Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  Margaret had never seen anyone so exquisite. She leaned closer to the mirror, examining the beautifully symmetrical features the way she once admired a butterfly collection: It was indeed lovely but did not seem entirely real. This was someone else, she reminded herself. Yet it was also, miraculously, her.

  Lizzie put her arm around her shoulders, eyes narrowed in thought. "You know," she said, her gaze wandering to Margaret's hair, brushed and pinned into a glossy ebony twist at the nape of her slender neck, "we are missing something . . ."

  At that moment the sound of galloping hooves could be heard growing closer, and they peered out the window to see Ashton and one of the scouts, with a frightened-looking man in a black frock coat balanced on the back of Waffles.

  Ashton's mother knocked on the door and quietly entered. Lizzie met her at the door, whispered something, and they nodded, glancing at Margaret. Lizzie scurried out of the room, patting her own hair.

  "Mrs. Johnson," said Margaret, somehow feeling as if she should curtsy, but not wanting to risk it in the treacherous hoops.

  "My dear." His mother moved toward Margaret, one arm extended. "Please forgive my earlier behavior. You see, Ashton has always been so special to me." She stopped, frowning for a moment as she gathered her thoughts before she continued. "He is my firstborn, and without him, I fear I would not have survived the loss of my other children and my husband. I've only wished for his happiness. And while I was downstairs, Mrs. Thaw told me how kind you have been, how you seem to genuinely love my son now." As she spoke she reached for Margaret's hand. "Please, Mag. Just be good to him and love him with all of your heart. That's all I can ask of you."

  Margaret squeezed the older woman's hand. "Mrs. Johnson, I will do my very best to make your son a good wife, whatever that entails, whatever he needs. And if I ever fail, it won't be from a lack of love." Margaret smiled at Mrs. Johnson, and the woman's face softened, eyes misting, and Margaret saw something terribly familiar in her face. With a pang, Margaret realized that Mrs. Johnson wore an expression much the same as her own mother wore the last time Margaret saw her, full of love and hope and worry.

  Lizzie entered the room holding a circular object wrapped in tissue paper. She unwrapped it carefully, and it wasn't until the last layer that Margaret could see what it was, and she gasped.

  It was a glorious wreath of fresh orange blossoms, as flawless as any flowers she had ever seen. But it was the end of October.

  "Where did you ever . . ." Margaret began, and both Lizzie and her aunt laughed.

  "It's paper." Mrs. Johnson smiled, gently placing the flowers on Margaret's head like a crown. Even up close it was impossible to tell the wreath was anything but freshly woven. "This was my sister's," she said as she pinned it into piece, "Oh, Aunt Eppes?" Margaret asked. "No. My other sister—we called her Pink, but her real name was Martha. She wore this when she was married in 1841."

  "Did you ever know her, Mag?" inquired Lizzie conversationally, smoothing the satin on Margaret's skirt. "She died in about 1854."

  Margaret tried to hide her surprise. How weirdly gothic, she thought. Death was everywhere here, a constant presence, even during a wedding.

  Suddenly a fluttery slender woman entered the room, a somber specter, wearing a pitch black dress and a flat little hat covered with black ribbons.

  "He's ready! Oh, heavens—Mag, how absolutely exquisite. Lizzie, you must do something about your cheeks—too pale. Oh, Mag. Lizzie, look at Mag as she marries our dear Ashton. That could have been you in that dress with the noble General Quarles. It's not too late, my dear. I'm sure he'll have you again if you just telegraph. Telegraph. Oh, yes. Ashton's downstairs with Parson Jones. The parson's in a hurry, he has a funeral to give; that little Harper girl finally wasted away with the fever. Oh, yes, and our Ashton looks so dashing in his uniform, the noble buttercup and gray." She stopped for a few hasty breaths, then turned to Mag. "How lovely! You're wearing our sweet Pink's wedding crown! Lizzie, you could wear it, too. Think about it."

  "Mrs. Giles, I ..." Margaret started to say.

  "Oh, heavens, girl! I'm now your aunt Eppes!" And with that she flew from the room. Margaret bit her lip to avoid laughing, but her eyes met with Lizzie's— already brimming with mirth, and they both dissolved into gales of laughter. Mrs. Johnson, about to scold at first, was unable to keep a straight face.

  "Our dear Eppes." She smiled. "She's a great admirer of the telegraph." She gave Margaret's hair a final pat, her hand lingering on her face. "What a lovely bride my Ashton has chosen. Now, Lizzie. We're all ready in the front parlor. Mag? Are you ready, dear?"

  Margaret swallowed and nodded once. With a brief hug of both women, she was alone for a few minutes before she was to follow them downstairs. Again she turned to the mirror. The faultless cheeks were now stained with a becoming blush, and she stepped away, still slightly surprised when the beautiful woman in the mirror did the same thing. She felt giddy and terrified and elated, all at once. It was time for her to go downstairs, and she smiled to herself, a radiant creature now, in the mirror,

  "Eat your heart out, Andy McGuire," she whispered in the air to her old boyfriend, a man whose grandparents hadn't been born yet.

  She maneuvered down the staircase carefully, swishing and swaying like the lead float in a parade. It was late afternoon, and the hallway was flooded with circles of light from gas jets on the wall. One door was open, with the hushed, expectant whispers of an eager matinee audience. Margaret knew she was the show, and only one thought prevented her from locking herself in an upstairs bedroom.

  Ashton was waiting.

  That simple thought erased all others, made every petty fear and bout of self-consciousness seem insignificant. She was in a strange time and place, yet the one thing she was sure of was Ashton. With a deep breath and a swift mental prayer, she entered the large parlor.

  All heads turned toward Margaret—the scouts, Mrs. Thaw, Aunt Eppes, Ashton's mother, Lizzie, and the drably dressed parson, looking very much like an emaciated version of the character on the Quaker Oats label.

  She heeded no one except for the tallest man in the room, an impeccably attired Confederate general. She halted for a moment, and he smiled, a warmth that melted away any lingering doubts, and she walked toward him.

  Ashton knew she would make a lovely bride—it had been in the back of his mind ever since he was in his teens watching his friend's little sister play with her dolls. But never could his imagination have conjured the vision now before him. She was a stunning mixture of contrasts, her raven hair shining with the soft glow of the satin gown, her bold gaze and the tremulous, almost shy, curve of her lips. Yet her violet stare never wavered. She looked directly at him, and he beckoned her with his own intense eyes.

  His open hand was stretched out to welcome her, and she placed her own petite hand into his palm, and the ceremony began. It would be over in a few minutes, swift words that would tie them together for life. But was it Margaret or Mag he was marrying?

  Margaret felt a sudden wave of nausea, heavy and clawing at her throat, and she shut her eyes. She had gone along with the bizarre reality of where she was for the better part of a week. As far as she could tell, nothing she had done so far had made a substantial difference in history.

  Now, however, she was taking an active part in rewriting the past. Mag should be dead. And Ashton himself should die a bachelor general within the year. She had fully intended to do everything in her power to prevent his death, and that, too, would change history. She pushed the thoughts out of her mind, willing them away, biting her lip to squelch the scream she could feel rising in her throat.

  The parson said something to Ashton, but Margaret couldn't hear. He slipped a wide gold band on her finger, and she briefly wondered where he had managed to purchase a wedding ring.

  It was her turn to speak, and her voice was flat as she repeated the vows. And then the service was over. Ashton held her by the shoulders, his eyes searching hers.

&n
bsp; "Margaret, are you ill?" he whispered.

  She shook her head, and his lips grazed hers with a light kiss. There was polite applause, and for a moment she was startled—she had forgotten the scouts and everyone else in the parlor.

  The room was suddenly filled with the soft buzz of conversation, and Mrs. Thaw was busy arranging a refreshment table. A line of poetry floated into Margaret's mind: "The center cannot hold, things fall apart."

  It was a famous line. Who said it? Was it Yeats? "The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity." That was by the same poet. William Butler Yeats.

  Or was it T.S. Eliot?

  She couldn't remember.

  "Margaret." Ashton took her elbow and led her to a window. "Here, is that better? You were looking very pale back there." His voice was low but full of such concern that she blinked, trying to banish the dread that was beginning to overwhelm her. She was forgetting her favorite poets, the writers she had been able to quote since childhood.

  "Ashton, I can't remember things," she said finally.

  "I know," his thumbs toyed with a wisp of ruffle at her shoulder. "Perhaps this is good—a new chapter for both of us. You've changed, Margaret, in such a marvelous way. Perhaps this is good."

  His face was very close to hers, and she noticed he was shaved, his mustache trimmed, and the worn uniform had been brushed, his boots polished. How had he managed to do all of that in less than an hour?

  Then another thought entered her mind—he had done it for her. For his bride.

  "Ash," she murmured, mesmerized by the piercing intensity of his handsome features. "We're married."

  A smile played on his lips, softening his expression. "You remembered. I'm flattered." And his hand slipped from her shoulders down her bare arm, grasping her left hand, the one with the plain gold band. Slowly he drew her hand to his lips and stroked a lazy kiss on the top, then, with a gentle flip, another slow kiss on her palm, and then on her wrist.

  Her eyes closed and she leaned into him, unable to speak or even to think. She inhaled his scent, of rough wool and leather, clean skin and his own familiar fragrance.

  There was a clattering in the hallway, a metallic clank of a sword being thrown down in haste. And suddenly a man entered, a slender Confederate officer in an elaborate gray uniform with gold braiding on the cuffs and down the ornate buttons.

  His gaze combed the parlor and rested on Ashton and Margaret, fury radiating from the otherwise cool expression. Mrs. Johnson immediately hastened to his side, looping her arm through his.

  "Why, Eddie," she said in a warning tone. "How delightful, you're just in time for the reception. Unfortunately you have just missed your brother's wedding."

  Eddie shook free of his mother and marched over to Ashton, who had the beginnings of a vague grin on his face.

  "Mag," Eddie said in a clipped tone, taking her in with one swift, disapproving glare. "Ashton." He nodded toward his brother. "I need to speak to you. Immediately."

  Ashton's grin faded. "Major, I request that you address me as 'General' or 'sir' when before my men." He gestured curtly to the scouts, who had stopped chewing long enough to watch the spectacle before them.

  "Then, General, sir. I wish to speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance, sir." The younger brother's jaw was twitching in barely restrained rage, and Ashton smiled at Margaret, his eyes dancing.

  "My dear, would you please excuse me? Your brother-in-law wishes to congratulate me on my marriage. Clearly, his emotions are so joyous he cannot contain himself."

  And with that, the two brothers left the room, one in stiff-backed anger, the other with one eyebrow arched in curious amusement.

  CHAPTER 10

  How could you?" Eddie rasped as soon as they were in the small parlor, away from the guests. He ran a distracted hand through his short hair, a few shades darker than his brother's. Like Ashton, Eddie wore a mustache, neat and carefully trimmed, but he was not quite as tall, nor was he as broad in the shoulder. His eyes were a flat gray, but seemed deep blue in contrast to his uniform. He was in the engineering corps, with the rank of major, yet his jacket was far more elaborate than his older brother's.

  "It's good to see you, too, Eddie." Ashton clapped his brother on the shoulder, and Eddie jerked away.

  "How could you marry that scheming, deceitful . . ."

  Ashton held up a warning hand, and Eddie stopped, biting back an urge to spit a more accurate string of adjectives.

  "Margaret is my wife now, Eddie. Remember that."

  "Margaret?" Eddie sneered. "You call her Margaret? She hates the name, Ashton. Oh." He executed a crisp salute. "I beg your pardon. General, sir."

  Ashton took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. "Just in front of other soldiers, Eddie. You can call me anything you want when we're alone. . . ."

  Eddie's eyes widened in delight, and he was about to speak, when Ashton suddenly smiled.

  "Anything within reason, that is," he amended. "You may remember you have had rather bad luck when it comes to calling me by certain names."

  Eddie's shoulders suddenly slumped, and he looked at his older brother with a combination of exasperation and genuine concern. "Ash, how could you? You know what everyone says about her, yet you married her. Why?"

  There was a moment's beat, and Ashton shook his head. "She's changed. Something's happened to her, she's not the girl you know."

  "Mag?"

  "She was very ill, and I believe that has made her review her life, how she has always behaved. Even Mrs. Thaw has altered her view."

  "Now that I find hard to believe."

  Ashton shrugged, then returned his hand to Eddie's shoulder, smiling to himself at the stiff epaulettes and fanciful braids on the uniform. "Reserve your judgment, Eddie. Talk to her, get to know her again without prejudice, and I think you'll understand."

  Eddie glanced down, struggling with his emotions. He had always looked up to Ashton, his older brother, who could perform any feat, from breaking a wild horse to memorizing Shakespeare, with an effortless grace. Everything Ashton had ever done had made the entire family proud. But this?

  "She's a spy," he spat. "She is a spy, out to destroy our cause. . . ."

  "Oh, Lord." Ashton sighed. "Not the cause again."

  "I'm serious. Everyone knows it—her brother Tom sends her notes. Don't you realize . . ."

  "I'm not an idiot, little brother." Ashton's tone was so low, Eddie had to lean closer to hear. It was a trick Ashton used with defiant students and now with mutinous soldiers. "I know what is said, the rumors. For God's sake, this war is full of rumors—if we believed half of them . . . well. Did you believe the reports of my death at Gettysburg?"

  "Of course not, but. .."

  "Did you believe that Jeff Davis had surrendered Richmond? Or that he fled to England with his family?"

  "Nobody took that seriously . . ."

  "Did you think General Lee was a coward for digging trenches? Did you call him the King of Spades the way the newspapers did?"

  "Now come on, Ash. You know how angry that made me,"

  "So why are you so willing to think the very worst of Margaret? Has she ever been anything but your friend?"

  Eddie's face flushed, his ears reddening the way they did when he had temper tantrums as a child.

  "I've heard about her with others."

  "You've heard." Ashton's hand clenched into a tight fist. "Eddie, listen to me. I love her, she is now my wife. But I am not unaware of rumors and innuendos. I'll keep an eye on her, Eddie, just to prove to the rest of Virginia that Margaret Johnson is no spy for the Union."

  Eddie glanced up hopefully. "Really? You'll really watch her?"

  "I really will." Then Ashton leaned over and ruffled his younger brother's hair. "She's Margaret Johnson now." He grinned. "How very strange."

  Finally Eddie smiled. "How about that? My big brother's married." Then he cuffed Ashton on the arm, and together they rejoined the party. Yet, in spite
of Ashton's assurances, even as they entered the gaily lit parlor, even as he watched the look of apparent adoration on his new sister-in-law's undeniably radiant face, he was unable to quell the feeling in the pit of his stomach, heavy and dead, that his brother had just made the biggest mistake of his life.