The bag was small, and it was full.
Katherine stared at it. Surely not – surely, she owned more possessions than what could fit inside that tiny little luggage?
Her eyes swept around the room. Apparently not. The furniture belonged to Madam Nancy, after all; even the beautiful shawl decorating the dressing table had been lent to her. The paintings on the walls were there when she arrived three years ago, and half of the wardrobe had been purchased for her. She did not own a single pair of gloves.
Perhaps it was better this way. She could move quickly with a light load, and goodness knows she had precious little with her when she had left that morning to join Mr Gilman’s side . . .
She flinched. The memories were too painful. Leave them be, she told herself as she pushed a finger behind the looking glass, making sure she retrieved every bit of money she had hidden. Those memories will do you absolutely no good. Anything was better than that.
Steps on the hallway. She turned around, staring at the door expectantly, but the steps continued past her and started downstairs. Jemima must be going out for luncheon. Most of the girls did; there was no food prepared here, and frequenting a few of the saloons of the town was good for business. Flaunt your wares during the day, and sell them at night.
Her heart was fluttered with disappointment when she saw it was not Thomas Bryant. She could barely believe she had spoken in such a way to a gentleman as he, but he had not agreed or denied her request. He had asked for a day to decide, and he would let her know.
Katherine didn’t believe it for a second. She had seen the look of lust and hunger leaping as soon as she had offered herself. He would accept her offer, she knew it.
She had known men long enough now to read their faces as open books.
The silence of the day was welcome after the night’s activities. The other girls would probably be asleep, exhausted, recuperating after a busy evening and preparing for another one. This was her favorite time; when she could pretend she was the only person in the world. The only difficulty was that silence was the perfect breeding ground for reminiscing, and that only ever brought her pain.
A knock. A knock at the door.
Katherine jumped and clutched at the scent bottle she was weighing in her hands, trying to decide whether or not to take it with her.
A third knock. “Miss Morrison?” The voice was male, and it belonged to Mr Bryant.
She tried to calm her breathing, and lowering herself into the chair before the dressing table, she said, “Come in.”
Mr Bryant entered the room, and Katherine tried to hide her audible gasp. What a difference six hours made to a man! The pallor had gone, and although there seemed to be a hesitancy in the way he moved, there was strength there now, and purpose.
“Good morning, Miss Morrison.” He spoke stiffly, holding himself upright in the middle of the room, without a smile. “I hope you are well.”
Katherine was unsure exactly how to respond to this seemingly innocent question. Yes, quite well, as I have not had to hand my body over to a man in the last six hours? Yes, sufficiently well considering I am estranged from my family and now all my hopes in being restored to one of them rests with you, a stranger? Yes, as well as can be expected for a woman of no reputation, no honor, and no hope?
“Quite well, I thank you,” was the reply that she spoke aloud. “You look much recovered.”
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “It turns out that if you don’t eat for two days, your body starts to miss it.”
Katherine blinked. “Not . . . not eat?”
Mr Bryant shrugged. “I had food, I just . . . it didn’t seem worth eating. I didn’t seem worth feeding. I – I do not wish to speak about it, ‘tis of no matter now. I’ve learned from my mistake.”
She stared at him. Not eat – and have food? Here was a man who clearly didn’t understand true poverty, as she had been forced to. Aloud, she said, “If you wish, sir. We will not speak of it again.”
This answer seemed to be sufficient to the young man who stood before her. “Good. Now, Miss Morrison, I have been considering the proposal you put before me earlier on today, and after great thought . . .”
Here it was, thought Katherine. The moment my fate is decided.
“. . . I have decided to accept your offer. I agree to take you to Sweet Grove.”
“You . . . you agree?”
Mr Bryant nodded curtly. “When a chance letter reveals the location of your sister at my family orchard, I cannot help but grasp at the opportunity to return there again – to return there respectable, and with a wife.”
A wife. The words rang in Katherine’s ears, and they sounded hollow. She placed her hands in her lap, and the soft cleanliness of the silks and linen in her gown grounded her.
“A wife.” She repeated his words back to him, and they did not sound more genuine now that she spoke them.
He nodded. “I want respectability as much as you do, Miss Morrison, and the best way for me to procure that is through marriage. You offered me yourself, as I recall?”
The way he spoke – it was matter-of-fact, business like. And yet, what had she expected? Torrents of love, streams of poetry? This was a transaction – and though of a different hue, it was of no material difference to the one she entered into with men every night.
“I did offer you myself,” she said slowly, “but I had expected that to be a . . . well, a transient, temporary arrangement. Marriage . . .”
Mr Bryant coughed, and he shifted his feet. “When I say marriage, Miss Morrison, I mean perhaps more accurately a marriage of convenience. It would bring me home, and you to your family. There would be no . . . ahem . . . expectations . . . on that level.”
He flushed, staring at the floor, and she flushed with him.
“Oh,” was all she could muster.
“You must understand me,” said Mr Bryant, and he rushed towards her, dropping to his knees by her feet. “You must understand, Miss Morrison, that I do not want to frighten you, or – or take advantage of you. You would be your own woman, but in name and situation. You would have my protection, as my wife, but I would demand no more from you.”
Katherine stared at him. There was a furrow across his brow as he tried to explain, and she could not help but feel a twinge of joy in her at his words. Never have to open herself to another man again – protected by marriage by such a man, a man whose family clearly had property – to see her sister again, to explain all, to apologize for all, to receive forgiveness for all . . .
The fact that Thomas Bryant was a handsome young man did not hinder the matter either. A new life beckoned, and the gates through which she’d pass to enter it were at the altar.
“. . . in short,” finished Mr Bryant, still kneeling at her feet, “that is what I propose.”
She wet her lips and smiled nervously. “And I accept your proposal.”
He blinked at her, as though he had expected resistance, and then he broke into a grin. “You – you accept?”
The laugh that greeted him was unbidden, and Katherine was surprised to hear it herself. When had she last laughed?
“I accept – and as you see, Mr Bryant, I am ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Madam Nancy does not own me, and I owe her no debts. Name the day, and we shall,” and she swallowed here, “be married.”
The man jumped up, almost over-balanced, and then righted himself again. “The day?” He spoke distractedly, and he gazed around the room as though noticing it for the first time. “The day? The hour, Miss Morrison! I shall meet you at the church on Main Street at three o’clock this afternoon where we shall be wed.”
“This – this afternoon?” Katherine spluttered. “So soon?”
Mr Bryant had stridden to the door and flung it open before he replied. “So soon? Why wait?”
The cravat felt tight. Thomas coughed and pulled at it with his finger. The Texan sun was pouring down on him and he couldn’t, for propriety’s sake, loosen the silk around his neck. He had always thought there would be sunshine on his wedding day, but not like this.
He stamped his feet, and the preacher glared at him as the floorboards of the church creaked.
“My apologies,” he muttered. The church had been hastily built the last autumn, and no carpenter had been available to affix the floor, Thomas had heard, and so –
Really? The exact working of the floorboards: that is what he was thinking? When before he knew it his bride – his bride – would be walking through that door, along that short aisle, and promise to be his for the rest of their lives?
Thomas pulled at his cravat again. This was, perhaps, not how he had expected he would be wed. He barely considered it at all, of course, but whatever image hid in the back of his mind, it did not match the one before him.
It was not too late. He could change his mind.
“Sir,” he said aloud, “I wonder if – ”
But he hesitated. In Thomas’ imagination, the Top Field of Sweet Grove came into view, with Jonathan and Aaron working the trees. They glanced up as they saw him with his bride, and their smiles were broad, and forgiveness complete.
Who could say no to a bride? Who could be dismayed at the sight of newlyweds?
“Yes, Mr Bryant?” The terse tones broke into his thoughts, and he looked up to see a large bead of sweat crinkle down the preacher’s nose and drop off the end. “You were wondering?”
Thomas swallowed.
The door of the church opened, and a woman stood there.
Not a woman; a vision. Thomas felt his heart start pounding, and his mouth fell upon. He forced it shut with his own hand, feeling the bristle of his beard. Why didn’t he think of shaving? He had done nothing but walk to the church and wait, whereas she . . .
Katherine Morrison was wearing a spectacular white gown. Pearls adorned the front of the bodice, and the sleeves billowed down from her partially exposed shoulders. Her waist was small, and her delicate hands were held together before her. Sapphires and diamonds adorned her neck and ears, and the hair wildly tumbling down her back in the Madam’s house was now restrained, pinned back to allow the curls to flow past her shoulders.
But Thomas didn’t see this. All he saw were her eyes; blue, crystal clear, staring directly at him, and containing such a medley of emotions he barely knew what she was thinking.
It seemed as though she was waiting for something, but one glance over to the organist – forced out of the saloon to sit and bear witness, but still sodden in drink – told her there was no one there able to play it. In complete silence, Katherine Morrison walked down the aisle to her intended husband.
It was merely twenty seconds before she reached him, and he could not help but stare. This was his wife? She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and as her eyes flickered over him, Thomas could not help but feel shame. He was hardly a partner for her.
“We will keep this quick,” muttered the preacher as he mopped his brow. “The sooner I get to the saloon to cool off, the better.”
A giggle. It had come from Katherine, and Thomas sighed and smiled in relief. The mirth dancing in her features broke the tension between them, and he reached out, unthinking, to take her hands in his.
A flinch. She jerked her hands away towards her heart and a look of genuine terror flashed across her face – but then she seemed to recollect herself, and she lightly placed her hands in his.
Thomas stared at her. Desperately wishing there was time to ask her why such a reaction was warranted when he had done her no ill, he realized the preacher had raced forward – and in minutes, they would be married.
“. . . take Katherine Grace Morrison to be your wife?”
Thomas did not look away from the woman before him as he said, “I will.”
“And do you, Katherine Grace Morrison, take Thomas Douglas Bryant to be your husband?”
The corners of his mouth turned upwards into a smile as she said, “I will.”
The preacher rustled the pages of his book as he muttered, “We can skip these parts, I think . . . ah yes. Do you have a ring?”
Thomas tried to ignore the pangs of regret he felt as he took from his pocket a small, elegant, gold band.
“Where did you get that from?” Katherine whispered, her whole demeanor lighting up and her fingers outstretched to take a closer look.
He swallowed. The shame of it could not be eradicated by her delight. “It was my mother’s.”
And I stole it, he said silently, watching her closely. I stole it from my twin sister Mariana as she lay sleeping, and the entire family thought the thief was our brother Aaron, and I said nothing. I let him leave in disgrace and dishonor, and none know the real truth.
“It is beautiful,” was the whispered reply to the few words he had spoken.
Thomas gave a watery smile. How could he do this to this woman? He was no prize; he was a common thief, and a liar! And yet she was as desperate to return to respectability as he was. They both needed each other if they were to travel to Sweet Grove.
“Repeat after me,” interrupted the preacher to their separate reveries. “Katherine, I give you this ring . . .”
It was over in a matter of minutes.
“. . . therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife.”
For a moment, it felt as though the only two beings alive in the world for that moment were they. Nothing existed except she, and though her beauty dazzled him, there seemed to be more. There was a depth to Katherine no other woman he had ever met possessed. It was intoxicating.
The preacher coughed. “Congratulations, I must say. Do you – do you need anything else from me? I’ll drop the marriage certificate off at the saloon, of course.”
Katherine’s attention was on the gold band encircling the fourth finger of her left hand, and so for the first time, Thomas answered on behalf of himself and his wife. “No thank you, sir.”
Relief flooded through the preacher. “Good. I will be off to the saloon now; look for me there if you have any questions!”
His footsteps echoed as they disappeared, but the newly wedded couple did not move.
“You look – ” Thomas’ voice was harsh, and he swallowed before he tried again. “I mean, you are beautiful.”
She colored, and her gaze stayed firmly on her wedding ring. “Thank you.”
Another moment of silence. Thomas desperately tried to think of conversation, but as with most strangers, it was not easy. Even if that stranger is your wife.
“The white dress surprised me,” he said finally. Idiot, are we to talk about apparel? “I have not seen a bride in white before.”
“Tis the fashion now; Queen Victoria of England married in such a gown last February,” she said, voice barely rising above a whisper.
“Indeed,” said Thomas. They were standing facing each other at the altar, unmoved. “And the jewelry. Very pretty.”
Katherine laughed, but it was not a genuine one, and it grated on him. “They are simple glass, and as they are lent to me by Molly-Ann, complete my something borrowed and my something blue.”
“Something blue?”
She finally looked at him, and the smile was more genuine now. “You know; something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a silver sixpence in your shoe.”
He shrugged. “Tis not a custom I have heard of.”
Katherine laughed. “That is because you are not a woman! We girls grow up thinking of our wedding day – the bridesmaids we will choose, the length of the veil, the bells that will chime, the bouquet that leads us into the church . . .”
Her voice trailed away, and it did not take Thomas long to understand why. “But you have had none of those things,” he said, regret in his tones.
“No,” she said simply, looking him in the eye. “But then, I had given up hope of marrying at all.”
Thomas swallowed. And well she might. What sort of a man marries a whore?