tempted to ask for the daughter but decided that would be unwise. If she did know of the marriage proposal, requesting to speak with her without her father’s presence would paint him as a much too eager suitor.
And if she does not yet know, there is no reason to trouble her.
He handed the maid his calling card. Henry didn’t like leaving matters like this. Miss Van der Geld was liable to get hurt.
But there is nothing I can do for the moment.
So he left the house, determined to return at a more opportune time.
* * *
Rebekah had heard the man’s voice coming from the foyer. Terrified by the thought that Henry Nash had actually come to pay a call on her, she crept to her room and closed the door behind her.
If I stay hidden, she told herself, I won’t have to face him.
From her sanctuary, she could no longer hear the conversation on the floor below, but she could make out the sound of Fiona shutting the door. Knowing Councilman Nash had gone, Rebekah moved to the window and watched him walk toward the street.
At least he has the decency not to insist upon seeing me while Father is out, she thought.
She tried to take comfort in that fact, but his sense of social propriety did little to quell her anxious spirit. She might not have had to face him today, but the moment was surely going to come.
Reason told her that things could be much worse. At least Councilman Nash was a churchgoing man. In fact, they attended the same church, and from what she’d observed of him there, he appeared to have a pleasant disposition.
But then so does Father when he is in public. In private it is an altogether different matter.
Her stomach began to roll. Her breath quickened. I can’t do this! I won’t do this!
It wasn’t as though she was against marriage itself. Three of Rebekah’s closest friends had been recently married. Julia Stanton, the daughter of a prominent local physician, had married her beloved Samuel Ward, a history teacher who was somewhat below her station.
Emily Davis had been raised as a supporter of states’ rights, and yet her parents had offered no arguments when she’d married Dr. Evan Mackay, the Union army surgeon she had once despised.
Elizabeth Martin had gone to work as a newspaper sketch artist after the death of her fiancé, Jeremiah Wainwright, then fell in love with his brother, David.
Rebekah’s father claimed that all three were foolish matches and her friends would soon regret their decisions. Yet she knew how happy they each were. She could see it on their faces. They basked in the glow of men who truly loved and respected them. Rebekah longed for the same.
Yet I am to be given to a man who scarcely knows me. One who most likely is more interested in an alliance with my father than with me. He seeks to further his own political career, and I will be expected to further his legacy. I do not love him, yet I will be expected to raise his sister’s children and bear him more.
She paced the floor. There must be some way out of this...somehow...
The clock ticked on, yet Rebekah found no solution. Hopelessness pressing upon her, she sank to her bed. She was still there when her mother came to see her later that afternoon. Susan Van der Geld floated into the room in a cloud of gray silk and claimed the chair across from Rebekah.
“I understand that Councilman Nash came by the house today,” her mother said.
Rebekah pulled herself into a proper sitting position, smoothed out her skirt and wiped her eyes. “He did.”
“And you did not see him?”
“He did not ask to see me.”
“Of course not,” her mother said. “A proper gentleman would seek to speak only with your father, but you should have been gracious enough to greet him. Your father is very disappointed that you did not.”
Disappointed. How often Rebekah heard that word? He was always disappointed with her in some way, and he always let it be known. What punishment would she receive this time?
“I am sorry, Mother. Truly I am. I am just so—” Dare she say it? What good would it do to admit she was afraid?
Her mother gave her a knowing look. “You do not wish to marry him, do you?”
Hope sparked inside Rebekah. She understands! Perhaps there is a way out of this after all! Perhaps she will speak up on my behalf! “No,” Rebekah said. “I don’t. I don’t love him!”
“Of course you don’t,” her mother said expressionlessly. “You must learn to do so.”
The spark died. I must learn? “Mother, how can I—”
Susan stopped her with an upturned hand. “This is the way it is done, Rebekah. This is the way it was for me, for your grandmother and for her mother before her.”
And you are miserable, Rebekah desperately wanted to say. Just once, won’t you intervene?
Her mother stood and brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. “Things will go much easier if you simply accept this,” she said. “Your father has firmly decided the matter. He will not change his mind. Now wash your face and come downstairs. You know how he dislikes tears.”
Yes, I know. They only make him angrier. Resignation washed over Rebekah in suffocating waves. So this is to be my lot in life: a politician’s wife. I must mind my tongue, create an appropriate home and play the gracious hostess at all gatherings, just like you. And as for the children, his nieces and however many more may come in the future... I must manage them accordingly, for the voters will be watching.
Anger roiled inside her, and so did hurt—two emotions she realized she must master. Rebekah had seen what those same feelings had done to her mother. For twenty-four years, Susan Van der Geld had pined for the affection of a hard-hearted man. Continual disappointment had withered her, and as a result, she’d grown cold and aloof to her own children.
Rebekah steeled her resolve. I will not do so. I will not let him change me. I may be forced to give Henry Nash my life and my youth, but I will never give him my heart.
* * *
Henry did his best to forget all about Rebekah Van der Geld as he rolled toward the Baltimore Harbor. Long before her father and his had stirred up such trouble, Henry had intended to spend the day visiting his constituents.
He hoped sticking to his original plan would take his mind off the unfinished business with the Van der Gelds. He made his rounds along the wharf. Then, upon reaching Eutaw Street, he stopped at the Branson Boarding House. Two Federal soldiers stood idly by the front steps. Henry acknowledged them, then knocked on the door. The proprietor’s daughter, Maggie, a young woman of about twenty or so, answered. Henry had spoken with her once before.
“Good afternoon, Miss Maggie. Is your father home?”
“I’m afraid he is not,” she said, “but may I help you?”
Henry explained why he had come. When Miss Branson learned he was willing to listen to her complaints, she invited him inside. A boarder had taken up residence in the formal parlor, so she offered Henry the dining room. Once they were seated, she wasted no time.
“Can you do anything about those soldiers?” she asked.
“Which soldiers, miss?”
“The ones outside. There are always two or three roaming about. Martial law hasn’t been good for business, you know.”
Miss Branson’s family, as well as many others, had been forced to contend with the presence of scrutinizing Federal troops since the beginning of the war. Most of the soldiers Henry had encountered were honorable peacekeepers. There were always a few bad apples in every barrel, though, and knowing that, he was concerned for Miss Branson.
“Have the soldiers