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