Harrigan's Bride. Cheryl Reavis
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else does he say?”
“He…wishes us every happiness.”
She smiled. “He was there—the day my grandfather gave the chest to me. And he and Guire teased me so about being an ugly old maid and not needing such a fine piece of furniture. And Mother was…” She stopped and took a quiet breath. She didn’t want to reminisce about the past, even if the past was likely all she would ever have.
The sound of laughter and loud singing burst forth again from the direction of the kitchen.
“I guess more people knew about the wedding than I thought,” she said after a moment.
“I dare say,” he agreed. He was standing so awkwardly, as if he wanted to take his leave, but wasn’t quite sure how to do it.
“I…have a gift for you, too,” he said, and he reached into his pocket—for his watch. He opened it to check the time and then looked at the door.
“If you have to go now, it’s—” she began.
“Sir!” La Broie said abruptly in the doorway, making her jump.
“You must overlook the sergeant, Abby,” Thomas said, taking the bundle La Broie tossed to him. “Believe me, he all too often comes and goes like that.”
He lay the bundle on her lap. “It isn’t much. There aren’t too many things here to buy.”
She took the string off and unrolled enough of the muslin wrapping to reveal a green book. The title was printed diagonally across it in gold leaf: The Scottish Chiefs. It was beautiful.
“The story of William Wallace, by Miss Jane Porter. I always wanted to read this,” she said. “There was only one copy at school. I never got the chance.”
“I thought maybe you’d had enough of men writers and you’d like a woman’s perspective for a change.”
She smiled, running her fingers over the exquisitely tooled designs in the green leather cover—ivy and oak leaves and acorns, an exotic bird with long tail feathers that curved down across the banner with the title. She looked up at him. She loved books—almost as much as she loved him. “Thank you, Thomas.”
“And the other thing…” He lifted a knitted white wool shawl with a delicate lace edge free of the muslin. “It’s…well, it isn’t much, but I hope you like it.”
She leaned forward so that he could drape it around her shoulders. “It’s beautiful. Thank you again. I wish I had something for you.”
“Not necessary,” he said, pulling the chair around and sitting down again. “There’s one more thing here.” He unfolded the muslin the rest of the way, and took out an envelope. “This is the name of my lawyer in Boston. And the one here in Falmouth who will take care of your expenses. I’ve included my mother’s address in Maryland, if you should need to contact her. And there’s a copy of my will.” He was very careful not to look at her. “There’s also a note with my proper address. I would like it very much if you would write to me if—when—you feel up to it.”
“You’re in the wrong army, Thomas. How…?”
“There’s a chance that a letter will get to me as long as Falmouth remains in Union hands.” He finally let his eyes meet hers.
So sad, she thought. Still so sad. She nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice and because she was so tired.
“I’ve brought your toddy, Miss Abiah,” Gertie said from the doorway, making a much less startling entrance than La Broie had. “And some very fine sipping whiskey for you, Captain Harrigan—from Mr. Zachariah Wilson, you might say. A little something to mark the occasion.”
“Does Mr. Zachariah Wilson know how generous he’s being, by any chance?”
Gertie laughed. “Well, sir, if you run into him on your way out, I wouldn’t thank him for it, if I was you.” She set the tray down on the table by the bed and quietly left.
“What is this, Abby?” he asked, handing her the flowered teacup.
“Hot milk, honey—and brandy. Every three hours, just like clockwork. I’ve been promoted from chicken broth.”
“Well,” he said, lifting his glass to her. “It could be worse.”
They both drank. She was more used to her beverage than he was to his.
“I’m going to have to have help getting on my horse,” he said.
“I guess that’s what groomsmen are for.”
“Well, not these groomsmen. If I have to depend on them, I’ll surely have to walk.”
She smiled, feeling the awkwardness between them growing by leaps and bounds.
My husband, she thought. Then, Thomas, what have you done?
He didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. The silence between them lengthened as the revelry in the kitchen grew louder. Laughter. Singing. The smell of bread. She was glad someone found this a merry occasion. She and Thomas might as well be the chief mourners at a wake.
A log fell in the fireplace. The clock ticked quietly on the mantel.
“Thomas—”
“No more talking,” he said, taking her cup away. “Rest. Go to sleep, if you can. I’ll sit here by you until I have to go.”
“Thomas—” she began again.
“No more talking,” he insisted. “This wedding was supposed to be for your good. I don’t want it to make you worse.”
“I’d like to see inside the cedar chest. Could you open it?”
“There’s no key.”
“Force the lock, then.”
He sat for a moment, then did as she asked, first trying to open it with his bare hands and then the edge of the shovel from the fireplace.
“This is going to ruin it, Abiah,” he said after a moment.
“Please, Thomas. Open it.”
The lock finally gave, with a minimal amount of the wood splintering. She raised up on one elbow to look inside. Everything appeared to be there, even the gray uniform jacket and the saber she’d packed away on top. She realized that Thomas was looking at them.
“Guire’s things,” she said, and he nodded. She lay back against the pillows suddenly and closed her eyes, more exhausted than she realized. Thomas closed the chest.
When she opened her eyes, he was once again sitting by the bed.
“Abby,” he said, when he realized she was looking at him. “If you should hear from my grandfather, don’t let him bully you.”
“I don’t think there’s anything for your grandfather to bully me about, Thomas—except perhaps my politics.”
“Oh, the judge would find something, believe me.”
“Then I promise I’ll be every bit as obstinate as you would be.”
He looked at her a moment, then abruptly smiled.
“Go to sleep, Abiah,” he said again, the smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“No,” she said. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep later. Talk to me.”
“Are you warm enough? Shall I put more wood on the fire?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t remind me that I’m an invalid. Talk to me the way you used to when you came home with Guire.”
“Shall I take the book away?” he asked, still intent on being solicitous.
“Thomas!” she