The Bride Fair. Cheryl Reavis
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to attempt it. She still smarted at the memory of Colonel Woodard’s scrutiny at the train station. His assessment of her had been subtle—not at all like the leering she’d come to expect from Colonel Hatcher and his kind. But it had been no less upsetting. She had seen the new colonel study her face, her breasts—and then totally dismiss her.
Like Billy.
Someone rapped sharply on the front door, making her jump. She peered out the window again. A carriage had stopped out front, but she didn’t recognize it. Apparently the colonel had chosen a conveyance in keeping with his position this time—or perhaps there had been no lone women in buggies handy.
The rapping came again, much louder this time.
“Maria Rose!” her father called from his upstairs sitting room. “Will you answer the door or must I!”
“I’m getting it, Father,” she called back, recognizing the threat for what it was. He was looking for an excuse to come downstairs and drink whiskey with a bunch of soldiers—even if they were in the wrong army—instead of coddling his bad heart as the doctor had ordered. She loved her father dearly, but he had to be the most exasperating man in all of Christendom. When his health improved even a little, he never concluded that the doctor’s regimen was working. Instead, he promptly decided that it wasn’t needed any longer. She ran herself ragged trying to keep him from overdoing, failing and then feeling guilty for his numerous setbacks. It had been the same when her mother was living. Somehow his illness was entirely their responsibility. If he felt any personal obligation to follow his doctor’s advice regarding his own health, she certainly couldn’t tell.
“Maria Rose!” her father yelled again.
“I heard you, Father!”
She took a deep breath to brace herself for the coming ordeal, but the door flew open before she could get to it.
“Miss,” the soldier standing on the porch said. “I have Colonel Woodard’s trunk and belongings.”
He didn’t wait for her to give him leave to enter. He motioned two other soldiers to hurry along with the baggage and pushed his way into the house, forcing her to step back to give him room.
“Where will the colonel be quartered, miss?” he asked.
“Wherever he likes,” she said, because the question was merely a token one, and they both knew it. It wasn’t for her to say. She had had enough dealings with these people to understand the fine points. Colonel Woodard wasn’t a guest; he was a conqueror. He could pick and choose his accommodations as he pleased—and would, most likely—even if it meant she or her father would have to vacate them.
“Leave that here,” the soldier said to the two men carrying the trunk and a number of satchels and leather cases.
Two more soldiers came in through the front door loaded down with wooden boxes, a basket of eggs, a ham and three sacks of flour, tracking red mud on the bare wood floor all the way. The floor was walnut—short pieces done in an intricate chevron pattern that caused much admiration among visitors to the house and cleverly hid the fact that, at the time, the scrap pieces were all her father could afford. It was yet another example of his resourcefulness, but it was she who would have to get down on her hands and knees to brush the mud out of the crevices.
“The colonel’s provisions, miss. Light the way to the pantry, if you please.”
She didn’t please, but she picked up the lamp from the hall table and carried it in the direction of the kitchen. They would have no problem locating which larder had been set aside exclusively for the colonel. It would be the one protected from civilian pilfering by a heavy padlock to which no one in the household had the key.
She looked over her shoulder toward the open front door, still expecting the colonel himself, but she could see no soldiers in the yard or in the carriage.
“You understand that these provisions are for the colonel’s use only,” the soldier in charge said as his men unpacked the boxes.
She didn’t answer him.
“It will save you a lot of trouble and grief in the long run, if you do, miss. The quarters for the colonel’s orderly—where are they?” He lit the lamp on the kitchen table.
“Colonel Hatcher’s orderly stayed in the room under the stairs.”
“See to it,” he said to a soldier nearby, handing him the lamp.
“Have you been advised about the new curfew, miss?” he asked as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the pantry door.
“What new curfew?”
“You—and everybody in this here town—will have to remain in your houses and off the streets. There will be no going anyplace—no public gatherings of any kind—until further notice.”
“Surely church services aren’t—”
“Church is canceled.”
“But why?”
“The colonel means to get to the bottom of all this incendiary activity, miss.”
“I doubt very seriously that we are the ones responsible for burning our own town,” she said.
“Even so—the colonel’s got to start somewhere.”
“Where is he now?” Maria asked. “I would like to lock up the house after you leave.”
“Can’t say, miss. He’ll be here when he gets here. Somebody will need to stay handy to let him in.”
And Maria knew just who that “somebody” would be.
“Maria Rose!” her father yelled from upstairs. “Who is that down there with you?”
The soldier in charge broke into a grin. “Mr. Markham is awake then, is he? I’ll just go up and speak to him.”
“He needs to be resting,” Maria said—to no avail. The soldier went off happily in the direction of her father’s voice, leaving her in the kitchen with the rest of the underlings.
She didn’t stay. She walked back to the parlor and sat down in a corner by the front windows to wait for them all to leave. From time to time, she could hear her father’s laughter upstairs. Her father. What would he say when he found out about her? How could she ever tell him?
But she wouldn’t have to tell him, if she stayed here much longer. Sooner or later, he would know. Everyone would know. Her body was already changing. She could no longer rely on it not to betray her at every turn. She was forever on the verge of fainting or weeping or being sick. The smell of frying pork had sent her bolting to the slop bucket more than once this last week. It was a miracle that her father had not noticed.
She tried to tell herself that she wasn’t the first woman to be in this situation. She would just have to go someplace until the child could be born—if she could find the money and someone willing to take her in. Perhaps if she said she was a war widow—
But there was no money.
And if there had been, she would have to ask her father for it. She’d have to put his weak heart at risk and tell him why she needed it. And even if she went, people would still find out. They always did. The very fact that a young, unmarried woman left town for a time—no matter what the excuse—was enough to raise suspicions. How could she bear it? For the rest of her life, people would whisper behind their hands, wondering about her prolonged absence and only too eager to share their own opinion about whether Maria Rose Markham had been ruined and who had done it.
If Billy were here—
“He would be no help at all,” she whispered.
She abruptly put her face in her hands, trying hard not to cry. Tears were not the answer. She had already cried enough to know that.
“Miss?” the soldier in charge said from the doorway.
She