Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  "No, it's not for a rat." Margaret swallowed hard, realizing that the doctor could very well turn her in and end her chance of saving Ashton. But instinct told her he might help. "It's for my husband."

  The smile turned into a stern frown. "Young lady, I understand you and General Johnson have had some arguments, but I assure you, poisoning him is not the answer. .. ."

  "It's my only hope," she moaned. "Dr. Parish, through a terrible series of accidents, the Confederate government mistakenly believes Ashton to be a spy. He is not. I swear to you on my life that neither of us is guilty. But that doesn't matter—they are going to execute him tomorrow morning."

  Mary B. gasped, but Dr. Parish became very calm. "Never, my dear." He patted her hand with his dry, spotted one. "I'm sure you are simply overwrought and imagining such horrible things. They would never dare to execute General Johnson—"

  "They are, and they are going to say he died of something else!" Squeezing her eyes shut in an effort to control her voice, she took a deep breath and continued. "He would never even attempt to escape, Doctor. He has such high ideals of honor and duty. So I was hoping to give him something, an herb or whatever I can find. Then I'll say he's dead and carry him out in a coffin." "What then?"

  She shrugged. "I hadn't really thought that tar ahead. I just want to get him out of there."

  There was a silence. The muffled sounds of the soldiers coughing in the next room seemed very remote.

  "Are you absolutely sure?" There was an intensity to his expression that she had never seen. She nodded.

  "I have heard strange rumors," he admitted. "This war is full of strange rumors, but I did see the general escorted out of here this morning, and I did notice that he hasn't returned to visit his brother or his wife—uncharacteristic of the man, from what I hear."

  He absentmindedly rubbed his chin, a scratchy sandpaper sound as he thought. "I'm beginning to feel like Friar Lawrence," he mumbled, referring to the monk who gave Shakespeare's Juliet a sleeping potion.

  "Then you'll help!" Margaret squeezed his hand, and he nodded.

  "I was married once, you know." His eyes focused just beyond the women, as if a vision seen only by himself had been aroused. "We were very young, my wife and I, and I believe we could have been content together. Lord, how I missed her the first year after she died." He looked directly at Margaret. "I would have done anything to save her, anything at all. But I wasn't given the chance. Perhaps you, my dear, will be more fortunate."

  The softness in his eyes vanished, and again he was the cranky old doctor, no longer the soulful young man who had lost his love. "First, put that book away," he ordered. "Where you found it—not on the top." As he spoke he opened a cabinet and pulled out a small teakwood box. It was an old tea caddy, and he reached into another cabinet for a tiny silver key.

  "I do have something in here, collected a long time ago when I was a medical student. I am not sure if it has lost any of its potency, and God help us if the potency has increased over the years."

  Opening the box, a strange, musty scent wafted through the dank air of the little corner. It was strangely sweet, and they all stared at it. Pandora's box.

  He plucked out a small glass vial stuffed with dried brownish leaves and handed it to Margaret.

  "This is monkshood. Take a large leaf or two small ones and make it into a weakishlooking tea. Your husband will probably drink it, even though it doesn't taste very good, because he's become accustomed to drinking coffee made from bark and corncobs and just about anything else under the sun. Plus he's young and foolish enough to drink anything his pretty wife offers.

  "Now listen to me. This can be a fatal poison—he will most certainly die if you are not very careful. After he drinks the tea, he will complain of a headache in a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds. He will perspire, suffer from blurred vision, and probably be forced to lie down. Make sure others witness this—it will lend credibility to the story of his presumed illness and death later on."

  Margaret and Mary B. stared at the vial, the leaves appearing as innocent as a dried rose from a girl's diary. The doctor continued.

  "Soon he will begin breathing rapidly, and his pulse rate will become so fast it will almost be uncountable. Within a half hour, all functions will slow down. His breathing will be shallow, the heart reduced to a few weak beats per minute. In addition, his skin will take on an icy feel. For about an hour, he will truly seem dead—no pulse will be detected.

  "Somehow you must get him alone, get his body moving to work the poison out of his system. Then, if you are very careful, you may give him more. . .."

  "More?" Margaret's eyes were wide with dread.

  "Until he's safe, until no one can see that he's alive. As long as you manage to get him out of the stupor, return his vital signs to almost normal, you can repeat the procedure several times. But you must wake him up. Do not let him remain in the fully inert phase for too long or he will, indeed, die. Monkshood works by paralyzing the muscles, including the heart. Give him strong coffee, if you can find some, or continue moving him. Just don't allow him to succumb."

  Her hand rubbed her temples, the weight of the responsibility making her head pound.

  "One more thing," the doctor added. "He will remain fully conscious, mentally alert, no matter how he appears. He will understand everything that's happening around him, every word you say, every action."

  Her fingers folded around the vial. "Thank you, both of you. I must go now."

  Without another word, she left.

  Dr. Parish watched her walk purposefully down the aisle, and finally through the door.

  He turned to Mary B., still staring at the closed door. "Why do I have a terrible feeling that something awful will come of this?"

  There was a single cot in Ashton's room with a pillow and a neatly folded blanket. He was seated at the table, a crystal ink bottle uncapped before him, writing with swift, bold strokes.

  It was dark now; the evening shadows spread their murky darkness over everything in the dimly lit room. The guards allowed her to pass without her having to ask, an expression of regret on the youngest man's face. The moment she entered, the guard inside the room slipped through the door.

  Ashton glanced up, part of his hair ruffled where he had clearly passed a hurried hand through. He put down the pen and smiled.

  "The soup and bread were wonderful. Thank you."

  Margaret didn't reply. Instead she simply stepped over to him. Before he could rise to his feet, she was in his arms, and he sat back down, cradling her on his lap.

  "What are you writing?" she murmured into his ear.

  "Letters to my mother and Eddie." He paused, brushing a rebellious curl from her smooth neck. “... and to you."

  His hand rested there, his thumb stroking the hollow of her throat. "But you don't need to write to me," she replied, and he could feel her swallow. "I'm right here."

  "It's for later..." His voice trailed off as he pressed his lips just below her ear. Suddenly she straightened, aware that if she became lost in his embrace, if she returned his passion, she would be unable to concentrate. It was vital that she keep a clear head. This was going to be the most difficult, and by far the most important, night of her life.

  "Did I tell you that Eddie's doing much better? Dr. Parish thinks the ball missed the bone after all, and unless the arm becomes badly diseased, he should—" she gasped as his hand slipped over her breast. "Ashton!"

  A lazy, insolent grin caressed his mouth, and she jumped to her feet.

  "Aren't you freezing in here?" Her voice sounded as if she had inhaled helium.

  "Not any more . . ." He pulled her back into his lap, his mouth over hers, soft at first, then harsher. She felt herself spin luxuriously out of control, her hands roaming over his thickly muscled back.

  "No," she moaned unconvincingly, trying to pull away. He held her so close she was unable to get much leverage.

  "No," she repeated, and this time he heard, and h
e backed away, confusion mingled with bold desire in his eyes.

  "Tea," she said huskily. "I would love a cup of tea."

  Shaking his head in confusion, he gestured to a covered tray on one of the chairs. "I believe there might be some water still hot in the pot over there."

  "Wonderful." She hopped off his lap and lifted the cloth. There were several dishes covered with food, all untouched, more food than she had seen in the entire Confederacy. Biting her lip, she realized the lavish spread was probably intended as a last meal.

  The water wasn't scalding, but it was certainly hot enough to make tea. There was a smaller pot, and she opened it—absolutely delighted.

  Coffee—real, genuine, caffeine-filled coffee, dark and rich, and probably worth a small fortune on the black market. Whatever the cost, it was priceless to her—she could use it later to revive him.

  "Here," she said in the most conversational tone she could muster. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

  "No, thank you." He sighed.

  She hadn't anticipated any trouble this early in the plan. Keeping her voice light, she reached into her pocket where she had already separated two small monkshood leaves. Placing them in the bottom of a cup, she poured water over the leaves.

  Soon the brew was a pale gray, not particularly appetizing. On the other hand, it looked a far sight better than peanut shell coffee.

  "Here, Ash. A nice cup of tea." She brought it over to him, careful not to spill a drop. He waved her away.

  "Margaret, I'm really not in the mood for tea. I'm in the mood for you."

  Raising the cup to her face, she inhaled deeply and smiled. "This has the most marvelous flavor. All right, Ashton." She raised her eyebrows slightly. "I'll make a deal with you. If you drink this tea, I'm yours to do with as you please."

  His eyes lit up and he reached for the cup. "Anything?"

  "Anything at all," she confirmed.

  He sipped the tea and frowned. "This is terrible." Then he looked up, his eyes gleaming over the rim. "But I would drink hemlock if you were in the bargain."

  You're not far off, she thought, pierced by a stab of guilt as he drank the tea. She took the empty cup and placed it back on the tray, right next to the tepid coffee.

  She turned to him, a panic beginning to rise in her throat. He looked so handsome, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes bright, the rugged even features she had grown to love.

  He held out his arms for her, and she immediately flew to him. His mouth came down on hers with a fierce possession, and she wondered if she, too, might be affected by the poison on his lips. Suddenly he stopped, his hand flying to his forehead.

  "Is anything wrong?"

  He tried to smile, but a flash of pain must have shot through his head. Margaret put her hand over her mouth. Why hadn't Dr. Parish mentioned how much he would suffer?

  "I don't. . ." He was unable to finish the words, and Margaret realized he was breathing rapidly, and perspiration dotted his forehead.

  Slipping an arm around his waist, she led him unsteadily to the cot. Her ear pressed to his chest as they walked, she heard his heart pounding frantically, unnaturally and unevenly. Had she given him too much?

  "Guard!" she cried, loosening his shirt. He was struggling for every breath, completely covered with a sheen of perspiration.

  The guard stepped into the room, his eyes immediately landing on Ashton. "What—blazes! What happened?"

  "Please send for a doctor." A sudden thought came to her mind. "Send for Dr. Parish at Miss Cox's hospital—now!"

  "I have to get permission . . ."

  "Then get it fast. Can't you see how ill he is?"

  She was aware of shouts, of footsteps up and down the marble staircase. Pulling up a chair to the cot, she held his large hand in both of hers. "Ashton, I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Hang on, love. It will be over soon."

  Dr. Parish entered the room, with Jefferson Davis leaning in from the door. The doctor's expression was blank, his eyes on Ashton.

  "Mrs. Johnson," he said as he opened a battered leather satchel, "can you describe the events leading to this?"

  "Well, we were talking to each other, and he was overcome with a sudden headache. His condition then became worse," she added lamely.

  A feeling of total helplessness swept over her as she watched the doctor work on Ashton. He removed a listening tube from his bag and placed one end on Ashton's chest, the other in his ear. His eyes snapped to hers, then down at the patient.

  "Doctor, can you identify the malady?" The president's expression was full of concern over a man he was planning to have executed the next morning.

  "I will tell you the truth." The doctor put the listening tube back into the bag and looked up at the president. "This may be an unusual fever or the result of one of his wounds becoming diseased, but as you can see for yourself, this is a very sick man." Margaret tightened her hold on Ashton's hand. The doctor shook his head as he continued. "I would guess his pulse rate is somewhere around three hundred per minute, and no man can survive that for long." He turned to Margaret, his voice gentle. Was he playing along with the ruse or trying to tell her that she had just killed her husband?

  "I am afraid he will not live through the night, my dear."

  Just as Margaret was about to fall to her knees in anguish, Dr. Parish slipped her the biggest, broadest, most exaggerated wink she had ever seen.

  CHAPTER 17

  There was a stillness to the darkened room, lit by a single flickering candle, that should have been eerie, but to Margaret, it was reassuring. It was proof that the farfetched scheme to save her husband's life was just crazy enough to work.

  The usual early morning sounds, of carriage wheels and horses' hooves and good-natured greetings, were subdued, unnaturally muffled. Outside the Old Customs House, the Capitol Building of the Confederacy, small clusters of the curious and mournful were forming, gazing toward the window where the fallen cavalier was rumored to have sickened. The horrible news was just beginning to spread through the streets of Richmond.

  General Ashton Johnson, the nation's most dashing hero, was dead.

  Margaret sat by the cot where her husband lay motionless, his body cold to the touch.

  "Please, Ash," she whispered into his ear. "I really had no choice. It was between the monkshood and the firing squad, and I thought you stood a better chance with the monkshood."

  Linking her fingers through his, she moved closer, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead with her free hand. There were no signs of life, at least not at first glance. If you studied the body for long enough, you might detect the shallow, infrequent breaths. If you felt for a pulse at the wrist, you would feel nothing, but Dr. Parish had assured her that was typical of the drug.

  "So it's as if his body is in suspended animation?" she had asked the doctor in private.

  He frowned for a moment, then smiled. "What an apt phrase, 'suspended animation,'" he repeated, rolling the words over his tongue, savoring their feel. "Yes, that is it precisely. You must stay by him, however—cause a distraction if he starts to wake up. No one will find it the least bit odd that a distressed young widow would refuse to let her husband's body out of her sight."

  Everyone had backed away respectfully, hats held in sorrowful hands, allowing her to remain with him in solitude.

  It was easy for her to be with him as long as she kept up her one-sided banter. "The next step will be to get you out of here in a casket, but don't worry. I've ordered one with nice padding and a satin pillow. It will cost the Confederacy plenty, but it's all their fault, so don't feel guilty."

  Hollow footsteps echoed just outside the door, and she turned to see if anyone would enter. They did not. Whoever it was paused at the door, then continued down the hall, heels clicking measured paces on the smooth marble.

  Ashton's skin had a strange, waxy feel. She tried to ignore how truly lifeless he appeared. Slowly and gingerly, she lifted one of his eyelids the way Dr. Parish had earlier. For
some reason what he saw there caused him to chuckle, a reaction he neatly transformed into a hacking cough for the benefit of the president, the secretary of war, and a cluster of misty-eyed soldiers, all craning to get a last look at General Johnson.

  His eyelid moved back easily under her touch, and she reached for the candle to get a better look at his wonderful amber eyes. It was the most furious, murderous glare she had ever seen. Trembling, she put the candlestick down and pulled away from him, folding her hands on her lap.