front entrance, taking in the broken sections of the second-floor gallery railing and the missing glass in a front window. At the sight of Colonel Talbot and Joseph Duncan in a seemingly deep discussion on the lower gallery—the very place he’d be married in a few minutes—the cool winter air suddenly turned cold as a Tennessee battlefield in January. But his daughter’s lace shawl lay unused on the seat between them, and he realized his own blood, not the air, had gone frigid.
And if his impending wedding affected him like this, how must Miss Adams feel?
Samuel sucked in a deep breath, the atmosphere thick with river humidity even here, a full mile from the Mississippi. The dark-haired woman must wish she’d never seen him, never taken him up on his crazy offer. But it was too late to change her mind—or his.
He pulled up behind an impressive two-horse landau that suited this grand estate. He knew nothing of his bride. What would she be like? Warm and sweet as his mother had been, or cool and distant like Veronica? Did she take tea or coffee? Was she neat or a little messy? Did she like to sit up at night and sleep late in the mornings, or did she love the fresh, dewy new day, as he did? Roses or daisies—or camellias?
Samuel dropped the reins over the dash. All he knew of her was her name—and her position as potential heiress of this estate.
He’d known more about Veronica before their wedding...
At the thought, he slipped his finger under his stiff collar, hoping to relieve the lump in his tight throat. A mockingbird flew overhead and lit on the top branch of a nearby pine. Its spontaneous song touched a raw place in his heart.
He was entering this marriage the same way he’d begun his first. He had no guarantee this one would turn out any better.
How many people would soon discover he was a fraud, unfit to be a husband, and would mock his deceit? And would he lose his church because of it—and thereby lose Emma?
He shoved aside the thought. If he couldn’t control these wanderings of mind, he wouldn’t make it through the ceremony. With effort, Samuel turned his focus to his surroundings. In the shade of a massive live oak, he sensed an emptiness about the place. Quite a contrast from the bustle and busyness one would expect before a wedding. Even a ceremony as hasty as this. Did Miss Adams and the dowager live in this monstrosity alone? How could they have managed?
The moment he’d assisted Emma from his modest rented conveyance, she flashed her attention toward the magnificent landau in front of them. More specifically, toward the young man now making a show of leaping down from the expensive carriage, tossing his long mane of wavy blond hair as he hit the ground. He flicked at the sleeve of his gray wool sateen suit, which must have cost more than the wedding ring Samuel had purchased this afternoon. The smile he aimed at Emma looked nothing like the grin a well-intentioned youth would give a Christian girl.
Samuel’s wedding-day jitters erased any mercy he might otherwise have shown. He widened his stance and cleared his throat. When the young man in gray caught his eye, Samuel crossed his arms over his chest and issued the same dark, silent warning he’d given Absalom earlier today.
After sneering at Samuel, the youth shifted his gaze toward Emma again and then skulked off.
He would bear watching.
Absalom caught Samuel’s attention then as he exited the carriage with a woman about Samuel’s age, her hair the same color as the young man’s. As she stepped to the ground, her giant purple hat bobbed with her effort.
Oversize hats, overlong hair—this family’s tastes certainly leaned toward the peculiar.
“Is that the Fighting Chaplain?” The woman’s strident stage whisper carried to Samuel and, no doubt, beyond.
Absalom took her arm and tried to propel her toward the gallery. But she pulled away and headed toward Samuel, batting her eyelashes in a way that made him unsure if she was trying for his attention or merely had a speck of dust in her eye. “I’m Absalom’s wife, Drusilla Adams, and you saw my son, Beau, a moment ago. I’ve heard all about your exploits...”
As she chattered on about what she thought she knew of his war experience, she gazed at Samuel the same way the young man had looked at Emma. The thought unnerved him and he turned to Absalom for his reaction to his wife’s behavior. To Samuel’s disgust, the man merely pulled a fat cigar from within his coat and cut off his wife midsentence.
“We’re here to make sure this marriage is legal.” Absalom lit his cigar and pointed it at Samuel’s rented carriage. “And to give you a word of advice from a native. You think you’re being pious, driving a ten-year-old, cheap phaeton and looking like you don’t care about earthly goods. But your church is full of Natchez aristocracy, and they’ll expect better.”
Samuel held back the harsh words that wanted to explode from his lips. “Nobody has any money in the South, Adams. Including Natchez. These people won’t require me to—”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Take a look at my landau.” Absalom waved the stinking cigar at his carriage. “Belonged to Jeff Davis. I paid a small fortune for it, but I felt sorry for his wife, Verina, since she’s trying to raise bail money for Jeff. She’s a Natchez girl—a friend of mine. In fact, Jeff’s plantation is next door to this estate.”
Samuel had to escape, now. Otherwise he was liable to give Absalom a piece of his mind, speaking of the president in such an intimate way and boasting of buying his carriage.
At the sound of Emma’s giggle, wafting from the other side of the carriage, an image of long-haired Beau shot through Samuel’s mind and brought a sense of foreboding.
President Davis didn’t need Samuel to defend or protect him, but Emma did. A feeling of unease had wormed its way into his subconscious the moment he’d seen Beau—or, rather, the moment Beau had seen Emma. Now that unease started to fester. The only way to get rid of it was to lance it before it poisoned both Samuel and his daughter. He would look for an opportunity to warn Adams to keep his son under control. However, now was not that time.
He glanced back at the gallery, hoping Colonel Talbot would summon him, but it was empty.
He’d head over there anyway—and without further comment to Adams. If the man spent half as much energy caring for his family as he did in boasting, there might be no need for this contest between him and Miss Adams.
As Samuel approached the gallery, his misgivings about the house returned to him with violent force. Clearly, Natchez wouldn’t object to his wife owning this home, since it had belonged to the late Reverend Adams. And Samuel didn’t wish to offend his in-laws, especially on the day of his marriage. But he couldn’t easily forget his grandfather’s teaching that a minister of the Gospel shouldn’t have extravagant possessions such as this home. Grandfather wouldn’t approve of Samuel having a wife who owned such a palace, even though they would live in the manse. What had he gotten himself into?
He reached for the knob, but someone rattled it from inside. Then came the sound of a struggle, as if the cypress door was stuck. When it flew open, Colonel Talbot stepped onto the gallery, leaving the door ajar. “I’d hoped to have the door fixed before you got here, Chaplain.”
“No need.” Samuel kept his eye on his daughter as she disappeared around the house’s west corner. He lowered his voice. “Colonel, I’ve made a grave error. You see, this house—”
“Don’t worry. The roof is sound, and the broken windows are boarded, so rain can’t get in and destroy the interior. Camellia Pointe is still one of the best of the grand old Natchez homes. You’ll need to make repairs at some point, but it’ll stand for a long time as it is.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not worried about its condition but rather the brazen display of wealth—”
At the sound of footfalls, Samuel hesitated, in case one of the approaching persons was Miss Adams. They would need to talk about this house, but in private.
“We’re ready,” an unfamiliar female voice called from inside.