The Reluctant Bridegroom. Shannon Farrington

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. The heartbroken public was now filing past the slain leader.

      The hour passed in strained silence. Then the president’s body was prepared for the northbound train. Citizens who had not made it inside in time for the viewing, or those who simply wished to continue the pilgrimage, would follow the horse-drawn hearse to Northern Central Station. Lincoln would lie in state in Harrisburg, Philadelphia, and a host of other stops before reaching his final resting place in Springfield, Illinois.

      “Are you going to the train station?” her fiancé asked her.

      She’d been told by her father that she was to go only if Councilman Nash did so. “Are you?” she asked.

      “No.”

      “I see,” she said. “Neither am I.”

      Both her father and his were remaining, as well, evidently to make certain the lingering citizens had opportunity to speak with their state representatives if they so chose. To Rebekah’s surprise, many did. They came expressing their appreciation that in a time of national tragedy, the two rivals could put aside their differences for the good of the nation.

      When the news began to circulate of their engagement, the councilman suddenly looked very uncomfortable. The news held no joy for her, but he had instigated this event. Why, then, was his jaw so tight? Why was he tugging at his tie?

      “Are you unwell?” she asked.

      “This day should be about President Lincoln,” he muttered.

      “Indeed.”

      He looked as if he were about to offer something more but hadn’t the opportunity. Rebekah’s friend Elizabeth Wainwright and her husband, David, came then to greet them.

      Apparently the councilman was well acquainted with the couple, who both worked at a local newspaper—Elizabeth as a sketch artist and David as a journalist. He asked them about their recent time spent in Washington.

      “We were there to cover General Grant’s return from the war and Lincoln’s celebratory speeches,” David said. “We had no idea we’d be witnesses to his assassination.”

      Rebekah gasped. “You were at Ford’s Theatre?”

      Elizabeth nodded grimly. “We were seated in the second row. John Wilkes Booth landed on the stage right in front of us.”

      Rebekah felt her fiancé’s arm tense. She wondered if he was imagining the horrific scene just as she was. “To come that close to such an evil man...” she said to her friends. “What did you do?”

      Elizabeth exchanged a sad glance with her husband. “At first I thought it was part of the play,” she said. “I had never seen Our American Cousin performed before.”

      “But I had,” David said, “and I couldn’t figure out why they had added gunfire and an additional character to the scene. I recognized Booth right away. I had seen him act.”

      “I could tell he had injured himself leaping from the presidential box,” Elizabeth said. “He limped as he ran from the stage, but I still didn’t recognize what had actually happened until someone shouted that the president had been shot.”

      “We realized then,” David said, “that we were no longer witnessing a theatrical production, but an act of murder.”

      Rebekah drew in a shallow breath. She thought of her time spent serving as an army nurse. She’d seen the cruel damage a bullet could do to many a soldier, but she’d never witnessed a shooting actually take place. Cold chills ran down her spine. “What did you do?” she asked.

      David told her how panic had erupted, and described the devastating scene that followed when the president was carried away. Elizabeth shuddered at the memory. Rebekah watched as David slid his arm protectively around Elizabeth, steadying her, offering unspoken encouragement. His wife drew strength from the action. The two of them seemed fashioned for each other, complete.

      How Rebekah longed for the same. Yet I stand beside a man I barely know and will have little opportunity to learn about before I am bound to him for life. A shiver again ran through her.

      The councilman must have felt it, for he laid his free hand atop hers. The gesture was not as intimate as the comfort Elizabeth had received, but the touch was gentle and conveyed compassion. Rebekah allowed herself to look into his face. Dare she think he would not always be a stranger?

      The councilman turned back to David. “Will you return to Washington?” He asked.

      “No. Our editor wishes us to remain here, to cover the effects the assassination is having on the city.”

      “I see.”

      “In fact,” David said, “if I may be so bold, I’d like to interview you. It would be good to have a councilman’s perspective.”

      “I don’t know how much help I could be...”

      Listening, Rebekah marveled. Her father would never turn down an opportunity to get his name in the paper, and yet Henry Nash humbly hesitated. She was so struck by the difference that she couldn’t help but smile. When he gave her one in return, her heart quickened.

      Elizabeth pulled her aside.

      “I believe you have made a very wise match, Rebekah,” she whispered.

      “You do?”

      “Indeed. Henry Nash is a respectable, honest man. David has told me so.”

      “He knows him well?”

      “He’s met with him several times. According to him, the councilman is a committed public servant. He has a true heart for the people of Baltimore.”

      A true heart... Rebekah couldn’t explain the feeling that flittered through her own heart upon hearing those words. Yes, she was still nervous about becoming a bride, and she was still resolved to guard her heart carefully, but was it possible—might she indeed one day have the kind of marriage of which she had always dreamed, one grounded in love and mutual respect?

      It seemed almost impossible...and yet she desperately hoped so.

      * * *

      The moment he saw her smile, Henry felt as though a dagger had been run through his chest. He knew he’d given Miss Van der Geld all the indications that tenderness lay at the root of this match on his part. He had held her hand. He had smiled at her. He was slowly convincing her that he wanted her, when in reality what he truly wanted was the protection her father and his connections could offer him and his sister’s children.

      And he was more and more certain he was going to need that assistance. Detective Smith had entered the room. After circumspectly navigating the lingering crowd, he once more singled out Henry. As soon as the reporter and sketch artist bid their farewells, Smith stepped forward.

      “So this is the lovely bride,” he said.

      The detective was eyeing his fiancée in a way that any gentleman would not like. Henry protectively threaded her arm through his. Though disinclined,