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.