Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  He didn't come.

  Instead he crossed his arms, waiting to see how much longer she would remain in that awkward position. The crowd glanced from Margaret's prone form to her husband's, the shock dissolving into grins of amusement. The men were especially entertained, most of the women cringed softly.

  Slowly, she rose to her knees, her hair falling loose, one hand covering her nose.

  "Um, Ash?" Her voice was pleading. "I think it's broken."

  His eyebrows arched and he went to her side, raising her to her feet.

  "My nose." Her voice was muffled behind cupped hands. "I think my nose is broken."

  "If it is," he whispered, "it's no more than you deserve."

  With a swift motion he removed his gloves and placed them in his pocket, then tenderly removed her hands from her face. The crowd was moving on now. There wasn't much to see; the excitement was over.

  Her eyes were brimming with tears, and her nose was painfully red. Ashton winced but soon smiled. "It's not broken, Margaret. It will be fine for the ball."

  "What ball?"

  "For the ball at the Davises. I'm seeing the president tomorrow, so he suggested I come a day early and take you to their ball tonight."

  "Great," she moaned miserably, taking the arm he offered, her other hand still cradling her nose. Sniffing once, she realized it was beginning to bleed.

  "Wait a moment, Mag." He tilted her head back, reaching into another pocket for a handkerchief. "It should stop in a while."

  The sound of footsteps clattered behind Ashton, and Margaret saw the outraged expression on his aide-de-camp's face. "General, sir," he stated sharply. "I had heard that you and your wife had some harsh words, but never, sir, and I repeat, never would I imagine you to be the type of man to actually strike a woman!"

  Ashton opened his mouth to explain, when his eyes caught Margaret's, and for the first time since they had been reunited, they were both able to laugh.

  The lock of hair was sand-colored with a slight curl. Margaret touched the ends, watching them spring back into place.

  Both of the letters Spence had asked her to write were completed, to his mother and to his sweetheart, Lydia. Mary B. had clipped a large swatch of his hair, and she divided the lock between the two letters, securing them with threads pulled from her apron.

  The letter to Spence's mother was tucked into a package containing his watch, a small pocketknife, and the letters his mother had sent him since he entered the army eight months earlier.

  Her hands felt clumsy using the thick pen, having to dip it back into the ink bottle after a few words. The first word formed with a newly dipped pen was invariably splotched, then it became easier as the ink ran out, finally leaving nothing but a light scratch on the paper. She had never thought of the technology behind a ballpoint pen, or even a fountain pen, but now she would have appreciated one more than she could have ever imagined. The letters were difficult to write in content alone; the last thing she wanted to worry about was the finicky pen.

  Ashton walked into the room, a bulky package under his arm. The desk clerk at the Spotswood, beaming at the thought of having the famous General Johnson as an unexpected guest, had been able to procure a room for them.

  "How does your nose feel?" The package slid onto the bed and, without taking his eyes from her, he pulled off his gloves.

  "Like Karl Maiden's," she replied absently, her attention still focused on the letters she had just written, and of the overwhelming sadness she felt over Spence Fender's death.

  "Who is Karl Maiden?"

  Margaret turned to her husband, and his breath caught in his throat. Had she always been this beautiful? The strange, almost violet-colored eyes, her hair so black that the light reflected off the smooth surface as easily as off a mirror, the skin glowing with a translucent luster, iridescent as a rare pearl.

  "He's an actor with a hat who tells people not to leave home without their American Express cards."

  It took a moment for Ashton to respond to her answer. She had been making strange comments lately, odd remarks that he couldn't quite follow. Before he had attributed her unusual observations to her illness. An officer of his had behaved in a similar fashion after losing an arm at Malvern Hill—he insisted that his missing limb had gone on without him, and his eyes searched about constantly for the arm, waiting to meet up with it around every next corner, each new bend in the road. He spoke with such conviction that Ashton actually caught himself looking for a lone arm. After that Ashton had the man discharged, concerned that his entire brigade would soon be following orders of the phantom limb.

  With Margaret, he had assumed the odd comments and her inability to recall past events seemed to be linked. He would have tried to help her, to gently prod her memory and ask her to clarify her strange remarks, but the overall change in her personality had been so extraordinary, he was afraid to alter a single aspect.

  Once she had been a vain, emotionally selfish woman whom he had loved in spite of her obvious flaws. Now she was slightly scatterbrained and delightfully unpredictable, but there was a gentleness about her, a kindness that would be rare enough in any person and unheard of in a woman with her striking beauty. This new Mag was unafraid of fighting, of risking reputation for the sake of nursing soldiers, of showing the entire world her likes and dislikes. And above all, this new Mag seemed to love him. It was certainly worth putting up with the multitude of quirks for that one thing alone.

  He walked to where she was sitting, her nose slightly red, her slender white fingers spotted with black ink.

  After today he did not believe she was ever a spy. But one worry gnawed at the back of his mind: How did her outburst appear to the dozens of people who saw her on the street? With the war turning so suddenly against the Confederacy, everyone was searching for some place—or some person—on which to place the blame. Her words today could easily be twisted and misconstrued. Hell, even taken verbatim, without the embellishments every witness would most certainly add, her impromptu speech could sound like a blatant admission of guilt.

  "Have you ever gotten used to writing these?" Her voice was so soft he leaned forward to listen. She gestured weakly to the letters for Spence Fender's family.

  "No," he admitted, his hand on the back of her neck, gently kneading the tension from her muscles. "Every time I have to write a mother or a wife, I think to myself—this is the worst thing I have ever had to do. And then, all too soon, I find myself writing to another man's mother or wife, the same words attached to different names. The more you know the person, the more difficult it is. But one thing might make it a little easier, Margaret."

  "What?" Her eyes were very large, searching.

  Without removing his hand from her nape, he pulled up a chair and sat down, their eyes almost level now. "Just remember how very much your words will mean to the person receiving the letter. No matter how difficult it is for you to write, it will be infinitely more difficult to be the one reading the words for the first time. But everything you can add, each personal recollection or special memory, will be something the bereaved ones will cling to as they recover. Your letter will be cherished as a final link. The sooner you can send the letters off, the sooner his family can begin to recover from the loss."

  They remained silent for a long moment, a comfortable silence of shared companionship. Then she looked at him, his eyes creased in the corners, a slow, sweet smile forming on his lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

  He pulled back, the smile soon dissolving. "You're exhausted," he stated, pulling her over to the soft, inviting bed.

  With a single nod, she sat on the bed, her shoulders slumping. "We have a few hours before we're due at the Executive Mansion." He was already unbuttoning her blue dress. "Why don't you take a nap?"

  Instead of slipping the dress over her head, Margaret shrugged her shoulders, sending it crumpling into a circular heap at her feet. She was wearing a simple camisole and lightly laced drawers, and Ashton swallowed hard, feelin
g like a lecherous monster for the thoughts that were rampaging in his mind. If he had any decency, he would simply tuck her in bed and then read a book, but he was unable to avert his gaze. Never had he wanted a woman the way he wanted Margaret.

  Her eyes were closed, and her head was tilted back, exposing the gentle column of her throat, smooth and white. He reached out, intending to brush a strand of hair from her neck, but she sighed heavily.

  "Oh, Ash, I have missed you so." She was thinking of all the awful sights and smells she had experienced in the past few weeks, of the strange feel of a patient's arms, the dirt and filth that assaulted her daily. Ashton was clean and familiar, his scent welcome, the feel of his body comforting. He alone could banish the horrors from her soul.

  "Margaret." His mouth was upon hers, bruising, impossibly sweet.

  And Margaret suddenly realized that she needed him far more desperately than she needed a few hours of sleep.

  The Confederate Executive Mansion was vastly different from its counterpart in Washington City. A private home before Jefferson Davis and his wife and children took residence, it was smaller and lacked the sprawling landscaping of the White House. Still, Margaret couldn't help but be impressed. The square home was gloriously lit that evening, casting an orange glow down Clay Street.

  Margaret stood motionless, her arm hooked through Ashton's, watching the scene inside unfold. Behind the panes of glass Margaret could see the slightly distorted figures, women draped in satin and silk, men in gray uniforms or stiff frock coats. All took on a spectral luster under the gas jets, a slightly garish gleam on fabrics, brilliant stabs of light flickering from some of the jewels clasped about white throats and tucked above small gloved hands.

  Her eyes flicked to a balcony on the first floor in the rear, barely visible from their spot slightly to the left of the main entrance.

  "Is that where the little boy fell?" she asked Ashton in a hushed tone. "What little boy?" "The little Davis child," she replied. Ashton looked down at his wife, an uncomfortable chill spreading down his spine. She was behaving strangely tonight, and he wondered if perhaps the strains of nursing were too much for her to manage. Earlier that night, following an afternoon of glorious lovemaking, he had presented her with a package. It was one of her own gowns, a delicate creation of pale silks with a scalloped hem fixed with satin flowers of pinks and lavenders. Last year she had spoken of little else but the gown, reporting in detail every bit of progress, from procuring the fabric from a Havana-based blockade runner to commissioning a French-born seamstress to sew it. He had had it sent from Magnolia, posted by his gardener there, stunned that she had left it behind.

  When she opened the brown paper wrapping, she was clearly delighted, and she just as clearly had no memory of the dress. She held it up to her slender form, twirling in the mirror, asking him how on earth did he buy it when simple bread was fetching five dollars a loaf.

  At first he thought she was having fun at his expense. Then he realized she was completely sincere. Margaret, who had spent the better part of six months obsessed with the silly gown, had never seen the damn thing before. Although he applauded her common sense in not becoming obsessed with a handful of cloth, he was, indeed, alarmed at her complete lack of recollection.

  Maybe she should have rested back at the Spotswood. Maybe he should have let her sleep instead of waking her up to help her dress.

  On the other hand, she created such a luscious vision tonight, it would be a shame to keep her hidden. Nobody would remember exactly what she said once they saw her wrapped in the ambrosial gown of silk pastels, made more alluring by her simply dressed raven hair and the utter perfection of her delicate features. Her eyes sparkled even in the muted evening light outside, bright and dark-lashed, a more brilliant color than the violet hue of the gown.

  He shook his head, ridding his mind of her intoxicating beauty, trying to concentrate on her words. Like the physical impact she had on him, her train of thought seemed nearly incomprehensible.

  "I believe the little boy's name was Joseph," she stated.

  "Margaret, when did this happen? Little Joseph is but four or five, and I know the rascal well. I have heard nothing of such a tragedy, and surely I would have known by now."

  She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose, less red but still painful from earlier in the day. When did the balcony accident occur? A sudden thought slammed into her mind. It hadn't happened yet. The little boy died in the winter of 1864, and it was now December of 1863.

  Ashton steadied her as she grew pale. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I must be thinking of someone else." "Another Confederate president who happens to have a son named Joseph?"

  She was about to ask to leave when a masculine voice, mellow but commanding, called from just behind a white column on the tiny front porch. The house was so close to the street that the dirt from the unpaved road slipped over the porch, making it one with the street.

  The figure stepped forward, a slender man with military bearing, an unusually long torso on rather short legs. But it was his hair, a startling white with a graceful white beard, that proclaimed his identity.

  "General Lee, sir," greeted Ashton, turning to his wife. "Now, Mag, I don't want you upsetting anyone with predictions of death or defeat. Promise me you won't tell Varina Davis what you just. . ."

  "Of course not!" She gave him an indignant nudge, and he grinned.

  Robert E. Lee took one step toward them, clapping Ashton on the shoulder as soon as he could reach him. His stern face betrayed genuine delight at seeing the younger man.

  "Ashton, how are you?" He then turned toward Margaret with a slight, stiffwaisted bow. "Madame, I hope you fare well. If mere appearance is an indication, you seem to be thriving in your newly married state."

  "Yes, General. Thank you, sir." She understood the devotion his men felt toward their general now; she felt the power radiating from his every movement. This was a good man, she realized. He was doing his very best against staggering odds, but his very best was, unfortunately, leading to hundreds of thousands of deaths. If he wasn't such an aggressive leader, the war would have ended a year ago.

  After the war, Henry Adams would make a comment about Lee that she thoroughly agreed with: "It's always the good men who do the most harm in the world."

  As she held on to Ashton's arm, she realized, with a visible shudder, that the exact same statement applied to her husband.

  General Lee caught her shiver and smiled affectionately at Ashton. "Son, you'd best get your beautiful wife indoors. I feel winter will be with us soon."

  Ashton and Lee shook hands, and it wasn't until they were inside the foyer that Margaret realized that not a single word had passed between the two concerning the war. If their brief conversation had been plucked from the air, it could be inserted almost anywhere at almost any time without revealing the identity or circumstance of the speakers.

  Inside, a gracious warmth spread down her arms as Ashton handed her dark green cloak to a stoic black man dressed in ridiculous satin knickers. Ashton, handing his own greatcoat to the butler, smiled at the man.

  "Martin, is that you under the white wig?"

  The man tried unsuccessfully not to chuckle. "Yes, sir, General Johnson. This isn't my idea, no sir." "I'm glad to hear it. This, Martin, is my wife." Margaret extended her hand, and Martin's eyebrows lifted high enough to disappear under the hairline of the snowy wig. "It's good to meet you, Martin." She shook his hand vigorously, and Ashton —as well as several of the other guests—gaped in astonishment.

  As if nothing unusual had occurred, Margaret turned to Ashton. "You look exceptionally handsome tonight, General," she whispered.

  His answer was a gentle squeeze of her hand, and she gazed up at him, his hair shining in the artificial light, his uniform elegant and crisp. With her free hand she patted the absurd hoops under her gown, hoping she didn't collide with another woman like an out-of-control bumper car.

  There was a large room, fu
rniture cleared to the sides, and a small orchestra composed of very old men seated in a semicircle about to start another song. They must have just returned from a short break, for there had been no musical sounds wafting outside.

  Then a hush fell over the gathering as General Lee entered with a tall, fine-boned man and a rather plump, dark-complexioned woman. It was Jefferson Davis, austere and dignified, and his strong-willed wife. The president nodded to gentle applause and polite smiles, then gestured for the band to play.

  "My dear." Ashton gave a mock bow. "Would you afford me the pleasure of this dance?"

  "Ash," she hissed, "I don't remember how. The last real dance I attended was a disco and .. ."

  Without wasting another moment, Ashton led his wife to the floor and gave her a lifetime's worth of dancing lessons.

  CHAPTER 14

  Margaret had never experienced the romantic exhilaration of the waltz. Although she had taken ballroom dancing lessons in junior high school, she had always towered over her partners, eventually sitting out the slower numbers drinking red fruit punch and trying not to spill on her white gloves. The gloves were mandatory, to keep the already reluctant and outnumbered male members of the class from having to ho d perspiring hands. Both partners had sweaty palms, but with the gloves they could pretend at least for a while, that it wasn't a terrifying experience to close-dance with a member of the opposite sex.