Puddles sitting at the bottom, whining in obvious distress that his legs were still too short to climb the stairs. Impulsively, she gathered him into her arms and carried him to Charlotte. At least if Puddles was there, her sister would not be alone.
“He knows something is wrong,” she told Charlotte, “and he wants to be with you.”
“All right.” But there was no enthusiasm in Charlotte’s voice. That was not a good sign.
“I admit that I’m concerned,” Mrs. Grayson told Abigail half an hour later. Her examination had taken less time than Abigail had expected, and now the older woman sat in the parlor, drinking a cup of coffee. A few inches shorter than Abigail, the sergeant’s wife who served as a midwife to the women at the fort was at least forty pounds heavier, and though her brown hair was not yet streaked with gray, her demeanor was that of an older woman. Perhaps her profession had aged her.
“It looks like morning sickness. I’ve never seen a case where it lasted this long, but I’ve heard it can happen.” Mrs. Grayson drained the cup, then nodded when Abigail offered to refill it.
When Abigail returned with a fresh cup of the steaming beverage, she took a seat opposite the midwife and leaned forward. There was no reason to mask her worries, for Mrs. Grayson shared them. “I told Charlotte this wasn’t normal, but she insisted it wasn’t serious. What can we do?”
“I can’t say for certain, but today’s sickness may be the result of being overly excited last night. That wouldn’t bother most women, but Charlotte cannot afford to take any chances.” Mrs. Grayson laid the cup on the small table and looked directly at Abigail, her brown eyes radiating concern. “I wouldn’t say this to your sister, but I’m afraid she may lose the baby if this continues. She keeps l
osing strength, and that’s not good for her or the baby.”
As she recalled Charlotte’s animation the previous evening and the way she’d whirled around the dance floor, Abigail found it difficult to reconcile that image with the woman who could barely hold her head up this morning.
Mrs. Grayson took another sip of coffee. “I want your sister to remain in bed for a week. Give her bland food and ensure there are no disturbances.”
“What about the puppy? He might cheer her.” When Abigail had returned, she had found Charlotte asleep, Puddles cradled in her arms. Though Mrs. Grayson had frowned at the sight of a dog on the bed, Abigail was encouraged by the fact that her sister slept.
The midwife tipped her head to one side, considering. “It probably won’t hurt, but I’d advise you to limit the creature’s time with her, especially since he’s not yet trained. And if your sister appears to be tiring, take him away. It’s vital that she regain her strength.” Mrs. Grayson rose and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Channing about suitable foods.”
When the midwife had left and Mrs. Channing had promised to listen for any signs that Charlotte might have wakened, Abigail retrieved the now rambunctious puppy. She might as well take him with her while she told Jeffrey what had occurred. The walk would help wear off some of Puddles’s energy.
“Abigail, what are you doing here?” Jeffrey looked up from the report he was reading, his nose wrinkling with displeasure at the sight of the puppy. “And why did you bring that mutt?”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to leave him with Mrs. Channing.”
“Charlotte could have—”
“No, Charlotte could not.” Care for the dog, or even descend the stairs. Abigail had tried to think of a gentle way to break the news to Jeffrey, but she found herself bristling at his peremptory tone, and so she did not mince her words. “Charlotte is very ill.”
