The Reluctant Bridegroom. Shannon Farrington

turn to Caroline Street, Henry spied that familiar charcoal greatcoat. His heart skipped a beat when he realized Detective Smith was waving him down.

      God help me, he prayed as Smith commandeered the seat beside him.

      “Dreadful rain,” the man mumbled crossly.

      “Have you been standing in it long?”

      “You could say that.”

      A chill ran down Henry’s spine, but it had little to do with the cold downpour. Smith’s answer was vague. He knew exactly why. The detective had been working the funeral route.

      “I appreciate you giving me a lift,” Smith said.

      I didn’t, Henry thought. You stopped me. “Are you going to the Exchange?”

      “Perhaps.”

      Neither man said anything more for several moments. Rain continued its thunderous barrage while the president’s body continued its journey. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry could see Smith scouring the crowd.

      He’s still working, he thought.

      Henry knew he needed to acknowledge the fact that Smith had attempted to pay him a call. If he didn’t, it would bring further suspicion upon him. Swallowing hard, he hoped his voice remained steady.

      “I understand you wished to see me the other day,” he said. “I apologize for not being at home. I had—”

      “—business with the city council. Yes. I know.”

      Henry swallowed once more. What else do you know? “Was there something particular you wished to see me about?”

      “Not now,” Smith said.

      Not now?

      As the carriage continued its plodding pace, Henry could feel the man’s eyes upon him. The regimental band was playing a funeral dirge. Henry felt as though it was being played not for Lincoln but for himself.

      The last thing Henry wanted to discuss was the manhunt for Booth, but he realized any normal, loyal man would be curious about the investigation.

      “Are you looking for him?” Henry asked. He did not need to elaborate. Smith would know exactly to whom he was referring. “Do you think he’s here in Baltimore?”

      “He was here,” Smith said, now eyeing the crowd. “That I do know. Just hours before the assassination, trying to recruit more conspirators.”

      Henry’s grip on the reins tightened. His horse threw back its long golden mane in protest.

      Smith turned from the crowd and looked directly at him once more. “But why should that be any business of yours right now, Mr. Councilman?” he said, voice devoid of any expression, any way to read his mood. “Haven’t you other matters on your mind?”

      “Have I?”

      “Taking a bride? I should say so.”

      In spite of turn in the conversation, Henry felt no relief. “How did you know of that?” he asked. “We’ve yet to announce the engagement publicly.”

      “I make it my business to know such things,” Smith said, and he gestured toward an upcoming lamppost. “Let me off here.”

      Henry slowed to do so, and without further word, the detective disappeared into crowd. The man’s words haunted him. “I make it my business to know such things.”

      Henry couldn’t help but wonder just what else Detective Smith had uncovered.

      He obviously suspects something. But what Henry couldn’t figure out was why the detective didn’t simply ask him what he wanted to know. Is he waiting to see where else I might lead him?

      He told himself Smith would get nothing. He was no conspirator. He hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not as far as it pertained to President Lincoln.

      * * *

      Rebekah stood silently in the place reserved for dignitaries and family members as President Lincoln’s coffin was carried inside. A great sadness welled up inside her. She had never met the president, although she had always wanted to do so. Her younger brothers Teddy and Gilbert had been given the privilege once, when their father had traveled to Washington on business.

      Rebekah had asked to go, as well, but her request had been denied.

      “Politics is no place for you,” her father had said, but what he’d meant was, it was no place for her unless it served his purpose. If he needed a lady to hand out flowers or nurse wounded soldiers so his family could be known for assisting the war effort, then she was called upon.

      Otherwise I am expected to keep out of the way. Be seen but not heard, she thought.

      The president’s coffin was opened. The mourners began to file past, first the generals and military commanders and Governor Bradford, then her father and the rest of the state legislature. Each displayed a stone-like, somber face of dignity.

      How ironic, she couldn’t help but think. Some of those same men had despised the president. Have they undergone a change of heart or are they simply seizing an opportunity to be present in front of voters?

      Rebekah then spied Councilman Nash. He had not voted for the late president, either, but the look in his eyes and the set of his mouth revealed he was clearly troubled by his death. He passed Lincoln’s casket respectfully, then came to where her mother, her brothers and now her father stood. He greeted them formally, but with the same heartfelt expression still on his face.

      She studied him. He was taller than her father, with a strong build. While she still would not call him handsome, there was something winsome about his face, something honest, tender.

      He certainly cares for his two young charges, and he is kind to the servants employed in his household. The question, however, begged to be asked. But is that simply what he wants me to think?

      Rebekah wanted to believe him a good, caring man, one who would always treat her and the children in his care with kindness, but she knew firsthand how deceiving appearances could be. Once more her promise to herself came back to her.

      I will not give him my heart. I will share it with the children, but I will not allow him the opportunity to wound me.

      The councilman approached. “It is a black day,” he said.

      “It is indeed.” After a moment of awkward silence, she then asked. “How are the children?”

      “Well, thank you. Or, rather, as well as they can be, given what they have just gone through.”

      She nodded in agreement. At least he is attuned enough to realize such. Little Grace had looked so fragile, so restless when she’d seen her. Even a baby knows when something isn’t right, and as for Kathleen, what emotions lie behind those vivid blue eyes? Does she know the circumstances surrounding her parents’ deaths? Was she present in the house during her sister’s birth? Rebekah sighed. For all her upcoming marriage would be lacking in love between herself and her husband, she hoped she’d be able to bring a measure of peace, of happiness to the children.

      Councilman Nash claimed the place beside her and offered his arm. Rebekah hesitated to take it at first, but knowing that her father was watching, she did so. She then returned her attention to those coming to pay their last respects.

      State Delegate Nash entered the room. After making his way past the casket, he came to where Rebekah’s father stood. The bitter rivals shook hands, exchanged words, then stood shoulder to shoulder so the rest of the room could witness their unity.

      Sickened by what she considered a display of political grandstanding, Rebekah chanced a glance at the man beside her. Their eyes met only briefly, but he looked exactly as she felt.

      He, too, knows what it is like to be the child of an ambitious man, she thought.

      The councilman turned his attention back to the queue of mourners. So did she.