A Most Inconvenient Marriage Read online

  “When I met Jeremiah, he was a prisoner,” Abigail whispered. “No, that’s not right. How about: Jeremiah asked me to take care of his sister, Rachel. It was his last wish that I would make this journey.” True, but how to mention his proposal? In all her imagining she hadn’t been able to come up with one satisfactory introduction on the topic of her matrimonial state.

  “Ma,” a voice called from upstairs, “what brought the Huckabee swarm to our door?”

  Abigail froze. There was no answer from the kitchen.

  “Ma?”

  If this was his sister, she obviously wasn’t used to being ignored.

  Soft footsteps could be heard sliding across the upstairs rug, then descending the stairs. Rachel Calhoun entered, stooped like a much older woman. The joints of her fingers flared an angry red. So Mr. Huckabee was correct about the rheumatic fever.

  The girl straightened. “I’m sorry.” She flipped her chestnut braid over the shoulder of her house gown, clearly not apologizing for anything. “And who might you be?”

  Abigail stepped forward. “Hello, I just arrived—”

  “Obviously.” The lines about her mouth had settled deep, as if perpetually troubled.

  “Yes. I’m a friend of Captain Calhoun. I promised him I would visit.”

  “A friend of my brother?” Rachel crossed her arms. “Your name?”

  “Abigail . . .” she halted. When would she tell them the truth? Was it too early?

  At Abigail’s hesitation, Rachel sniffed. “Whoever your people are, you must not be proud of them. I might not be high and mighty, but I’m not ashamed of my kin.”

  Abigail lifted her clenched jaw at the reproach from the mountain girl. She was proud of the Stuart name, even if her mother no longer shared it and the farm she loved no longer bore it. But that door had closed. Besides, if she worked hard enough, maybe someday she could garner respect with a new name.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She’d found a new name for a new life, and she might as well start using it.

  “My name is Calhoun . . . Abigail Calhoun. I’m Jeremiah’s wife.”

  Chapter 2

  “Jeremiah’s wife?”

  Abigail watched closely as the younger woman’s eyes widened and her pale face turned celery green. Rachel stumbled forward, swinging her hands about, searching for the sofa.

  “Let me help you,” Abigail said.

  Rachel sank into the cushions, heedless of the laundry that slipped to the floor. She reclined full out and covered her face with the crook of her arm.

  A weak heart caused by a fever. That’s what Jeremiah had said. Abigail’s eyes flickered over the woman, assessing her condition. Shallow breaths that were obviously painful, stiff joints, a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps Jeremiah should’ve warned Abigail that her sister-in-law’s most noticeable medical condition was a sharp tongue.

  A crash sounded behind her. Mrs. Calhoun had shoved a tray of mugs onto the already crowded table in the center of the room, upending her sewing box and the stack of clippings.

  “Did you have a spell? What are you doing downstairs?” She knelt beside her daughter. “Don’t wear yourself out, especially after the Huckabees have unsettled your nerves.”

  “She’s a fraud. She’s lying,” Rachel said. Strong words for such a weak voice.

  Mrs. Calhoun cast a nervous glance at Abigail. “Simmer down, Rachel. There’s no excuse for rudeness.”

  “Did you ask her who she is? Did you even get a name from her before you showed her inside? Her with her fine dress and city voice—”

  “Don’t get riled up. You’re endangering your life,” her mother said.

  Obviously Rachel was now getting enough air to fill her lungs. Abigail tried to reassure the worried woman. “She’s going to be fine, Mrs. Calhoun. Since the initial shock has worn off, she’s regained her color. I’m a nurse and I don’t think she’s in imminent danger.”

  “That’s probably a lie, too. You’re too young to be a nurse.” Rachel kept her arm over her face, probably so Abigail wouldn’t be able to mark her return to health.

  “I was certified by a Regional Aid Society,” Abigail said. “When desperate, qualifications aren’t as important, especially for one working with prisoners.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand your quarrel. Why are you arguing?” Mrs. Calhoun turned to Abigail. “Please forgive my daughter. She’s feeling poorly.”

  At least she had some spirit left in her. Abigail would rather work with a difficult patient than one who’d given up.

  “Mrs. Calhoun, if you’ll seat yourself, I’ll share the news that’s responsible for Miss Calhoun’s distress.”

  “Shouldn’t we help Rachel upstairs first?”

  “I have a feeling she’ll prefer to hear for herself. It’s about your son, Jeremiah.” Abigail seated herself. Her stomach rolled as she tried to find the right words.

  “Was the letter from the prison wrong?” Mrs. Calhoun dropped onto the simple wooden chair. “Please tell me it was wrong. Tell me that Jeremiah’s alive.”

  A pang of jealousy assailed Abigail. Did her family even remember that she existed? But this was about Jeremiah, so she focused on the woman who obviously valued her children above all else. “I wish that was my message, but it’s not. You have the facts from your notification, but I shared his last days. I thought you might like to hear more.”

  “All we know is that he was captured at Westport and died in prison. That’s all they told us.”

  She could tell them much more, but would they understand her motives? How badly she wanted to help? How badly she wanted a place to belong and a family to love? She hoped they didn’t blame her for his unorthodox arrangement. Yet she’d faced unfounded accusations before.

  “Jeremiah was wounded before his capture,” Abigail said. “They amputated his arm at the field hospital and then marched him to the prison in St. Louis.”

  “All the way across Missouri?” Mrs. Calhoun fished a crumpled handkerchief from the pile of laundry on the floor. “What he must have suffered.”

  Mrs. Calhoun’s tears prompted a stinging in Abigail’s own eyes. How she wished she could’ve known Jeremiah here, whole, instead of sick in the prison. “But he kept strong. He’d already contracted infection and was in incredible pain, but everyone who met him loved him. Even when they had to carry him into the infirmary, he asked them to stop so he could cheer some dejected soul.”

  “Oh, Jeremiah,” his mother cooed. “See, Rachel. I knew he’d have a change of heart.”

  From her position, Abigail could see that Rachel wasn’t moving, but she was fully alert, listening closely. Abigail tried to steady her voice for what was to come.

  “Of all the soldiers I met during the war, your son was my favorite. His first thought was for his fiancée, but when the situation changed and he realized that he would not recover, his concern for his sister eclipsed every other bond.” Again the silence of the house pressed heavy as they drank in a last story of one they loved—one from whom they’d get no more news. “When he learned that I was knowledgeable about horses and nursing, Jeremiah asked me to come here to care for Rachel and to keep your farm profitable.”

  “He arranged that for us?” Mrs. Calhoun shook her head. “We can’t pay, you know.”

  Rachel pulled herself up by the back of the sofa. “She doesn’t want pay, Ma. That’s not what she’s shooting for. She wants everything—the whole farm. If we allow her story to go unchallenged, she will own everything and can evict us out into the wilderness. You know as well as I do that Jeremiah wouldn’t marry a stranger.”

  “Marry?” The handkerchief fluttered to the floor. Mrs. Calhoun’s face contorted through an encyclopedia of emotions as she stood. “Are you Jeremiah’s wife?”

  No matter how little she deserved it, the license had been legally binding. Abigail nodded and glanced at the scissors as she waited for the woman’s response, a response that was building, whether of outrage
or sorrow Abigail couldn’t judge. Mrs. Calhoun’s chin trembled and her arms opened.

  “My beloved child, welcome home.”

  Abigail’s head spun. All her worries, all her uncertainty, but God was faithful. He’d directed her to a safe place. Jumping to her feet, Abigail fell into the woman’s embrace.

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Oh, honey, you stayed by my son through his suffering. Thank the Lord for sending you to Jeremiah’s side so he wasn’t alone.” Mrs. Calhoun stepped back and took her hands. “I can never repay you.”

  Rachel groaned. “Ma, Jeremiah wouldn’t marry without telling us. Not after the way he carried on about me.”

  “He didn’t have time to notify you,” Abigail said. “And he wouldn’t have married me if a chance for recovery existed. In fact he’d almost waited too late. He didn’t even have time to explain to his fiancée in his last letter. He only shared his love.”

  “Well, she never took up mourning,” Mrs. Calhoun said. “And I suppose it’s a blessing that she’s been able to carry on. Any day now I expect to hear that Laurel and Dr. Hopkins are engaged.”

  Laurel? Jeremiah had always called her Juliet. He’d even asked Abigail to address his last letter to her by that name. What would her reaction be? At least Laurel had recovered enough to consider an alternative beau. Hopefully she’d accept Abigail’s appearance with as much grace as Mrs. Calhoun had.

  Finally looking her in the eyes, Rachel spoke. “You didn’t happen to meet any other men of Jeremiah’s division, did you? Were many of them captured?”

  “I suppose so, but most of the prisoners at Gratiot Street were transferred back east. Jeremiah stayed only because he could go no farther.”

  Rachel grasped the doily-covered arm of the sofa to steady herself. “But who did he speak of? Did he mention Alan White? Was Alan a patient of yours?”

  “Alan White? No, I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

  “Don’t fret,” Mrs. Calhoun admonished her daughter. “Alan didn’t say where he was in that last letter, but he’s hardly had time to write again. Especially with the war winding down. You’ll hear from him soon.”

  What unshed tears were stored in the dark circles below Rachel’s eyes? She glared, obviously not satisfied with Abigail’s tale. “If what you say is true, Jeremiah had nothing to lose, but what about you? Don’t you have any family, or suitors, or anybody to care if you never come home? Why would you depend on strangers to take you in rather than friends?”

  Abigail walked to the curio cabinet. Ceramic bells, crystal bells, brass . . . her head rang with accusations and defenses. She’d start anew if they’d let her, but there’d be questions about who she was, where she’d come from, why she wasn’t welcomed by her family. Well, the truth was messy. Better to clean up the story before they pried any further.

  “My father died in a riding accident, and after that my mother . . .” She added her fingerprints to those already smearing the glass curio cabinet. “I miss her. I have no one, so I came west.”

  There. That was enough. She’d told herself that if they didn’t accept her, she could leave at first light. Nothing lost. But now that a glimpse of a home, a family, a farm had been offered, she didn’t want to lose it.

  “See, Rachel. Abigail has every reason to stay with us.” Mrs. Calhoun sat next to her daughter and wrapped an arm around her. To Abigail’s surprise, Rachel had the grace to look ashamed.

  “I don’t want her to cause you any trouble, Ma. You have enough of a burden caring for me. If she doesn’t pull her weight—”

  She might as well get started. Abigail turned to the ladies. “Before I became a nurse, I lived on a horse farm. I helped my father in every aspect of the business, and I promise I’ll work harder for you than anyone ever has. In fact, I’m anxious to take a look around and visit the stock.”

  Mrs. Calhoun nodded, already deep in her memories. “That’d be fine.”

  Abigail gazed at the mug of coffee that’d never made it to her hand, but she couldn’t wait to reach the barn. She took up her coat.

  Mrs. Calhoun stood. “Oh, and Abigail, I know you had a mother you loved, and I don’t want to take her place, but I’d be honored if you’d call me Ma. That is, if it ain’t presuming too much.”

  Although the family resemblance wasn’t visible in her features, her warmth and kindness had clearly shaped her son’s character.

  “I’d love to have you as my ma,” Abigail said. “You’re all the family I have left.”

  Besides visits from his caregivers, the single shaft of light from above was the only connection he had to the world outside. Soon he’d be set free from this prison, this cave, and he could finally crawl out of hiding. He could finally go home.

  Home.

  He’d made a mistake and because of it home could change forever. He prayed it wasn’t too late to undo what he’d done. When he was free, he’d get it straight and no one would be hurt. He’d take care of everything if, for once, they’d let him.

  He sucked the last of the marrow out of the chicken bone, thankful for each morsel that they’d spared him. Oh, that God would give him the strength to see to his duty. He wouldn’t quit until his family was safe and their lives were restored, but if he went home alone, nothing would be solved. He’d never be forgiven.

  The barn hugged a rise on the south of the house. As no sip of coffee had made it to her lips, Abigail strode to the trough. She dumped out the water bucket, pumped fresh water in, and drained a full dipper in one thirsty pull. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smacked her lips. Poor breeding? Her mother had taught her how to behave in a drawing room just as her father had taught her how to behave in a barn. Manners consisted of nothing more than the ability to put someone at ease, and she dearly hoped she could ease the troubles here.

  After helping herself to another dipper, Abigail was in a better frame of mind to meet the horses. At least they wouldn’t behave as poorly as Jeremiah’s sister.

  The pasture appeared somewhat maintained. Despite the errant saplings, the fence was intact and the barn solid. She found the gate between two stone posts, hinges a bit rusty but still swinging with only a slight protest.

  A bay raised his head at the noise. The gray horse perked his ears, too. Abigail shielded her eyes to get a better look and was pleased by what she saw. Deep chests, strong haunches, with delicate feet and heads—promising even from this distance. Then their alert ears picked up the sound of something more interesting than the gate. Rattling a bucket of corn, Mr. Huckabee stepped out of the barn.

  “Oh,” Abigail breathed as the two horses sped to a graceful canter. If it weren’t for the tufts of wet soil flipping up behind them, she could almost believe they were floating above the ground. Jeremiah hadn’t exaggerated. She would be proud of these horses.

  She latched the gate behind her and approached them cautiously.

  “I thought you might want to inspect them closer.” The stallion pushed ahead to get first dibs on the bucket, his tail swishing high. “By the way, I’m Calbert Huckabee. Did you get to meet Miss Rachel?”

  Remembering that barn manners were different than parlor, Abigail extended her hand, pleased when he took it without pausing. “Yes, I did. And please call me Miss Abigail. Do you mind?” She nodded to the bucket.

  “Help yourself.”

  She plunged her hands into the dusty corn, surprised by the memories the familiar action revived. The rolling kernels, their simple weight and sweet smell reminded her of a happiness that had eluded her since her mother had remarried.

  Bringing up brimming handfuls, she stepped away, drawing the stallion after her for a better inspection. The bay seemed to read her intent. His eyes flashed. He tossed his head and pranced to her.

  “He’s a proud one,” she said.

  “He should be. He’s from Texas, sired by Steel Dust.”

  “Is that so?” She held her hand flat. The horse’s velvety muzzle razed her palm, snort
ing the familiar scent in her face. “How did I manage without my horses?”

  Calbert smiled. “How long are you staying with Mrs. Calhoun?”

  “This is my home now.” She’d found somewhere new and she’d fight to keep it. Abigail scratched the stallion on the forehead as he nudged the last kernel from between her fingers. “You know these horses well. Are you their groom?”

  “Don’t know that I’d have any such fancy title as that. I’m busy with my own place most the time, but I try to keep an eye on Mrs. Calhoun. Just being neighborly. I figure I owe Jeremiah that much, God rest his soul. After his Pa died he wore himself out keeping this place going.”

  But Abigail was already planning the future. One stallion and a gelding—not a fortune, but they were first quality. When she returned to the house, she’d ask to see their pedigrees, not that it mattered. Their breeding was obvious by sight, but she was curious. What familiar names would she see? Could either of these have Stuart bloodlines?

  Mr. Huckabee was inspecting her as closely as she’d been watching the horses. “You say you knew Jeremiah?”

  Abigail had better become accustomed to telling her unusual story and making it sound as convincing as possible. “I married Captain Calhoun.”

  Mr. Huckabee snatched his hat off his head and slapped it against his knee. “I knew it! The minute I laid eyes on you I thought, ‘There’s a lady for Jeremiah. They would’ve been a fine matched team, for certain.’” He sobered. “If only he’d made it home.”

  “If he thought he was coming home, he wouldn’t have married me.”

  “What’s that?”

  Abigail dusted off her hands, then hid them in her coat pockets. “It was a practical arrangement on his end. I didn’t know what to expect from his farm, but I’m fully eager to fall in love with this place.”