must have instilled some well-deserved fear into her cousin, judging from his wide eyes. “Who are you?” he asked, backing away.
The preacher closed the gap again. “I’m the Reverend Samuel Montgomery. I won’t tolerate your contempt in my church.”
Absalom’s face paled. “The Fighting Chaplain?”
The reverend remained silent, quirking one brow, threatening him with his dark glower.
Absalom broke away and retrieved his hat from beside the nearest box pew, muttering about the unfairness of life.
Clarissa shook off the fog and stepped toward her cousin. “What do you want? You caused enough trouble before you went to war. Why did you come back?”
“When you didn’t show up for our appointment, we came to you.” The hat trembled in Absalom’s hand as he moved a good distance from the preacher. “We need to talk about the old man’s will. About Camellia Pointe and his tenement down at the landing.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. He left the Yazoo ground to Father and Grandmother, and Camellia Pointe and Good Shepherd Dining and Lodging to me. And Good Shepherd isn’t a tenement—it’s a respectable hotel.” Clarissa turned from her rogue cousin toward Joseph. Her attorney’s downcast gaze shot a jolt of fear through her until she glanced at Grandmother and saw her pallor. Then the jolt grew to a thunderbolt. “Tell him it’s true, Uncle Joseph.”
At the tremor in her voice, her cousin smiled an oily smile. “I want the Fighting Chaplain here as a witness when you do.”
Emma announced she would sit in their carriage and read, leaving the others to start down the long hallway to the pastor’s study. Entering it, Grandmother poked her cane at Absalom’s ribs. “Why exactly are you not dead?”
“That’s harsh, Grandmother, even for you.” In the cypress-paneled room, Cousin Absalom pulled a cigar from the pocket of his mulberry-red frock coat and clamped his teeth around it, looking for all the world like a riverboat gambler. Which he could be, for all they knew.
“Considering how you left your entire family for dead during the yellow fever outbreak, I’d say it’s a question worth asking.” Grandmother rubbed the handle of her cane. “We thought we were finished enduring your treachery.”
“I was captured at Lookout Mountain and sent to the Johnson Island prison in Ohio, where they kept Confederate officers,” Absalom said around the fat cigar. “I stayed until Lake Erie froze over, then I escaped by walking across the ice to Canada. The Yankees reported me as dead.”
He had to be joking. “Cousin Absalom, that’s the most fanciful tale I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re lying, as always.” Fire shot from Grandmother’s eyes and she lifted her cane again.
The pastor cleared his throat and picked up his black Bible from the desk. “In the book of Ephesians, the apostle encourages us to speak the truth in love. I suggest we heed his exhortation and get on with our business, telling the truth and speaking it in love.”
Finally—a voice of reason in this emotional chaos. Fighting Chaplain or not, flaming evangelist or not, the new pastor had just silenced both Clarissa’s renegade cousin and her indomitable grandmother with one Bible verse. Could he be just what Christ Church needed?
“I agree. Let’s get this over with, before I make good on my threat to retire to Saratoga.” Joseph set his brown leather portmanteau atop the pastor’s walnut desk. “Whatever the circumstances, Absalom is here, and we need to read the alternate will.”
How could this mistake have happened, leaving them to think Absalom had gone to his eternal reward—or punishment? Admittedly, Clarissa hadn’t grieved overlong for her much-older cousin. But who would, considering how he had disappointed and hurt the family as long as she could remember?
Of course, Clarissa didn’t wish him dead, but neither was she elated to see him. To say so would be a lie.
And now perhaps they’d learn Grandmother and Papa no longer possessed the Yazoo Delta plantations, Clarissa didn’t own Good Shepherd Dining and Lodging—and her beloved Camellia Pointe...
After this meeting, everything would change. If Absalom wasn’t mentioned in Grandfather’s will, Joseph would merely have informed him that he’d receive nothing but the wind blowing through Camellia Pointe, and Absalom would have gone his way.
But he hadn’t. Instead he stood there like a pudgy, arrogant crown prince, waiting to become heir to his kingdom.
Suddenly eager to hear the worst so she could think through her options, Clarissa took a seat beside Grandmother on the wine-colored settee near the window. Cousin Absalom pulled the fireside wing chair into the center of the room and plopped all his plumpness into it. Between them, the reverend stood alert, eyes narrowed, as if hoping Absalom would make a wrong move so he’d have the pleasure of throwing him out.
Joseph sat at the desk and removed stacks of papers from his portmanteau. “Because we had word of Mister Adams’s demise—”
“That’s Major Adams.” Absalom puffed out his chest, making himself look even more pompous. “I was the most highly regarded officer under General Bragg’s command.”
Grandmother huffed at the outright lie, but Joseph didn’t bother to look up from the paper in his hand. “Mister Adams was reported as killed in action. Therefore, I divided the Reverend Adams’s assets according to his wishes. However, since Mister Adams is obviously alive, we will now revisit the terms of the will.”
Clarissa folded her arms over the tremor in her middle. She glanced at Grandmother, whose flinty expression hid whatever emotions ran through her at the news.
But her fingers visibly tightened on her ivory-handled cane.
Grandmother Euphemia—nervous? Nothing could have frightened Clarissa more.
Joseph stood, proud and sturdy as a live oak, his gaze fastened on the page in his hand. “This is the will I was to read in the event that both his grandchildren were alive at the time of his demise. Euphemia, Clarissa, it’s quite different from the will I read when we thought Mister Adams was deceased.”
For the first few moments Clarissa struggled to focus on Joseph’s words, her mind drifting to Camellia Pointe and the happy days her family had enjoyed there—before the sickness. But when he spoke Grandmother’s name, Clarissa fixed her attention on the elderly man.
“‘To my wife, Euphemia Duncan Adams, I bequeath Waverly Hall in Yazoo County, its 2600 acres, cotton and crops.’”
A bit of tension left Clarissa’s abdomen at the little chortle of victory escaping Grandmother’s lips.
Joseph paused and turned a fatherly gaze on Clarissa. “This part has changed, dear. ‘To my granddaughter, Clarissa Euphemia Adams, I bequeath the contents of all structures and grounds at Camellia Pointe.’”
Only the contents? That unease hit her in the middle again.
“‘To my son, Barnabas Hezekiah Adams, I bequeath Sutton House Plantation in Yazoo County, its 1900 acres, cotton and crops. My other two properties, however, have deep personal meaning to me. Camellia Pointe is the home of my youth, the refuge my father built against the cares of this world. Good Shepherd Dining and Lodging is the safe haven I built to shelter and protect poor travelers landing in Natchez-under-the-Hill. One of my grandchildren will receive both these properties and continue their operation. However, the one to inherit must prove himself worthy.’”
What outlandish will was this?
All or nothing? If Grandfather wanted to mention Absalom in his will, which in itself was surprising, why would he not have simply given him some property outright?
But he hadn’t, and that set her on edge. Could her rogue cousin somehow prove himself worthy of Grandfather’s home and ministry?
Absalom sat straight in his