An Inconvenient Marriage. Christina Miller

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.