Last-Minute Bride

Widowed reverend Samuel Montgomery is excited to start over with his daughter in Natchez, Mississippi—until he learns he’ll lose his job if he doesn’t marry. His solution: a marriage in name only to heiress Clarissa Adams, who needs a husband to win her inheritance. Though the beautiful music teacher will make a good wife, Samuel doubts he can ever truly capture her heart.

Marriage satisfies only the first provision of Clarissa’s grandfather’s will, which pits her against her cousin. And fulfilling the remaining stipulations won’t be easy between caring for Samuel’s rebellious daughter and managing an orphanage. But Samuel seems determined to stand by her side...and maybe even prove their marriage could be more than just convenient.

CHRISTINA MILLER has always lived in the past. Her passion for history began with her grandmother’s stories of 1920s rural southern Indiana. When Christina began to write fiction, she believed God was calling her to write what she knew: history. A Bethany College of Missions graduate, pastor’s wife and worship leader, Christina lives on the family’s farm with her husband of twenty-nine years and Sugar, their talking dog.

Also By Christina Miller

Counterfeit Courtship

An Inconvenient Marriage

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

An Inconvenient Marriage

Christina Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08045-3

AN INCONVENIENT MARRIAGE

© 2018 Christina Miller

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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“What’s so funny?” Samuel couldn’t keep a smile from his face, enjoying the sound of her laughter.

“You are.” She smiled. “With your formality. Although Grandfather used to tell me stories of Grandmother calling him Reverend, even when they were alone.”

“And what did he call her?”

“Ducky dearest.”

He could just imagine the dowager’s response. He grinned at Clarissa. “Hmm...it has possibilities.”

The warmth in Samuel’s heart shot a grim warning, reminding him that romantic love was not for him. Sure, the dark-haired beauty before him was his wife, but only because she needed to hold on to this home, and he needed to keep his pastorate. He couldn’t treat her as if they had a real marriage, a real relationship.

She laughed again. “Let’s leave Grandfather’s terms of endearment in the past. At home, you may call me Clarissa.”

“And please call me Samuel.”

Clarissa smiled, settling this issue, if nothing else. Although the arrangement seemed too casual,

too intimate, for a wife who would never truly be

his wife.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading my second Natchez story! Since my first visit there many years ago, Natchez has been an inspiration to me. The wealthiest city in the country before the War, Natchez has since struggled to survive. But its citizens decided to give it a second chance, working hard to restore the grand old homes there. Their Garden Club Spring Pilgrimage—the inspiration for Camellia Pointe’s Spring Festival—draws droves of history lovers each year as the town opens their antebellum mansions for tours.

God offers us all a second chance—for eternal life, for love, for peace—as we place our trust in Jesus. My prayer is for you to discover that second chance as Samuel and Clarissa did, and to rest in God’s love, knowing you are restored to Him.

I’d love to hear from you! Please contact me through Love Inspired, at www.Facebook.com/christinalinstrotmiller or at @CLMauthor.

Christina Miller

It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

—Lamentations 3:22–23

To my grandmothers:

Sweet grandma Ruby Linstrot, whose stories of long ago made me love the past.

Spunky grandma Violet Kahle, my fun and sassy inspiration for Grandmother Euphemia.

With thanks to...

The staff at Monmouth, the setting I chose for Camellia Pointe. Special thanks to Roosevelt, who served us his refreshing nonalcoholic mint juleps during our stay.

Steve Laube, my fabulous agent, for his wise counsel and ever-available listening ear.

Dina Davis, my smart, sweet, talented, hardworking editor and dear friend.

Jan, my preacher husband, who cheerfully does life with this writer girl.

Jesus, giver of gifts and fulfiller of dreams.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

Chapter One

Natchez, Mississippi

February, 1866

The cry piercing the damp winter air chilled the Reverend Samuel Montgomery’s bones even more than the wind blowing up from the Mississippi. He hadn’t heard a sound like that since Chickamauga—a cross between a rebel yell and the shriek of an anguished soul.

He raced up the muddy brick walk and toward the ghastly sound, dropping his Bible in his haste. As always, when he’d heard similar screams of agony on the battlefield or in an army hospital, he breathed a hasty prayer for the suffering one. What could have ignited a sound like the strident voice calling through the stucco walls?

“Help me...”

Nearing the white-columned structure, Samuel reached into his frock coat pocket and checked his vial of anointing oil and his portable communion set, issued by the Confederate Army’s Chaplain Corps.

His mind sped as fast as his booted feet while he prepared himself to anoint the sick or administer the Lord’s Supper to the dying. Judging from the hair-raising voice, he might be called upon to deliver either sacrament—or both—this windy winter day.

And they were the last tasks he would have expected to perform as he took his first steps into his new church, Christ Church of Natchez.

Samuel crashed through the doorway and crossed the vestibule at a run, the sweet tones of an unfamiliar song grating against his nerves. He snatched off his hat and pitched it toward the nearest corner. As he burst into the chilly, high-ceilinged sanctuary, voices and organ strains blended into a maddening refrain from the choir gathered near the pulpit.

Did none of them understand someone was in trouble? Barreling down the sloped center aisle, he scanned the massive room, from pulpit to vestibule, from balcony to white-paneled box pew doors. No one lay suffering on the carpet. No one sat propped in a pew, gasping for air...

“Help me—”

“Stop the music!” Samuel shouted over the choir and waved his arms to get their attention. “Someone here is ill, or injured or—”

“Who? Someone with you?” In the sudden silence, a dark-haired woman turned from leading the musicians and rushed toward him, her deep green skirts rustling. Perhaps she could help him discover the person in need.

Although stunning with her ivory skin and delicate features, she looked but a mere five or so years older than his Emma—twenty years of age at most.

He turned from her and crossed to the pulpit, then glanced upward. “It was someone inside. I heard it from out on the lawn. Perhaps we should search the balconies.”

Her light, fast footfalls followed close behind. “Wait a moment—let’s think this through. What did you hear? Was it a man or a woman?”

The compassion in her voice would have moved him under different circumstances. He turned to look into gold-flecked green eyes, sparkling in the light of the overhead gasolier. Those soft, gentle eyes could easily have diverted him from his task—if they belonged to a more mature lady. If he would ever again allow a woman to distract him. And if some poor soul didn’t need his help. “A woman is in trouble, and we don’t have time to stand around and chat about it. Did you not hear the cries for help? She screamed in agony and—”

The twitters from the sopranos and altos interrupted his words, along with his train of thought.

Had he imagined the sounds? Surely not, but he’d heard of men suffering such maladies after experiencing the terrors of war.

“Father, please...”

His daughter’s whisper jarred him back to the present. He turned to Emma, who held his hat and muddy Bible. To his shame, he’d forgotten she was there. Her reddened cheeks cut through him, slicing yet another piece from his heart. Seemed he spent more time embarrassing his fourteen-year-old than he did in any other occupation these days. His daughter stood at a distance, more than arm’s length, as she had since he’d fetched her from her Kentucky boarding school two weeks ago.

Until she turned, head bowed, and dashed back toward the vestibule.

Where was she going? Why would she bolt this way in the midst of an emergency?

“Now will you slow down and think?” The woman in green hesitated only a moment and then followed Samuel’s daughter down the aisle. Reaching her, she rested her hand on Emma’s shoulder and spoke into her ear. Emma immediately broke into a bright smile.

How had the lady won his daughter’s affections so quickly when Samuel could hardly coax a word from her?

“That was no scream.”

The words broke into his haggard mind like a swarm of cicadas, interrupting his thoughts. He spun toward the sound. That was it—the voice he’d heard earlier. Shrill, piercing, yet with an unmistakable plantation accent—this was the woman in trouble. Samuel searched the choir for eyes pinched with pain, lips drawn in agony.

Instead he saw a feisty-looking antique of a lady, her hazel eyes snapping and her wrinkled lips pursed. “What you heard was my solo, sir.”

Solo? The screeching he’d heard had been—singing? “I beg your pardon, ma’am...”

His face must have been as red as Emma’s. To insult a woman of her age—it was unthinkable. To do so to a parishioner—intolerable. And in front of other church members—unforgivable.

How had this happened? He’d shepherded hundreds of men during the war, prayed with the sick, comforted the dying. He’d cared for them with the love of a father. But now, in the first moments of his first day at Christ Church, he was failing.

Just as he was failing Emma.

As he scrambled to think of a suitable apology, a man in a stylish suit and ruffled white shirt stepped into the sanctuary. “Chaplain Montgomery.”

“Colonel Talbot.” He hastened toward his former commander and clasped his hand. If only Samuel had not committed such a blunder, he could have enjoyed reuniting with this friend he’d not seen since Lee’s surrender. Instead he leaned in close to whisper. “I fear I’ve inadvertently insulted a lady in the choir.”

“You? I doubt you’d know how.”

“Trust me, I did. I know I heard a woman cry for help, but she said she was singing.” Samuel chanced a glance at the lady, who stood dignified as a dowager among the sopranos who attempted to hide their smiles behind their hands or sheet music.

The colonel looked in the direction Samuel indicated and then back again. “The lady in black?”

He nodded. “The one who looks like she wants to cane me.”

Colonel Talbot covered his mouth with his hand and rubbed his chin, but not before Samuel caught a glimpse of a grin on his face. Even if he hadn’t, the man’s laughing eyes would have given him away.

“This is not funny, Colonel.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re right, of course. She used to be a brilliant soprano, but her singing days passed when she left middle age, and no one has the nerve to tell her.”

“But I distinctly heard her call for help.” Shriek for help would have been more accurate, but Samuel held his tongue.

The colonel slowly lowered his hand as if unsure he wouldn’t yet give way to an outburst of laughter. “It’s a new hymn called ‘Help Me Be More Like Jesus.’ Since she penned it, we could hardly give the solo to anyone else.”

“Hardly.” So Samuel had insulted not only the dowager’s voice but her composition, as well. This was worse than he’d first thought. “Who is she?”

“Missus Reverend Hezekiah Adams. The founding minister’s widow.”

No. The woman who’d called him to pastor here. Samuel let out a low groan. Missus Adams was, indeed, a dowager—of the church. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. “I’ve gotten myself into a bind. Only you know how much Emma and I need to stay in Natchez—and why.”

As they strode toward the choir—and the dowager, the lady in green silently dismissed the singers from the back of the sanctuary, and they trickled out. Emma wiped her little finger under her eyes, no doubt trying to whisk away her tears.

Tears that Samuel had inadvertently caused.

No matter what it would take, he had to keep this pastorate, for Emma’s sake. That meant he must win over Missus Adams before she could ship him and Emma back upriver to Vicksburg. Otherwise he could never bring long-overdue happiness to their lives. Happiness they had never yet experienced as a family.

God had led him here, to Natchez, to Christ Church. To a place of new hope, new beginnings. Of this Samuel was sure. Now he had only to convince the dowager.

And by God’s grace, he intended to do just that.

* * *

Never in Clarissa Adams’s nearly twenty-one years had she seen such a commotion in church. Things wouldn’t calm down anytime soon, either, judging from the fire blazing in Grandmother Euphemia’s eyes.

Nor had she ever seen anyone insult her grandmother, even unintentionally, and escape the dear woman’s finely honed sarcasm.

What other new and unexpected thing might happen this day?

“My father’s not always like this.” The girl set the bowler hat on the nearest pew, drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the mud on the Bible.

With a low laugh, Clarissa leaned in close. “I imagine sometimes he’s even worse.”

The auburn-haired girl let out a giggle, then she covered her mouth with her hand and lowered her head.

The poor girl. Her distress made Clarissa unsure who she felt more sorry for—her, Grandmother or the dark-haired father.

Studying the girl, Clarissa recognized a subtle air about her, an air she’d herself had at that age. The girl’s natural vulnerability and lightheartedness of youth barely peeked through a veneer of stone.

What tragic event had caused such hardness?

Clarissa glanced at the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. The few moments she had wept couldn’t account for her appearance. Something or someone had made her cry earlier, that much was certain. Surely the handsome man with the kind eyes hadn’t injured his daughter in some way, had he? It seemed unlikely, but Clarissa turned wary eyes to him. Strange men arrived in postwar Natchez every day, seeking a pretty cotton heiress and an easy fortune—or so they thought. They weren’t to be trusted.

But who were this father and daughter? And why had they burst in at the end of choir rehearsal?

Clarissa glanced at the cameo timepiece pinned to her shirtwaist. Ten minutes to one. She had little time to find out before meeting her attorney as he’d requested in his terse note of this morning. “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm. Fathers don’t realize how they sometimes embarrass their daughters.”

“Does your father understand you?”

The pointed edge in the girl’s tone brought back memories of Clarissa’s own family heartbreak, of the fear that had turned her words sharp as Father boarded a riverboat—alone—for the Yazoo Delta that long-ago February day. Memories of the cold wind blowing up to the bluff as Clarissa waved to a parent who didn’t look for her in the crowd. “I think Papa would empathize with me now, if he were here.” Instead of a hundred and twenty miles up the Mississippi River.

“My mother went to heaven four years ago. I keep wishing Papa would find a new wife and finally be happy.” The girl cast a wistful gaze at her father. “Maybe he’ll meet someone here in Natchez. Do you know of a lady he might like?”

“Well, my grandmother is unmarried...” Clarissa pointed toward Grandmother Euphemia in her black widow’s weeds.

The girl’s giggle made Clarissa smile. Well she knew how a good laugh could make any heartache easier to bear, and equally well she knew the pain of losing a parent. However, although the girl clearly needed a mother, that was a poor reason to wed. Marriages of convenience rarely ended in happiness. “I’m glad you came to town. Please call me Clarissa.”

“I’m Emma Montgomery.”

Montgomery? Clarissa’s gaze fixed on the black-suited man who now approached Grandmother Euphemia, his back straight as a Citadel cadet’s. She should have realized this was the Reverend Samuel Montgomery.

She tried and failed to pull her attention from him, although she could feel Grandmother’s disapproving glare. This was the famed Fighting Chaplain, the war hero who’d saved his entire platoon from the Yankees? The one who’d traveled the South after the War for Southern Independence, using his newfound, widespread popularity to win converts and change lives in every town he entered?

The man who wielded the sword of the Word as skillfully as he’d brandished his grandfather’s sword to conquer his enemy on a Tennessee battlefield?

He certainly seemed more like a dignified pastor than a fierce warrior. And at this moment, he looked downright humble.

As well he should, after what he’d said. Even if he was impossibly handsome and even charming in his embarrassment.

Clarissa touched Emma’s arm, urging her up the aisle. As they approached the reverend, Graham Talbot and Grandmother, Emma drew a noisy, halting breath that had to come from her toes. Fearing more tears from her, Clarissa dropped an intentional twinkle into her eye and her smile in the hopes of lightening the mood. “Reverend Montgomery, Grandmother Euphemia and I welcome you to Natchez and to Christ Church.”

He opened his mouth as if to reply, but Grandmother cut him off.

“I am capable of introducing myself.” Grandmother turned her dark disapproval from Clarissa to the reverend. “You are three days early.”

“Yes, he is, and that’s good, because Missus Euphemia Geraldine Mathilda Duncan Adams will tolerate a three-days-early arrival. But never four.” Clarissa leaned over and gave Grandmother a peck on the cheek to distract this most undemonstrative of ladies. “You’ve escaped her wrath, Reverend, at least as punctuality is concerned.”

Grandmother’s wide eyes and Emma’s little giggle made Clarissa laugh. The girl looked lovely when she smiled, until she caught her father’s glance and steeled her face.

“I heard your interim pastor was to leave town tonight,” the reverend said, “so I wanted to be in the pulpit tomorrow.”

“But you are not scheduled until—”

“The reverend did just as Grandfather Hezekiah would have done.”

The hard lines in Grandmother’s face softened just a bit, as Clarissa had known they would, and she paused. “My Hezekiah would have done that, yes.”

Clarissa drew a great breath of relief and caught the tiniest gleam in the reverend’s eye as he gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. So he knew she was maneuvering the conversation—and her grandmother. With this man as pastor, she’d have to think things through more than ever.

Grandmother straightened her back in her maddening way that always meant she’d allowed herself to be manipulated long enough. “However—”

“I haven’t properly introduced you, Miss Euphemia.” Graham Talbot touched her arm. “May I present my friend, former chaplain and my aide-de-camp, the Reverend Samuel—”

“I know full well who he is. He’s the image of his late grandfather. I also know you’re trying to prevent me from examining this candidate as the deacon board has charged me with doing.”

Clarissa resisted the urge to roll her eyes, since it would only make things worse. “But the board sanctioned the Reverend Montgomery’s calling weeks ago.”

“Contingent on my approval upon his arrival.” Grandmother set those steady hazel eyes of hers on the two men and studied them as if trying to make them squirm like schoolboys.

It didn’t work. The pastor merely inclined his head, his dark curls shining in the light of the south windows. “I’m pleased to know you made my grandfather’s acquaintance.”

“My husband spent a bit of time with him of necessity. One can’t travel far in the hierarchy of this denomination without encountering people of—all sorts.”

“In other words, the Reverend Adams did not entertain Grandfather by choice.”

“Precisely.”

“And yet the board of Christ Church called me here—surely not without your blessing.”

Grandmother leaned heavily on her ivory-handled cane as she bent toward him. “Certainly not.”

“Why did you call me then, since you clearly disliked my grandfather, as did the Reverend Adams?”

“That is a topic for another day.” And that clearly settled the matter, because Grandmother had decided so. “The more important question is the whereabouts of your wife.”

At the sound of a sharp intake of breath, Clarissa turned to Emma. The raw pain in her face had overtaken all traces of her earlier hardness.

“Forgive me.” Reverend Montgomery nodded toward Emma. “I neglected to introduce my daughter, Miss Emma Louise Montgomery.”

“And this is my granddaughter, Miss Clarissa Euphemia Adams.”

“I’m delighted.” The parson turned his brown-eyed gaze toward her for an instant, the smile in those eyes telling her he meant it.

“This church endured a great scandal when it called a young, single man after my husband’s passing. The bylaws now state the pastor must be married. And I won’t approve your call if you are not.” Grandmother tapped her cane on the carpeted floor. She did have a way of shredding any scrap of joy, especially in church. “Your wife, Reverend. Where is she?”

His face paled and he glanced upward, as if seeking divine help. “The truth is, she—”

The vestibule door swung open and banged against the wall with a force that shook the gasolier.

“Stop this meeting!” A vaguely familiar, barrel-chested man took the aisle at a clip, his long, curly salt-and-pepper hair as oversize as his stovepipe hat.

Glaring at him, Grandmother muttered, “Will all of Natchez come dashing into this church today, demanding we stop what we’re doing?”

“Adams, if you cannot slow down and act civilly inside the church, you can find another attorney.” Uncle Joseph Duncan followed at a pace more sedate but still lively for a man of his advancing age. He smoothed his famed white moustache, his old-fashioned top hat in his hand. “And take off that outlandish hat in the house of the Lord. Even for a stovepipe, it’s ridiculous.”

Grandmother’s gaze hardened as she took a step toward the man who’d ignored Joseph and left his giant hat on his round head. “Absalom Adams.”

Cousin Absalom. Of a sudden, a fog of confusion settled over Clarissa’s mind. Absalom had died in the Battle of Lookout Mountain...

“I heard the rumor about my death,” he said. “I see you did too.”

“I also heard Joseph tell you to show respect in this church.” Grandmother Euphemia lifted her cane and swung it at Absalom’s hat, knocking the monstrosity to the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing? This is a thirty-dollar hat.” Absalom let out a string of curses that should have brought the roof down on his now-uncovered head.

At the sound of the man’s foul mouth, Reverend Montgomery stepped toward him until he stood inches from Absalom’s face. “Another such word and I’ll escort you out.”

The low growl of the reverend’s voice 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 chair and pointed his stubby finger at Clarissa. “She was his favorite, so she’ll be the one to inherit. It’s not fair. I’m going to contest this will.”

“No, you won’t,” Joseph said, “as you shall soon see.”

As Absalom muttered under his breath, the attorney began to read again. “‘To receive the inheritance, my grandchildren must meet three conditions. If one of them meets the first condition, he may progress to the second, and so forth. I have given Joseph Duncan four letters to explain the details.’”

“Grandfather always did drag things out. Get to the point, Duncan.” Absalom’s sonorous voice echoed off the walls of the high-ceilinged room, his expression turning annoyed.

“‘Counselor Duncan will give the first letter to the pastor of Christ Church. The pastor will deliver and read the letter privately to each heir. When the first stipulation has been met, the pastor will read the second letter to both parties at once, and likewise the third. If one of my grandchildren contests the will, he forfeits his chance to inherit.”

“I know how the old man worked.” Absalom’s face exploded with the rage Clarissa had come to expect from him. Rage he’d frequently aimed at her beloved grandfather. “He made her stipulations easier than mine. I know he did.”

“I’ve seen the letters, and that’s not true.” Joseph handed two envelopes to Reverend Montgomery. “Euphemia, let’s allow Clarissa and the reverend to meet here, and you, Adams and I will wait in the sanctuary.”

When the door had closed behind them, Clarissa sat across the desk from the preacher, her pulse beating out her dread. “Please read it quickly. I fear the worst, and I have no idea how bad the worst could be.”

The parson reached into his inner frock coat pocket and retrieved a pair of rectangle-lens eyeglasses. When he had slipped them on, he opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet and scanned it. “A personal note appears as page one. ‘My dear Clarissa, my first instruction may well be your hardest to fulfill. Please try to understand and trust my reasoning. As always, I hold your best interests at heart. Grandfather Hezekiah.’

“Next, we have the legal document. ‘Both potential heirs must be married before my granddaughter’s next birthday.’”

Married—

She might as well give up right now.

Except she couldn’t, because then she would also give up Camellia Pointe and Good Shepherd—her ancestral home and her grandfather’s legacy.

Samuel whisked off his specs and regarded her for a moment. “Forgive me, Miss Adams, but have you a beau? Because if you haven’t, you need to get one—soon.”

A beau. A husband.

In less than a month.

Even though Grandfather had known that falling in love would mean that, sooner or later, she would get hurt.

Chapter Two

Sitting across the desk from Samuel, Miss Adams looked as if she wanted to turn and run at his words. The defiance in her face mirrored the expression he’d often seen in his daughter’s—and his late wife, Veronica’s—whenever he tried to reason with them. So much so that a part of him wished he could follow Miss Adams right out the heavy cypress vestibule doors. But clearly there was no escape for either of them. Without a wife, Samuel would lose this church—and possibly his daughter. Just as Clarissa would lose her home if she didn’t find a husband. And neither of them had the luxury of time.

Then comprehension softened her eyes and they turned dewy, the golden flecks deepening to burnished copper. “Grandfather always did want to marry me off.”

Samuel cleared his throat of the sudden lump forming there, the sweetness in her tone affecting him in a way he’d never known. Would she calmly accept the will’s terms and fulfill her grandfather’s wishes, allowing the late pastor to dictate her life from the grave? Or would she whisk aside her calm resignation and refuse?

“You are, of course, free to reject the will’s stipulations. But you won’t inherit.” Samuel brushed away his foolish sentiment. His job was to present the letter and advise her if necessary, not to become emotionally involved in this odd situation.

But his heart was involved—a full thirty minutes into the ordeal. It wasn’t like him. Why would this wisp of a young woman touch his heart so?

Miss Adams drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for an instant, as if in prayer.

And the truth hit him.

She affected him so deeply because her posture, her air of acquiescence in the midst of heartache looked just like a younger Veronica.

Samuel lowered his gaze, removing his glasses. How could he not have seen it? From the day of their betrothal, Veronica had worn the same expression of cool tolerance, of gentle acceptance amid suffering. Much of which Samuel had unintentionally caused.

And now, in order to keep his church, he may be forced into the same kind of marriage again.

The thought settled like lead in his stomach.

If only Missus Adams had told him Christ Church’s pastor must be married. He stood and paced to the window. The centuries-old live oak beyond his study stood sturdy, having weathered wind, fire, drought and war. As had Veronica, until—

“Reverend, are you well?”

Miss Adams’s kind voice brought him back to himself, and he composed his heart and controlled his countenance as he turned toward her. “I should ask you the same. This is a troubling revelation for you.”

“It is, because I cannot reject the will’s stipulations as you suggest. Camellia Pointe holds too many happy memories, and Good Shepherd is my grandfather’s legacy. Absalom would destroy both.” A tiny frown creased her forehead. “I can’t understand why Grandfather did this.”

“Have you anyone to consult, other than your grandmother and attorney?”

“They’re all I have, with my mother passed on and my father living...away for the past eight years.”

“Can you contact him, ask for his counsel?”

Emotions flitted across her lovely face—pain, embarrassment and then shame settled there. What could her father, the son of a great minister, have done to evoke such a reaction?

He stopped the thought cold. Samuel, of all men, knew that men of the cloth were just that: mere men, capable of sin. And so were their offspring. “Do you have other uncles besides Counselor Duncan?”

“‘Uncle’ is an honorary title for Joseph, as he is my grandmother’s second cousin. He stepped in to be an uncle to me when I was twelve.” She hesitated as if deciding how much to say. “Absalom’s father was my only uncle, but he and my aunt were killed in an accident. A year later, my mother died of influenza here in Natchez, and my father returned to our plantations in the Yazoo Delta. If I wrote to him today, I wouldn’t get a reply in time.”

Samuel opened his mouth to dispute the fact, but as her gaze turned downward, he realized she didn’t mean he could not reply in time—but that he would not. When she looked up again, the single tear glimmering on her lower lashes confirmed the truth. She rose from her seat and faltered, as if her legs were none too steady.

Samuel hastened around the desk to assist her, but she recovered in an instant. “To answer your earlier question, I have no beau, although I once did. Harold Goss. Harold was one of the first men in Natchez to receive a commission. Last anyone heard, he was in prison camp.”

Harold Goss? Surely she didn’t mean the greedy snake who owned the Daily Memphis Avalanche and had caused him no end of embarrassment with his false journalism. The poor girl...

She ran her fingertips over the desk, as if needing to feel its solidity in order to keep her balance as she started for the door. “I need to think about this. Please excuse me.”

Samuel hastened to the study door and opened it for her, bracing himself for the onslaught he knew would come from Absalom. That man and his boasting annoyed him like a Yankee. How he’d made the rank of major was beyond Samuel.

“Absalom has stepped out.” Miss Euphemia stood by the door with an army of pinched-faced, wrinkled men.

Samuel groaned inwardly, sure he was facing his deacons.

The deacons who had come to fire him before he could even start his work at Christ Church, since he didn’t have a wife.

“Apparently my grandson has recently married,” the elderly woman said, “and he left his wife to wait in his carriage this entire time. He went outside to try to appease her. If he hasn’t better sense than to treat her in such a fashion, they are both in for an unhappy marriage.” She waved toward the men at her side. “These are Deacons Bradley, Morris and Holmes.”

She hooked her hand through the crook of Miss Adams’s elbow, and the two retreated down the hall, presumably to discuss the will.

The most sour-looking deacon of the three, a balding skeleton of a man in waistcoat and cravat, stepped forward. “As you appear unoccupied at the moment, might we have a word?”

Samuel moved aside, letting them in, bracing himself for the inevitable question.

“Miss Euphemia believes your wife did not accompany you to Natchez.”

She was right. But why hadn’t Samuel been told they’d expected him to be married? He drew a deep breath. “My wife passed away four years ago.”

The man, who must have been the head deacon, shook his bony head, a scowl overtaking his face. “That won’t do at all.”

To his surprise, the deacons gave no word of comfort or consolation. Rather, they looked as if they’d like to ball up their fists at him, and Samuel wondered if he should start ducking.

The deacon with the droopy eyes took a step toward him. “We don’t want to seem harsh,” he said in a clear basso voice that would have enhanced Clarissa’s choir. “We must do what is best for our congregation. Christ Church was a laughingstock once. We won’t let it happen again. Go get yourself a wife...or leave.”

“I understand.” The deacons were right. The well-being of the church came first. “I’d hoped to raise my daughter here. She’s had a hard time since I went to war.”

“It’s too bad.” The third deacon crossed his arms over his immoderate belly. “We all wanted the Fighting Chaplain. You’re a legend throughout the South. We thought your military honors would be good for this town.”

Legend or no, he needed Natchez, and it needed him. Why else would God have called him here? But, ridiculous as it sounded, he needed a wife if he and Emma were to stay.

And Miss Adams needed a husband...

“If I had a wife, I could pastor this church?” He clasped the bony man on the shoulder, spitting out the words as fast as he could, giving himself no time to change his mind—which he would if he thought about his idea an instant longer.

“Yes, of course. You’re the Fighting Chaplain—”

“Wait here.” Samuel patted the man’s sunken chest and dashed for the door. “Don’t go away.”

In his mind, he applauded his idea loudly enough to keep his heart from rejecting it. As Miss Adams surely would. He’d already made a fool of himself with her grandmother, and showing up three days early with no wife hadn’t worked in his favor, either. Not to mention, his Fighting Chaplain reputation must have preceded him, since even Absalom Adams knew who he was. Why should such a refined, beautiful woman want a roughneck like him for a husband? For that matter, why would anyone? Veronica had been right—war had made him common. This idea wouldn’t work.

He stopped halfway down the hall and leaned against the wall. Father, am I taking the right path? Miss Adams will think I’m crazy. Not to mention her grandmother. So if You want me to propose marriage to her, help me reach her heart. He paused, listening for any advice the Almighty might bestow. Samuel had made enough mistakes already. He couldn’t afford another.

But instead of a Scripture verse or a lightning bolt from heaven, an image of his daughter’s tear-stained face flitted across his mind.

Emma. Even if she wouldn’t admit it, perhaps didn’t know it, she depended on him to bring stability to her life. Staying in Natchez was the only way Samuel knew to do so.

With a quick prayer of thanks, he pushed away from the wall and hastened toward the sound of female voices, hoping to find Miss Adams as quickly as possible. If this was God’s plan, he needed to take action now, before his courage could leave him, and then everything would fall into place. He could keep Emma here, and Miss Adams could inherit her property.

But a wife? Only for Emma’s good would he make such a sacrifice—which is exactly what marriage would be. He picked up his pace so his common sense couldn’t catch up.

Only through a move of God could Samuel convince Miss Adams this was a good idea.

The harder job would be convincing himself.

* * *

If Clarissa interpreted the Reverend Montgomery’s determined stride and dark expression correctly, he had more bad news. But how could her circumstances possibly worsen? What could be more horrible than losing Camellia Pointe?

At least his rapid approach distracted her and Grandmother from their dismal discussion of the will. For that small comfort, she gave thanks.

“The parson seems not to have a wife, and this puts him in trouble,” Grandmother said in a low tone as they watched him approach the ladies’ parlor. “I wish the deacons had allowed me to deliver their news.”

Clarissa took in the mixed emotions on Grandmother’s face, the odd tenor of her voice. She seemed almost to want him to stay while at the same time wishing to hasten his departure. “What would you have done that the deacons didn’t?”

“Perhaps I would have given him a ride to the landing so he could head back to Vicksburg.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Or maybe I’d have driven him up and down Pearl Street so he could see all the young women promenading to each other’s town houses. He’d be sure to find a willing bride there.”

That much was true.

As the parson stopped at the parlor entrance, the intensity in his dark brown eyes somehow changed Clarissa’s perspective of him. In that instant she no longer saw him as a struggling father, an embarrassed gentleman who’d interrupted her rehearsal, or even the Fighting Chaplain. She now saw a ruggedly handsome man of action, of purpose—but what purpose did he now bring to her and Grandmother?

“You look ablaze with some dire matter or another,” Grandmother said with an air of enjoying an unfolding melodrama.

“I am. I need to find a wife.”

The poor man was in as much trouble as Clarissa was. She needed to leave him to pray about it and discuss it with her deaconess grandmother. “Forgive me, Reverend, if I take my leave.”

“Clarissa, please stay and help sort out this misunderstanding.” Grandmother waved her cane at the wing chairs in the far corner, and Clarissa and the parson sat on either side of her. “How did you escape your wedding?”

“What wedding?”

“Your wedding—to Emily St. John of Memphis.”

The parson let out a bark of a laugh. “I admit Miss St. John tried her best to arrange a marriage, but to no avail.”

A stricken look came over Grandmother, and she lifted her hand to her chest for a moment. “I see the information my cousin Mary Grace gave me was untrue.”

Clarissa couldn’t pull her gaze from her grandmother’s lined face as an unexpected sheepishness settled there. “What information?”

“A Daily Memphis Avalanche clipping, stating the Fighting Chaplain would marry Miss St. John.”

“That was her ploy to trap me into marriage.”

“Cousin Mary Grace has been sending you her hometown gossip column again?” At her grandmother’s raised brows, Clarissa knew it was true. “Why do you believe that rag? It’s shameful that Mary Grace writes such a column, and I think she makes up most of it. I’m sorry she’s a war widow but, I declare, she needs to find something to do other than nosing in other people’s affairs.”

“And you carried this gossip to the deacon board, Missus Adams?”

Grandmother straightened, adding an inch to her height, although she again fidgeted with the handle of her cane. “The article included a picture of the two of you together at church. If you’ll recall, you told me in a letter that you were eager for Emily to see Natchez, since she would enjoy our city.”

“Emma. I said my daughter, Emma, would like to live here. Not Emily.” The parson’s low, steady voice gave authenticity to his words. “And the picture of us they included was not a photograph but a drawing. An expression of someone’s imagination. Miss St. John and I were never together in that church.”

A good deal of the color left Grandmother’s face, as if she realized she had caused this unfortunate situation. But, of course, being Euphemia Adams, she would never admit she’d been wrong.

But could she make it right? She couldn’t change the bylaws, and she certainly couldn’t change the reverend’s marital status. At once, Clarissa’s careless joking with Emma rang through her mind.

Do you know of a lady he might like?

Well, my grandmother is unmarried...

Suddenly that joke wasn’t funny anymore.

“I’ve thought of a remedy to this situation,” he said, interrupting Clarissa’s thoughts.

She frowned at the strained look in his eyes. Whatever remedy could he possibly offer?

His brow took on a sheen, and he moistened his lips. “Miss Adams, you are in a tight spot, and so am I. It appears we each need a spouse.”

She felt her face blanch. Need a spouse? Could he mean...?

“I could secure a ministry elsewhere, but Natchez seems the best place for my daughter, not to mention the fact God called me here.” He stood and moved to Clarissa’s side, took her hand. “And you need a husband if you are to receive your inheritance.”

Husband? The parson was suggesting they get—married?

She snatched her hand away. What peculiar scheme was this? Clarissa made for the door, wanting nothing more than to leave this ridiculous conversation. “My answer is no. I swanny, Reverend, if this is how you solve your problems, you may want to leave Natchez. Here we value propriety and traditional living.”

Grandmother stopped her with a firm hand on the upper arm. “You have everything to lose, including my home. I suggest you simmer down and let the man talk.”

“Fine.” Clarissa faced the preacher, since she could hardly defy her grandmother in front of him. But this change of events was occurring much too fast for her.

He turned those dark eyes on her, his whole soul in them. To her surprise, a boyish shyness passed across those eyes. “Have you another idea, Miss Adams? Another man you prefer to me?”

His vulnerability touched something in her heart. She had to look away. “No other man.”

“I need help with Emma. She and I were once close. When I went to war, I left her and her mother in Vicksburg with her mother’s parents.” The shyness deepened—or was it sadness? “But their house overlooks a strategic spot on the Mississippi River, and I realized the Yankees would likely shell the major port cities, perhaps even their home. I felt they were unsafe there. Her mother passed on about then, so I sent Emma to boarding school in Herrodsburg, Kentucky. Eventually she got herself into trouble—missing classes, sneaking out in the evenings. By that time, the war was over and I was traveling as an evangelist. I had to stop and give her a home instead.”

Grandmother gasped and then looked as if she wanted to skin him alive. “Hezekiah and I once went to Herrodsburg. It’s but a few miles from Perryville, is it not?”

He let out a giant breath, gazing out the parlor window as if suddenly unwilling—or unable—to look at them. “The site of the bloody Battle of Perryville. Sending her there was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. Believe me, I berate myself for my error every day of my life.”

His distress cut into Clarissa, and she chose her words carefully. “You couldn’t have known a battle would take place so near. Did it affect her greatly?”

“She’s not the girl she once was. She’s rebellious and dissatisfied, and I can’t reach her. She always seems embarrassed of me.” The reverend hesitated then turned his focus to Clarissa, his dark eyes unreadable. “Her one joy is singing. When Colonel Talbot let me know your pulpit was empty, he also told me of a gifted vocal teacher here. If Emma can flourish anywhere, I think that place is Natchez.”

Emma—the troubled young girl. Clarissa had sensed a sweetness inside her—sweetness masked by bitterness and disappointment. How well Clarissa knew those emotions. “I’ve fought her battle, and I still fight it at times.”

“She’s taken a shine to you. I think that, as her stepmother, you could help her. I’m sure you would grow to love her, and she you.”

“Loving Emma would not be hard.” Loving the reverend would be another story altogether.

Clarissa stepped away to the window and gazed down upon the chinaberry trees flanking State Street. “You said Graham Talbot told you of a voice teacher. I’m the only one in town, so he must have spoken of me.”

“I suspected as much, especially since you’re the choir director. Your speaking voice is so melodic, I knew you must be a talented singer.”

Clarissa opened her mouth to speak, but his words so surprised her, it took her a moment to respond with her thanks. What kind of man was this, giving her the one compliment that would reach her heart more than any other? How could he have known her father had always told her the same thing? And who else knew how those words would comfort her heart?

She shook her head. It was mere coincidence. And the parson had a nerve too, suggesting marriage in such a manner.

Her grandmother caught her attention then and gave her an almost imperceptible nod, her brows high and eyes wide. Then she smiled what Clarissa was sure she meant as a sweet, grandmotherly smile.

But Grandmother Euphemia was more vinegar and lemons than sugar and spice. Exactly who was she trying to fool? And what was she trying to do? Marry Clarissa off as Grandfather had always wanted?

Clarissa narrowed her eyes at the older lady, unwilling to take this a step further without finding out why Grandmother was acting so strangely about this even-stranger proposal. Which hadn’t been a proposal at all, now that she thought about it. “Parson, would you please excuse my grandmother and me for a moment?”

When the reverend had taken his leave, she closed the door with a fierceness that fell just short of a slam, making the glass rattle enough to release a tiny bit of her frustration. She opened her mouth to speak.

Grandmother beat her to it.

“Clarissa, this is a fine opportunity. It’s the only way we can keep Camellia Pointe.” She rapped her cane on the pine floor as she was wont to do when emphasizing a point. But this tap carried a strange finality that spiked through Clarissa like the Fighting Chaplain’s famed sword. “Do you realize we could move back to Camellia Pointe? With a man in the family, we’d be safe in the country again. And with Absalom back from the dead, so to speak, we’d have to move out of his town house anyway. I say you should move forward with the reverend’s suggestion.”

Move forward? Clarissa longed for a cane of her own to rap at her grandmother. “You’re not being rational. If I was willing to consider this, which I am not, it would take me a good deal of time to decide.”

“You don’t have time.” Grandmother said it as if they spoke of nothing more impacting than a horseback ride before Sunday service. “The Reverend Gifford’s interim ministry is over. He’s leaving on the last steamboat tonight.”

“I refuse to marry a stranger without thinking it through, without praying about it.”

“Then pray fast. You don’t want that Reverend Abernathy from Faith Bethel to conduct the service, do you?”

Not that creepy-looking, obstinate man. “We could send to Vicksburg or Jackson for a preacher. If I decide I need him.”

“You know the situation of both those churches—of every church in the South, including this one. Until our economy improves, no deacon board will approve such a trip for its pastor. When members’ income is low, the tithe is low. It’s simply too expensive, and I can’t pay for it either.”

“Nevertheless, I’ve always said I’d never marry for the sake of convenience.”

“You’ve always known my own marriage was arranged, and that my father brought me here from Memphis to marry Hezekiah. But we were happy.” Grandmother cast her gaze through the door glass and into the hall, where a portrait of Grandfather hung. “Marriages of convenience can develop into great love.”

“Great love?” Clarissa lowered her voice, having unintentionally raised it even more, enough to bring Grandmother’s brows up again. “You were happy, but Absalom’s parents had an arranged marriage too, and they were miserable their whole lives long. Remember how distant they were to each other, always traveling and living apart? How was their marriage happy?”

“They were—different.”

“Obviously. What parent would name their child Absalom—one of the worst sons in the whole Bible?”

Grandmother Euphemia put on her “no-nonsense” face. “They have nothing to do with us now, other than the fact that their son is trying to take what’s ours. Think about Camellia Pointe instead. Think about Good Shepherd and the thousands of hours your grandfather spent there, providing a safe place for less-fortunate travelers to stay at the waterfront.”

“But to marry...” Clarissa ran her thumb across the bare third finger of her left hand.

Grandmother’s eyes brightened with comprehension. “This is because of Harold Goss, isn’t it? Do you refuse to marry the parson because you’re still in love with that fool?”

“You don’t understand. You never have. Harold’s betrayal killed all the tender emotions I had for him. If he hadn’t up and married that hateful Belinda Grimes just because her father had bigger cotton fields than we did—”

“He would have found someone else with even more money, and he would have married her.”

“While he was engaged to me?”

Grandmother waved away her objection. “It could have been worse. Missy Conrad’s beau just never showed up for their wedding. Left her with a church full of guests and pink azaleas.”

“Yes, and she married a few months later and was the talk of Natchez. She had to endure both the pain of betrayal and public humiliation. Not to mention pity.” And the pity was the worst part. Everywhere Missy went, the Natchez elite stopped to whisper. And they’d done the same with Clarissa. “I can’t endure the whole town feeling sorry for me because I was the bride in a loveless, arranged marriage.”

“Then think of enduring Camellia Pointe going to ruin under your cousin’s management. He may well sell it, so imagine enduring the knowledge of strangers in your bedroom, in your grandfather’s study—in his little sanctuary.” Grandmother surveyed her a moment and then touched Clarissa’s cheek. “Can you honestly say you could give it up?”

At the rare tender caress, Clarissa looked into her grandmother’s eyes, a mirror image of her own. She saw something there she’d never seen before, and it looked like fear.

The bitter bite of fear welled up in Clarissa’s throat, as well—fear of loss, fear of trust. Grandmother was right about many aspects of this appalling situation, but she was wrong about Harold Goss. Clarissa wasn’t still in love with him. However, he had reinforced the lesson her father had taught her years before: men could not be trusted.

Clarissa choked back her own fear in light of her grandmother’s struggle, pulling a painful breath into her constricted lungs. She owed everything to the older lady. And she was the only family Clarissa had left—at least, the only family member who had not betrayed her.

She caught her breath as another thought embedded itself in her mind. What if she could bring Papa back by keeping their home?

The Spring Festival was scheduled on Clarissa’s twenty-first birthday, with the Mississippi Community Choir Association Contest taking place in Natchez for the first time ever. The association Papa had founded thirty years ago, back when he and Mother lived in the Delta.

And this year, Natchez stood a good chance of winning, with a larger choir than ever and a few new, spectacular vocalists. Most important of all, the Reverend Montgomery, a noted choirmaster, had agreed to lead them.

She pressed her hand to her throat as her thoughts swirled. Missus Milburn, president of the Spring Festival committee, had offered to hold the festival at her estate. But that was before the elderly woman had taken a bad fall. Perhaps Clarissa could host instead—at Camellia Pointe.

Then Papa might come back...

She’d call on Missus Milburn today. And write to Papa tonight.

She had no choice.

Drawing a deep breath of courage, she gestured toward the door. “Would you please fetch the reverend for me?”

“I will. And we can have the wedding on the front gallery at Camellia Pointe.” Grandmother hastened to the door and flung it open—a little too joyously for Clarissa’s taste. Within moments her cane tapped down the hallway. “Reverend Montgomery, are you there?”

Clarissa lowered herself to the hearthside wing chair, relieving her trembling legs but not her erratic pulse. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, but it failed to calm her. Heavenly Father, don’t let me make a mistake.

Could she do it—marry the parson?

She’d never trust any man enough to have a true marriage, true love. So wouldn’t a marriage of convenience to the parson be worth it if it meant she could keep Camellia Pointe—and see Papa again?

The reverend’s heavy footsteps sounded outside the ladies’ parlor, and she opened her eyes. He stepped in, his features soft with hope. He stopped beside her chair and lifted his gaze for a moment, as if to heaven.

As she had seen her grandfather do a thousand times.

Clarissa stood. “Reverend, I accept your offer.”

* * *

The late-afternoon sun cast the home into shadow, throwing a duskiness into Samuel’s heart as well. He pulled into the uphill circle drive and stopped his phaeton beside the graying sign with its faded letters: Camellia Pointe. He shielded his eyes from the lowering sun and gazed upon one of the largest, most austere Southern mansions he’d ever seen. At the sight of the immoderate display of wealth, he cast aside all he’d done to brace himself for his marriage.

Even in the fading light, Camellia Pointe showed herself off, her two-story galleries embellishing her white-stucco frame, her massive columns timeless, her Greek Revival lines impeccable. She stood proud, elegant—excessive.

Hardly an appropriate setting for a minister’s wedding.

Everything in him wanted to turn the buggy around and head back to town. Back to Christ Church. Back to a place of sanity and safety for his heart.

Perhaps he should have stood his ground when Clarissa had suggested holding the ceremony on the front gallery of her family home. But she’d clearly set her heart on it, and he’d hated to refuse her first request of him.

A church wedding—that’s what they should have had...

He stole a glance at Emma beside him and the book she’d immersed herself in every time they’d been alone since he fetched her from Kentucky. As she’d also done when Samuel announced his marriage plan. Could nothing move his daughter? Would she remain forever engrossed in her own thoughts, her own world?

She stirred as if sensing his gaze. Then she let out a squeal and clasped his upper arm with the grip of youthful exuberance. “Is this Clarissa’s home?”

Samuel paused, savoring his daughter’s hand on his arm—the first touch she’d given him since he’d left her at the Kentucky school four years ago. “It’s Camellia Pointe.”

Emma tossed the book to the carriage seat, her brown eyes gleaming. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful house. Can we live here?”

“This is no place for a preacher. We’ll live in the church manse as planned.”

With a frown, she dropped her hand from his arm and picked up her book. But as he urged the horse up the drive, she kept the book closed, her focus on the mansion.

Samuel fixed his gaze on Camellia Pointe, as well—the one thing, other than the infernal book, that had captured his daughter’s attention and brought her out of her melancholy. Even for those few moments. Despite Emma’s sentiments, he would hurry this wedding ceremony along and hasten his new family to the manse.

Cresting the hill, Samuel circled around to the 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.

The Reverend Gifford appeared from around the corner, with Emma on his arm and Beau at his other side. Other than the gray at his temples, he looked much the same as he had when Samuel last saw him, before the war. “Glad to see you’ve found a new wife, and a mother for this pretty girl. And I’m happy to see you taking the pulpit at Christ Church.”

“He’s the perfect choice for both the church and Clarissa,” Talbot cut in, pointing to the right. “The groom stands over there, or so the women tell me.”

The dowager exited the house and stood at the gallery’s edge, next to a square pillar, a camellia bush at her back. Behind her, Miss Adams seemed to float through the doorway, her dark hair contrasting with her high-necked white dress, its skirt narrower than current fashion dictated. The pink bridal glow in her porcelain cheeks made her even more lovely than before. Equally beautiful to Samuel was the look of adoration on his daughter’s face as she gazed upon her soon-to-be stepmother. Emma’s eyes shone as they had when she’d taken in the beauty of Camellia Pointe only minutes ago.

And had clutched his arm.

Father, I believe Miss Adams is the answer to my prayers for Emma. And if so, couldn’t Samuel manage to tolerate his wife owning a showy home like this?

Yes, he could, especially since he would rarely see it.

The colonel clasped his shoulder and gave him a soldierly shove toward the spot Samuel was presumably to occupy. A blond woman followed Miss Adams outside, wearing a more modern pink dress, and took her place beside Talbot. Joseph Duncan stepped out next, his stern gaze settling on Absalom’s family as they approached.

When the Reverend Gifford stood before them and started the ceremony, Samuel adjusted his frock coat, laid aside his misgivings and set his face like a flint. He’d failed his late wife and he’d failed Emma. For no reason could he do it again.

Samuel went through the motions, saying, “I do” and placing the ring on his bride’s finger when prompted. Finally, the words “man and wife” penetrated the fog of his brain.

“You may ki—”

At the tiny shake of Miss Adams’s head—or was she Missus Montgomery now?—the minister cut off his words. “You may...greet your guests.”

His wife’s sigh of apparent relief cut through Samuel’s own discomfort and shamed him more than an open rebuke.

Samuel mindlessly accepted congratulations from the lady in pink, the attorney and the reverend, and a fierce army backslap from his former commander. He stepped over to Emma, who, he now realized, carried a bouquet of white flowers.

“Miss Clarissa picked these camellias,” his daughter said, touching the petals. “They’re the first ones to bloom, and she said I was her bridesmaid.”

It seemed his new bride had made herself quite indispensable already.

Joseph meandered his way, a grim set to his mouth. “Reverend Montgomery, as inopportune as this seems, I must ask you to deliver the next stipulation of the will.”

At his wedding? “Can it not wait?”

“I fear not. This letter is to be read immediately after both parties fulfill the first condition. I’m bound to follow Hezekiah’s instructions.”

Samuel’s pounding headache of this morning threatened to return and finish him off, and he rubbed his skull. “I’ll collect my wife and meet you inside.”

“And I’ll get Absalom. Both parties are to hear this letter together.”

Samuel hardly knew how to approach his bride, engaged as she was in whispered conversation with the lady in pink, so he merely stood beside her and cleared his throat.

She turned to him with a smile so genuine it took his breath. Hardly the reaction he’d anticipated from her, since she’d been visibly relieved to avoid a wedding kiss. But then a black-and-white bird dog, one he hadn’t seen before, jumped down from one of the carriages and headed toward them. His wife gave it the same smile she’d bestowed on him.

So much for winning her favor.

“Reverend, this is Graham Talbot’s wife, Ellie,” Clarissa said, “and their dog, Sugar.”

“Clarissa, you’ll need to begin to call your husband by his given name.” Missus Talbot offered Samuel her hand. “And you, Reverend, will need to think of a pet name for her.”

Pet name? He’d rather pet the dog. After releasing Missus Talbot’s gloved hand, he did just that. At least Sugar and Missus Talbot didn’t shrink from his touch. But neither of them apparently knew what a roughneck he was.

“We must step inside a moment,” he said as the dog ambled toward Emma. “Your attorney asked us to meet him.”

Miss Adams—Missus Montgomery—turned those hazel eyes on him, their gold flecks shimmering in the late-winter sunlight. “The next stipulation.”

Samuel pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped aside to allow her to pass.

Inside the center hall, he hesitated. This house was even more grandiose inside than out. However, dusty sheets covered each piece of the hall furniture.

“The mural is French Zuber wallpaper and the gasolier is Waterford.” She said it without pretense or pride, as if she’d grown up playing around these priceless items. Which she apparently had.

When they entered the dining room, Joseph Duncan waited silently, his portmanteau on the sheet-covered table in front of him. Absalom sat at the head of the table as if he belonged there, first complaining and cursing their grandfather and his will, and then boasting about his “much-larger home” in Memphis.

Surely Samuel could tolerate this home easier than he could stomach the blustering braggart. And judging from the tension in those big hazel eyes, Absalom affected Clarissa even more deeply.

“It is extremely poor taste to talk business at a wedding, and I apologize,” Joseph said when Samuel had unshrouded a chair and seated his wife next to the gray-veined marble fireplace. He handed Samuel an envelope. “Unfortunately we have no choice. Reverend Montgomery, please read this letter from the Reverend Hezekiah Adams.”

Samuel took his specs from his pocket and slid them on. He opened and scanned the letter.

No. This couldn’t be. His aching head suddenly felt as if a dozen horses’ hooves pounded it. He glanced up at Joseph, who nodded his encouragement.

“‘To fulfill my second stipulation, both my grandchildren must live at Camellia Pointe for one year, beginning the day the first condition is fulfilled. Since the War has wreaked havoc on this estate, my grandchildren must live as family here and work together to complete its necessary repairs and restore it to its former glory.’”

Samuel drew a deep breath of defeat. But when he saw the way his new bride bit her lower lip, as if to stop it from trembling, he wanted to throw this hateful letter into the fire.

She didn’t want to live with Absalom any more than Samuel did—that much was clear. And if they’d known this stipulation before the wedding, would she have gone through with it? Would Samuel?

He shoved the thought aside. No matter what they would or would not have done, they were married now. And it was up to Samuel to make sure they kept this home, as much as he didn’t want it. Something about the desperation growing in her eyes made him want nothing more than to send President Davis’s carriage—and its owners—down that long, winding drive to the road, so Clarissa would never have to see them again.

And by the grace of God, he’d make sure to do just that.

Chapter Three

“I won’t have it!” Cousin Absalom slammed his fist onto Grandmother’s fine mahogany table, eyes blazing like the flames in the fireplace opposite him. “Clarissa will twist this whole situation to her advantage, and I wouldn’t put it past you to help her, Duncan. Now that she’s married the Fighting Chaplain, he will too. I’m calling in another attorney to examine this will, and I’ll pay him whatever it takes to defend what should be mine.”

Any shred of hope Clarissa might have held for a quick, easy end to this calamity now faded in the span of a heartbeat. Her cousin truly would fight to the death for their grandfather’s property, even if that death was Grandmother’s rather than his own. Which, despite her attempt to appear calm and unaffected, could happen if her current angst caused her health to deteriorate as it had after Grandfather’s passing.

In a sudden flash of clarity, Clarissa recalled a moment earlier that day, when Grandmother had offered her wedding dress to Clarissa. She’d pressed her wrinkled hand to her chest as if her heart palpitations had returned. Thinking back further, Clarissa remembered seeing the same gesture even before that, when her grandmother realized she’d mistakenly caused the parson’s dilemma.

Had her heart malady come back?

As this possibility sunk in, Clarissa clenched her teeth before her fear could steal her determination. Losing Camellia Pointe would be heartbreaking. But losing her grandmother would be almost as bad as...

She drew a halting breath as a tragic, long-ago night invaded her thoughts. A night before they’d left Camellia Pointe, before they lost Grandfather, before the War. A night that had formed her future. For a moment, she lived it again: the labored breaths, the little involuntary cries of pain, the goodbye kisses on soft, feverish skin—

Her vision blurry with tears of remembrance, Clarissa set her gaze on the family portrait over the mantel, painted during the last days they were happy. For the first time in two years, she focused on the dark hair, much like her own but longer, thicker, and the soft lips that would never kiss her again. It was true—losing Grandmother would be almost as hard as losing Mother.

No matter the cost, Clarissa couldn’t allow it. Not if she could somehow prevent it. She hadn’t been able to avert the tragedy of her mother’s death or the heartache that followed. But perhaps she could somehow find a way to shelter her grandmother, keep her healthy.

The only way to do that was to hold on to Camellia Pointe.

An idea suddenly coming to her, she whisked away her tears and turned to her cousin. “Absalom, you never were sentimental about this home, and certainly not about Good Shepherd. Let’s divide the Camellia Pointe land. I’ll keep the house and five acres, and you can have the other twenty-five. Build on it, sell it—do what you want with it—and we’ll somehow divide Good Shepherd too.”

“You think I’m going to settle for a mere twenty-five acres of useless ground and half of a worthless tenement, leaving you with everything else? I’ll knock every inch of stucco off this house and tear it down brick by brick—and go to jail for it—before I’ll accept an agreement with you.” Absalom shoved back his chair and shot to his feet, thickening the air with his tone and the weight of his words.

“It’s all I can offer. This is a country villa, not a plantation. You know our acreage lies in the Delta.”

“By all rights, I should get half of that too.”

“By all rights,” Joseph said in that threatening tone he reserved for unruly clients, “I should record your statements and conduct so they can be taken into consideration at the end of the year. And if you continue, I’ll do it.”

The Reverend Montgomery stood and positioned himself behind Clarissa, one hand on the back of her chair. “I’ll be watching every move you make—you and your family. Keep that in mind if you take a notion to start swinging a sledgehammer.”

“You’d better hope I don’t swing one at you,” Absalom muttered under his breath.

“Simmer down and listen. He hasn’t finished reading the letter.” Joseph looked at Absalom with unveiled contempt, the kind only the very aged could get away with in polite Natchez society.

Samuel continued. “‘My grandson will make any needed repairs to the main house. My granddaughter will repair and restore the gardens, landscaping, bridge, sanctuary, gazebo and pergola. All work must be completed one month from today. The pastor of Christ Church of Natchez will determine whether each party has successfully completed the task.’”

“This isn’t fair.” As Absalom bellowed his outrage, the heat of his breath hit Clarissa in the face. “She has an advantage, marrying the parson. He’s supposed to be an unbiased party in this contest.”

Joseph gathered his documents into his ancient portmanteau and stood, cloaked with the dignity of a man who’d spent sixty years advising the best and the worst of Natchez aristocracy. “Adams, you have a nerve. Waste your money on another attorney if you like, but it’s not in your best interest to insult your cousin or the reverend. You know the Fighting Chaplain’s reputation, and Clarissa has made herself invaluable in Natchez during the recent hard times. She’s a favorite among the citizens. Better keep your bitter opinions to yourself if you hope for a fair judgment in this town.”

“What’s she done that’s so great?”

“Besides helping to stabilize the church after it lost its founding pastor, overseeing her grandfather’s waterfront mission for the poor, keeping the city orphanage running and caring for her grandmother?”

Absalom kicked his chair, sending the Duncan Phyfe antique sailing against the wall, and stormed toward the door. “None of that will make a bit of difference. I intend to have this property, Clarissa. You might as well get used to that—in fact, don’t even bother moving back in.”

As his thundering footsteps pounded down the center hall toward the front entrance, Clarissa fought the urge to head out the back. This was her wedding day, and she’d scarcely looked into her husband’s eyes since the ceremony ended. It was also the first day of her year-long contest with her cousin, and she wished she hadn’t seen the vitriol in Absalom’s face, heard it in his words. At the moment, it seemed the year would never end.

Upon remembrance of Grandmother’s hand pressed against her chest, she realized the year might end too soon, cutting short Clarissa’s time with her.

“Don’t worry about Absalom. He talks big but it’s mostly blustering.” Joseph turned to the reverend, an expression of sympathy flitting across his eyes.

Well, Clarissa felt sorry for Reverend Montgomery too, considering the mess she’d brought him into.

“He won’t hire an attorney, but I’ll let you know if he does. Stay as far from him as you can, which won’t be easy while living in the same house.” Joseph made for the hall then stopped in the doorway and smoothed his magnificent white moustache. “And his wife, and his stepson. I don’t trust them any more than I trust Absalom.”

Yes, Absalom’s family was no more honest than her cousin himself. Suddenly the coming year felt more like ten.

“I’ll let myself out,” Joseph said. “And best wishes on your marriage. May it be long and happy.”

Joseph’s footfalls sounded in the center hall, then the front door opened and closed, leaving Clarissa alone with her husband. Sitting across from her, he looked anything but happy. His Adam’s apple bobbed a bit as if he were swallowing back some dark emotion—anger, fear? Regret?

He turned his deep brown eyes on her then, and something there made her wish she hadn’t done it, hadn’t married him out of convenience. For that instant, his eyes reflected the vulnerability she’d seen in the church parlor just before he’d proposed marriage. Did he long for a woman’s love? If so, she had stolen that dream from him, taken away his hope of romance. She was now his only chance for that and, of course, she couldn’t bring that dream to pass. Even though he was a minister, he was still a man—and men couldn’t be trusted.

The parson tugged at his lapels as if his coat had suddenly shrunk and was cutting off his breath. Then he took a long look around the room, first at the Duncan Phyfe sideboard, scarred now with what looked like sword slashes from the house’s days of Yankee occupation. Next he gazed at the faded, dusty, gold draperies and smudged paneled walls, and his expression changed, took on a more disapproving air. “This home...”

His appraisal startled her more than her grandfather’s strange will. What Southern estate had escaped marring from the Yankees’ hands? Certainly none in Natchez. “I know it needs a good cleaning, some repairs...”

His brown eyes radiated concern as he pulled his gaze back to her. “I meant no criticism of its condition but rather its opulence. I have always lived humbly. You see, my grandfather taught me that the manse should be the pastor’s home. But to fulfill the will’s conditions, it appears we must live here.”

We must...but Clarissa would have said we may. Before this morning, she’d all but given up hope of living in her beloved Camellia Pointe again. But now she would, because of Reverend Montgomery. She owed him her gratitude, and she’d make sure he got it. “If only Absalom didn’t have to live here too.”

“Indeed.”

“I need to find my grandmother and tell her of the new development in the will.”

“And I need to inform Emma. She’ll be overjoyed to learn this will be her home for a year. She loved Camellia Pointe from the moment she saw it.”

Just a year? “Of course, she will be welcome to stay here until she marries.”

His expression changed quicker than an eighth note. “Not without us here.”

“But we’ll be here. I intend to win the contest and inherit this estate.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you do, and we’ll keep it as long as we can afford its upkeep and taxes.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But after the year is up, we must move into the manse.”

What was wrong with him? Didn’t he understand how much Clarissa needed to live here, in this house? Then she realized he couldn’t know, because she hadn’t told him. “I couldn’t bear to live in it for a year and then move away. And what of my grandmother?”

“She’s welcome to live in the manse with us.”

Clarissa suppressed a sigh as she realized her new husband also didn’t know about their current living arrangements or why they’d moved from Camellia Pointe. She could hardly expect him to make the right decisions until he did. “We need to have a long talk—”

The front door squeaked open, and then light footsteps and the tapping of a cane sounded. Within moments, Grandmother Euphemia appeared, clutching the handle of her cane as if it would otherwise run away. Samuel stood and seated her next to Clarissa. “Was it good news or bad?”

“The worst.” Clarissa braced herself for Grandmother’s oft-repeated lecture on how charity believeth all things.

To her surprise, it didn’t come. “Whatever it is, tell me, so we can decide what to do next.”

“We have to live here for a year. With Cousin Absalom.”

Grandmother’s hand fluttered to her chest. She hesitated. “Is there no way around it?”

“Joseph thinks not.” Clarissa leaned closer to her grandmother. “Is your heart bothering you again?”

She dropped her hand to the table and scowled for a second. “Not so much that I can’t hold my own with that renegade grandson of mine. He gave your grandfather and me so much heartache that, when he was reported dead, I felt a measure of relief with my grief. And now here he is, resurrected, so to speak, and no doubt ready to cause more trouble than ever.”

Reverend Montgomery opened his mouth but got no chance to speak. Instead, Grandmother shifted her gaze to him, a defiant glare in her hazel eyes. “And don’t you lecture me. You’d feel the same if you’d lived through his backstabbing and treachery as I have. I hardly know whether to call him Absalom, Lazarus or Judas.”

“In light of that parade of biblical troublemakers—well, other than Lazarus—I won’t give you a sermon on love this time. But next time, I will.”

Clarissa sucked in a breath of horror. If there was one thing Grandmother hated more than tardiness—or early arrivals—it was receiving a personal sermon. Or correction of any kind. Even Grandfather Hezekiah hadn’t gotten away with that.

The smirk on Grandmother’s face took Clarissa back. Her grandmother was enjoying being threatened with a sermon? Clarissa glanced over at the reverend, who sat with brows lifted and a hint of a grin on his face—a friendly warning.

And Grandmother let him do it.

Before she could fully grasp this new side of her grandmother, the older woman straightened, eyes snapping. “You’re more like your late grandfather than I like to admit. However, we haven’t time to discuss it. Everyone needs to get settled in.”

“You’re right,” Clarissa said, although her grandmother’s tone told her she simply didn’t want to keep talking about any of this. “I assume you want to keep your old rooms, but where would you like to put Absalom and his wife? And what about his stepson?”

Grandmother was on her feet and halfway to the door before Clarissa could stop her. “Where are you going? I need you to tell me where to put these people.”

“Figure it out yourself. Put them anywhere you like.”

Clarissa scrambled to keep pace with her grandmother, who was now in the hall. The reverend caught up with them at the front entrance.

“I’m not staying. I barely survived the last time he lived here.”

Clarissa clasped her grandmother’s arm. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“It’s not.” Grandmother snatched her arm away and opened the door. “You were young, and we didn’t tell you everything.”

“Then tell me now.”

“I don’t have time. I have to make arrangements to leave town.”

What was she thinking? “Where will you go?”

“Back home.”

“The Delta?”

“No, I’m going to my home. To live with Cousin Mary Grace.” With the tip of her cane, she pushed open the already-ajar door and stepped onto the front gallery. “As soon as I can get the money together, I’m buying a steamer ticket and moving back to Memphis.”

* * *

“Grandmother, you can’t—”

Missus Adams slammed the door hard enough to make the case clock chime.

Samuel glanced over at his new wife as the surprise on her face quickly gave way to fear. Then she yanked open the door and ran onto the gallery. “Grandmother, come back inside.”

“I’m not leaving yet. I want to think. Alone.”

“Fine.” Clarissa strode inside and toward the back door. There she gestured for Samuel to join her at the six-over-six detached sidelights. “If she truly wants to think, she’ll sit under the pergola. But when she wants to pray, she goes to the sanctuary.”

Samuel peered out at the vine-covered, open pergola in the garden, perhaps a hundred yards from the house. “Then I’m glad I don’t see her in the pergola, because she needs to pray about leaving us. But if she wanted to pray, why didn’t she say so? And where’s the sanctuary?”

“She thinks private prayer should be just that—a private matter, not to be spoken of. And you can’t see the sanctuary from here.” She grasped the double door’s knob, turned and pulled, but this door was stuck too.

“Let me try.” When she’d stepped back, Samuel took the knob and applied his strength to the door. When it finally flung open, he stood back so she could exit first. “I’ll make sure Absalom has these doors fixed first thing, Miss—Missus...” He shook his head. Veronica had insisted he call her Missus Montgomery, and it would be wise to keep an emotional distance in his new marriage as well. However, she should be the one to decide. “What do you want me to call you?”

Her tinkling laugh—guileless, melodic—took him aback. He should have expected her to have a beautiful laugh, since she had such a sweet-sounding speaking voice. Nevertheless, he was unprepared for it. Of a sudden, he couldn’t wait until the next choir rehearsal so he could hear her sing. He couldn’t keep a smile from his face. “What’s so funny?”

“You are, with your formality, although it will help you fit into our church and our town. You haven’t been here long enough to know, but Natchez is the strictest and most conventional city on the River. Or in the entire South, for that matter, including Charleston.”

No, but he’d been here long enough to believe it.

“Grandfather used to tell me stories of Grandmother Euphemia calling him ‘Reverend,’ even when they were alone, until long after they sent my uncle to boarding school.”

“And what did he call her?”

“Ducky dearest.”

He could just imagine the dowager’s response. He grinned at Clarissa, hoping to draw her sweet laugh again. “Hmm...it has possibilities.”

As her laugh tinkled, the warmth in Samuel’s heart shot him a grim warning, reminding him that romantic love was not for him. Sure, the dark-haired beauty before him was his wife, but only because she needed to hold on to this home and he needed to keep his pastorate. So from now on, instead of enjoying the sound of her laugh, he would need to steel his heart against it. He couldn’t treat her as if they had a real marriage, a real relationship. She didn’t want it any more than he did.

“I think we’ll leave Grandfather’s terms of endearment in the past.” Oblivious to the darkness of his thoughts, of his heart, she stepped outside to the weedy brick courtyard and the sprawling, equally weedy terraced gardens beyond. “Custom dictates that I call you ‘Reverend’ in public, and you refer to me as ‘Missus Montgomery.’ But at home, please call me Clarissa. As may Emma.”

“And please call me Samuel.”

She smiled, settling this issue, if nothing else. Although the arrangement seemed too casual, too intimate, for a wife who would never truly be his wife.

“How long have you been a widower?” she asked with a hint of compassion in her voice, unlike the deacons.

“Almost four years.” As painful as it was to discuss Veronica and his marital failure, he needed to get the conversation behind him. Clarissa had a right to know. In fact, she had a right to know the whole story of Samuel’s failure, although he didn’t have the courage to reveal it. “My first marriage was an arranged union. My father wanted me to move up in our denomination, and Veronica’s father was assistant to our national superintendent.”

She stopped and turned to him, her hazel eyes bright green in the sunlight. Or had her natural empathy colored them so vividly? “Did you have a happy marriage? It’s rare for marriages of convenience to lead to true love.”

“We did not.” Something in Clarissa’s demeanor—perhaps the sad little droop of her lips—made him long to tell her all about his disastrous first marriage. But even more, he dreaded seeing pity in those most expressive eyes. However, Clarissa was his wife now, and she deserved to know as much of the truth as he could bear to tell. “Emma was born a year after we were married, and her birth was our only happy moment. Unfortunately for me, Veronica was in love with another man and had been for some time before our wedding.”

Clarissa’s dainty hand fluttered to her chest and then he saw it—the pity he hated. If he didn’t tell her the rest of his story now, he never would, and that wasn’t fair to her. “Her beau, Reuben Conwell, was a businessman and heir to the Southern Bank of Louisiana and Mississippi. Conwell had a reputation as a swindler with an uncanny ability to spot and exploit his competitors’ weaknesses. The man was ruthless, heartless. Veronica’s father felt he was not good enough for her.”

“So her father promised you advantages within the denomination if you would prevent her from marrying Conwell.”

“He promised my father, not me, but yes. But in time, I loved Veronica intensely.” At least, he’d thought so at the time. He gazed out over the expanse of lawn and gardens. His late wife had never taken walks with him, had rarely had this much conversation with him. She’d seemed barely able to tolerate his presence. What a change to have a wife who wanted to be with him. “I thought I could make her love me. I did everything I could think of to make her happy, to make her like me, let alone love me.”

He should probably tell her the rest, lay bare his heart and confess the event that had sealed their marriage’s failure. Though he couldn’t uncover the wound to share it, he relived it now—the moment he’d realized his love for Veronica. Six years ago, as they were about enter the elegant Burnett Hotel ballroom, where the district’s dignitaries and guests had gathered to witness his appointment as presbyter. His tender confession of love, the kiss he’d tried to give to seal his newfound affection...

Her shocked response, her acerbic laugh. Reverend Montgomery, do you mean you love me?

His stammered response, her back as she’d fled the room.

Her shrill laugh as he’d discovered her alone with Conwell minutes later, betraying Samuel with her mocking voice, regaling his rival with her story of Samuel’s confession of love. The realization of his failure as a family man.

The withering of his heart as his love for Veronica died.

“Were you able to win her love?” Clarissa’s sweet voice mercifully brought him back to the present.

He shook his head. If only he could forget those words he’d heard all those years ago. But that would never happen, and besides, it was time to change the tone of this conversation. It was his and Clarissa’s wedding day, after all. She should have some measure of happiness today. “But I have Emma. Other than the Lord, she’s the delight of my life.”

“I’ll help you with her.” Clarissa laid her hand on his arm, her voice a whisper. “I’ll do everything I can.”

How could he respond to that? He’d placed all his hopes on Clarissa to help him rebuild his family—on her and on the Lord. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what would.

They moved through the gardens, the cool evening air settling upon them as the sun lowered in the clear sky. Clarissa waved toward the west, shifting the tone as if she wanted to sweep away his disappointment in himself. “There’s my grandmother—just where I thought she’d be.”

Samuel looked beyond the expanse of flower beds with pink and white buds popping out here and there, past the pond with its arched white bridge and nearby gazebo. The entire estate held an air of grandeur faded to a dismal shabbiness, from the chipped paint on the bridge to the unkempt herb garden. Then he spotted a crumbling brick walk leading to a small stone chapel in the Greek temple style, its front open and supported by four white columns. Clarissa’s grandmother sat on a stone bench next to a statue of a bowing angel, facing the diminutive altar.

“My grandfather built the sanctuary,” Clarissa said, lowering her voice, “as a memorial to God’s faithfulness in healing him and Grandmother of the illness that took my mother.”

For all its compactness, the little chapel was as dignified and classic as its occupant.

They turned and started toward the pergola to give Missus Adams her privacy while keeping an eye out for Emma, who was likely curled up somewhere, reading her book. And Absalom. As much as the man annoyed Samuel, he’d rather have him where he could watch him.

“I think Grandmother is serious about going to Memphis, if she can scrape together the money for a steamer ticket.”

The concern, the pain in those big hazel eyes, could have melted Samuel’s heart once. Before Veronica, before his mistakes, before he’d known the power of guilt—and that he didn’t deserve a second chance at love. Didn’t deserve more than a marriage of convenience, a loveless union, a wedding sham.

But even though this marriage was based on necessity rather than love, he now had the responsibility of Clarissa’s family. He mentally reviewed his financial state, including the modest inheritance from his parents. “I’ll be glad to cover the cost of her ticket.”

Clarissa’s eyes turned cloudy, like a thunderstorm on the river. She hesitated, glancing toward the sanctuary and the feisty woman sitting there, holding her cane like a spear at her side.

She faced Samuel again, fear in her countenance. “Must we help her leave me? She’s all I have.”

He might have thought he understood, since Emma was his only living relative. But Clarissa’s pained silence told him her story may have been more complex than his. Perhaps he understood less than he thought. “What happened to the rest of your family?”

Clarissa gazed into the sky, the waning sun setting fire to the gold flecks in her eyes. “When I was twelve, yellow fever hit the town just after we arrived in the spring. My father came down with it first, then Mother.”

Her voice dropped, and he leaned toward her to catch every nuance. “Then she went away to heaven.”

Her sigh came from someplace deep within, a slight duskiness now shadowing the tender, fair skin under her eyes. Samuel shifted a fraction closer to hear her low voice. “And then what?”

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