The Bride Fair. Cheryl Reavis
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no comment. She was far too busy trying to fathom his intent.
It suddenly came to her. He wanted to point out to her, however subtly, that the people here—the women here—had been vanquished in more ways than one. Perhaps Major Howe’s marriage to Amanda Douglas had been a love match—but the ones she was witnessing now weren’t. They couldn’t be more mercenary, and she longed to tell him so.
She glanced at him; he was staring at her across the table.
“Feeling better?” he asked quietly.
“I feel quite fine,” she answered.
“And your friend? Your particular friend—Suzanne. How is she?”
“How did you—”
She broke off. Of course. He had been listening at the upstairs window. The question now was how much he had heard and what he would do about it.
“I assume she is not well,” he continued. “If her husband would chance being arrested to come here—on her behalf. Is that not so?”
Maria ignored the question and asked one of her own.
“How long will the curfew be in effect?”
“The curfew doesn’t apply to you—if you need to see about your friend. I will write you a pass.”
“Why?” Maria asked pointedly.
He held up his bruised hands. “I owe you a favor.”
“I believe that was canceled out with the lemon.”
“Perhaps. But you see, I want you in my debt, Miss Markham, rather than the other way around. I believe our association will go more smoothly if you are. I think you honor your debts. I think such things matter to you.”
She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.
Yes, she did. Without a word, she abruptly stood and walked out of the room, all the while expecting him to object to her leaving.
But he didn’t say anything, and she didn’t stop until she reached the kitchen. She kept pacing around the room, trying to collect her thoughts. Then, she sat down at the worktable, only to get up again. She did not understand this man. Why would he extend to her what anyone would call a kindness—and then go out of his way to make sure she didn’t mistake it for that? Were they both to keep some kind of running tally of favors paid and favors owed?
She gave an exasperated sigh. He had offered to help her. The offer itself—and the reason for it—had been plainly stated. But it was what he did not say that she found so vexing. He could and would help her—and the only impediment would be that her animosity for him and his kind was more important to her than her “particular friend,” Suzanne.
She could hear a commotion at the front of the house: men—soldiers—coming in from the outside.
Officers.
She could tell by the banter. It was the same game of Who’s The Better Man? that the enlisted men engaged in everywhere one went, except that theirs, while no less biting, was more sophisticated and subtle.
She looked anxiously toward the doorway at a sudden burst of laughter, wondering where she could go to escape. Hatcher hadn’t held any meetings with his staff here in the house, but clearly that was not Colonel Woodard’s plan. She could hear a number of them clumping up the stairs—to see her father on the upstairs porch from the sound of it. It would please him to have visitors, the only visitors possible thanks to the curfew.
And her kitchen was about to be invaded, as well. She looked around in alarm as one of them came in through the back door.
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” he said loudly. She moved toward the back stairs, but he stepped into her path.
“I don’t believe you answered me,” he said with an all too familiar smile.
She didn’t return it. She stood there, not quite sure what to do.
“Pardon me, Major De Graff, Sir,” the orderly, Perkins, said in the doorway. “The colonel has remarked particularly upon your absence.”
“Yes. Quite right. Thank you, Sergeant Major.”
“My pleasure, Sir,” Perkins assured him. He waited until the major was on his way to the dining room. “Miss Markham, the colonel needs more chairs. He asks—”
“Tell the colonel there are no more chairs for the dining room—General Stoneman’s raiders used them for firewood,” she said.
“I’ll do that, miss,” he said. “Please don’t run off anyplace. I’ll be right back.”
Maria was feeling queasy again, too queasy to run anywhere other than the back door. She stepped outside, hoping some fresh air would help. If it didn’t, at least there would be no floor to mop.
The yard seemed to be filling up with Yankees, as well. Several tents had been pitched on the grass since she’d last looked out, and four men were working diligently to make a much larger fenced-in place for their horses than she had for her buggy horse, Nell. And it was much too close to the vegetable garden for her liking. She moved to where they couldn’t see her, and she could hear Perkins calling her.
She didn’t answer.
“There you are, miss,” he said, coming outside.
“What is it now?” she asked.
“The colonel says to tell you he has changed his mind about writing out that pass—no, now, don’t go thinking he’s breaking his word or it’s got anything to do with the chair situation,” he added quickly, apparently because of the look on her face.
“The colonel—he’s only just got here, see, and some of these men—well, they didn’t get a lot of discipline under Hatcher’s command—like that there Major De Graff. Colonel Woodard is thinking the patrols might not accept the pass as being official. He says to tell you he will see you about it later.”
Maria didn’t recall asking for an audience. It was bad enough that he had the power to dictate her comings and goings, and even worse to have to remain in a house full of Yankee soldiers.
She gave a quiet sigh. She had to see about Suzanne, and she had no easy way to get there. She had no food to take her if she could manage to make the trip, unless she pilfered Colonel Woodard’s pantry, which she couldn’t do—key or no key—with Perkins so close at hand.
She was essentially trapped with nowhere to go. If she tried to work in the garden, she would have an unwanted audience, and inside, she might encounter De Graff again—or the colonel.
“Maybe you should join your father,” Perkins suggested, as if she’d spoken out loud.
“No,” she said. There was too much work to be done. If she didn’t get to the hoeing, the morning glories would run rampant in the corn and beans, thanks to yesterday’s rain. The kitchen and the hall—and now the dining-room floors had to be scrubbed free of muddy boot prints. The ironing she should have done yesterday instead of going to the railroad station still sat in the basket in the corner. She had two more meals to prepare. She needed to start a fire in the stove in the summer kitchen to cook the dried butter beans she had soaking. If she didn’t, they’d never be done in time. Her father hated butter beans, but it was either that or accept the colonel’s bounty, and she didn’t want to touch his food, if she could help it.
And she was tired.
“They won’t bother you, miss,” Perkins said.
“What?” she asked, because she had been too busy feeling sorry for herself to remember that Perkins was still close by.
“The men. The colonel has given them all strict orders not to accost you on any account—regardless of their rank.”
She looked at him, not at all certain that she believed him.
“I