Ashton's Bride

  On the other hand, she had to temper her knowledge with a healthy dose of ignorance. This was a vastly different age from her own. These were Godfearing rural folk with no set notions of human rights. There was no Geneva Convention, no firm convictions that one should protest a war you didn't believe in. She had to respect their unshakable belief in honor and duty and God. It was an alien foundation to her, and she made every effort to understand these men.

  "Don't feel guilty," soothed Margaret. "You're needed at The Oaks. And you tried, Lizzie. You did more than most people would have. You were brave and did more good than you'll ever imagine."

  "I also threw up on several patients."

  "Ah, but they were honored," she answered with a grin. "One of the men said it was a far sight better than having Dr. Parish bend over with his whiskey breath."

  Lizzie smiled, and stared at Margaret for a few moments. "I never would have believed it, Mag. You are absolutely selfless with those men, even the vulgar ones. Ashton is right, you have changed."

  "More than you know." Margaret thoughtfully patted a strand of hair that had escaped her prim snood. "Actually, this is the first thing I have ever done to really help others. All of my studying and schooling before was an escape from the world, from having to deal with real people and their imperfections and frailties. I was afraid before, but now, I think because of Ash, I am learning to be less judgmental, not to form snap conclusions about people based on their appearances or their accents." She glanced at Lizzie and shrugged apologetically. "Sorry."

  "No need." She leaned over and hugged Margaret. "Are you sure you'll be all right sharing a room with Mary B.?"

  Returning the embrace, Margaret nodded. She would genuinely miss Lizzie in the brief moments she had to herself. And the even briefer moments she wasn't writing to Ashton.

  She hadn't received a letter from him in over ten days, and she tried not to dwell on the reasons she hadn't heard from him. The last letter had been extra long and pensive, filled with warmth and humor. Again, there had been no mention of his exact whereabouts, but Margaret suspected he was somewhere in the vicinity of Chattanooga.

  His birthday had come and gone weeks ago, and still no word. She welcomed the numb exhaustion each night, the dreamless sleep that overtook her before she was able to imagine him ill or wounded, before her mind could substitute one of the scores of dying men she was nursing for Ashton, lying in torment on a cold, hard floor.

  Suddenly the door of the small room flew open. It was Mary B., breathless and disheveled—she'd been working since five that morning, scraping together breakfast for the men. She didn't even look at Lizzie.

  "Mag," she gasped. "Dr. Parish told me to get you—it's Private Fender."

  "No! He's been doing so well. . ." She grabbed her shawl and turned to Lizzie.

  "Go," urged Lizzie with a wave. "I'll write from home."

  But Margaret was already running down the hallway with Mary B.

  "What happened?" She clutched the banister, her full blue skirts in the other fist. She was wearing the same indigo dress, a gown she would hate with a passion if she was able to spare the time or the emotion. Over the dress was an apron made of a rough greenish cotton, the only spare fabric around. Its wide-yoked bib and loose skirt covered her dress, and the large pockets were stuffed with clean cloths and pencils and paper, whatever she might need when with the patients.

  "Dr. Parish suspects part of the thigh bone was grazed by the ball. We thought he was so lucky, but apparently a bone fragment has sliced an artery."

  "My God. Will the doctor operate?" They were on Main Street now, heedless of the stares of well-heeled pedestrians, ignoring the gray-clad officers who turned down the street just as the women scurried up Seventh Street to the hospital steps. Their flattened skirts and aprons immediately identified them as nurses to everyone, the lack of hoops a sure sign of their devotion to the cause.

  The tallest soldier fixed a hazel gaze on the woman in the familiar blue dress, startled by both her dark-haired beauty and her alarmed expression. His gray wool cape was dusty, a tumble of wavy auburn hair brushed his shoulders, and the wide-brimmed felt cavalry hat was at a rakish angle, but the other officers eyed him with awe.

  "General?" Sam Walker asked.

  Ashton said nothing, simply followed his wife into the building.

  Margaret tried to contain her panic as she entered the ward and saw the commotion around the first bed in the first row. In the past few months Spence Fender and Margaret had become genuine friends, and she had grown to rely on him to help her through the grueling moments, cheering her with a wink and a gentle word, praising her growing skills as she passed the rank of face washer and was given more responsibility. Dr. Parish now knew her name, as did every man in the ward, and Mary B. had become a friend as well as her overseer, but Spence was special.

  He was soon to go home, back to Mud, More Mud, as he said, and she was planning a small party. Spence did have a sweetheart back home, Lydia. He thought okra tasted like soap and his mother's buttermilk biscuits were so light they could float away.

  Earlier in the week he had gestured toward the next blanket where a wounded Yankee lay, and said, "I can't figure out this war. Here's the nicest guy in the world, but because he's from up North, some other guy shot him. For all I know, I could have been the one to fire on him. There's a war going on, but when you meet the other soldiers, all we understand is that we're trying to kill each other, and nobody's mad."

  Dr. Parish was leaning over him, and blood was everywhere. Spence was lying pale and motionless, his eyes closed. The doctor saw Margaret and shook his head softly, and she tried not to cry. There would be time later on for that.

  "Mrs. Johnson," said the doctor. "Could you please hold your hand here?" She eased over Spence and placed her finger on the inside of his thigh, and the doctor backed away.

  Spence opened his eyes and smiled at Margaret. "I'm so glad you are here," he whispered.

  "Private Pender," began the doctor with more tenderness than Margaret had ever seen him display. "Listen to me carefully. There is no hope for you, son. When Mrs. Johnson removes her finger, you will bleed to death. Do you understand?"

  There was no response, and Dr. Parish was about to repeat his statement when Spence grasped Margaret's free hand. "I'm so scared." His voice tore from his throat, harsh and broken.

  "I'm here, Spence." Margaret leaned close to his ear, careful not to move her finger from his thigh. "Dr. Parish." She turned to see the doctor moving to another patient. "Can't you do something?"

  Even as she spoke she realized the futility of the plea. This was the medical Middle Ages. The patients and even Dr. Parish thought she was addled for washing her hands before attending a wound and trying to boil the rags before they were reused as bandages. What did she expect the doctor to do— perform microsurgery at a time when hundreds of people died from contaminated water?

  "I will stay here forever," she whispered into Spence's ear, hoping he missed the waver in her voice. Unexpectedly, he smiled.

  "Now, Mrs. Johnson, what on earth would the general say about that?"

  "I don't suppose he would be surprised, especially when he discovers that you are the one who ordered me to drop my petticoats." She was perilously close to losing complete control, and for the very first time in her life she felt as if she might faint. Spence made a motion that Margaret assumed was a silent laugh, and she took a deep, steadying breath.

  "Have you received a letter from him today?" Spence's tone was almost conversational. She couldn't believe he had just been given a death sentence, and he was asking her about the mail.

  "No, Maybe tomorrow." And she realized that for Spence, there would be no tomorrow.

  "I want you to write Lydia and my folks, if you don't mind. Tell them how much I love them, and tell my mom that I believe I was ready to meet the Almighty. Could you do that?"

  "Spence." Margaret was unable to say anything else. She swallowed hard. "Of
course I'll write them." His hand tightened in her grasp. Everything became very quiet, the usual din fell away. With her eyes closed, Margaret leaned her forehead on their clasped hands. "Our Father, who art in heaven," she whispered. She hadn't prayed since she was a child, but somehow it seemed to be the only thing for her to do. Spence joined her. "Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . ."

  As they recited the Lord's Prayer, Margaret imagined she heard Ashton's voice, soft and distant, and the notion was strangely comforting.

  Standing away, his hat in his hands, Ashton watched his wife and the young soldier with cascading emotions. He was suddenly humbled by her and ashamed by his own actions of posting a scout to watch her. Her letters had emphasized her weariness, her longing to see him, but he interpreted her words as exaggeration. Now he saw her, and in spite of her exhaustion and paleness, she was more beautiful than ever.

  He had seen lady nurses before, bored wives or eager young women seeking excitement and romance. They made little secret of their dislike of the more mundane duties.

  His scout informed him that Margaret had thrown herself into nursing with a rare fervor, and the scout had been right. What Margaret was doing now, her hands trickling with blood, was beyond what most hardened men could bear.

  The prayer was over, and Margaret kissed the private's hand. The young man smiled. "Mrs. Johnson." His voice was low. "I want you to know, I mean, I have never met a lady like you before. You sure are pretty, but even if you had a face like a hunk of pickled meat, I do believe any man could love you."

  His voice trailed off, and Margaret pressed harder on his thigh. It didn't seem to be working anymore, she couldn't stop the blood, warm and sticky on her hands. She leaned close to him. "And I do believe, Spence Fender, that any woman would love you."

  Spence took a deep breath, and his unfocused eyes turned to her. "Fm not scared anymore." He swallowed once. "You can let go now."

  "No."

  "Please. If you don't do it now, I might get scared again. Let go."

  A pair of strong gloved hands gripped her shoulders, and she instinctively rested her cheek against one. The hands were gently pulling her away, and, with her eyes wide but unseeing, she slowly removed her hand from his thigh. Blood shot out in great spurts, gradually lessening, and within a few moments it had stopped altogether.

  Margaret turned, and her eyes met Ashton's, and only a small moan passed her lips before she went limp in her husband's arms.

  The brisk December air stung her cheeks, and with the groggy veil of unconsciousness slipping away, she pulled an unsteady hand over her eyes. Ashton was speaking to someone, his voice a low rumble next to her ear, and the wool of his greatcoat seemed to envelop her.

  This was not how she had imagined their reunion. In her mind it would be a romantic meeting, Margaret prepared and looking her very best, Ashton perhaps a little hasty and battle-worn. In the idyllic scene she pictured, Margaret would not mention the men who had been watching her. She would wait for a day or so, for their love to be rekindled before she asked him, gently, of course, who the men could possibly be.

  This was not at all what she had imagined.

  "Margaret, can you hear me?"

  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, not quite ready to face the world. Spence Fender was dead, a fact she could scarcely comprehend. A few moments ago he was alive and speaking to her, now he was gone.

  Ashton held her in his lap on the front steps of the hospital, his broad back shielding her from the stares of the curious citizens of Richmond. His hair was longer, his face seemed harder than before, but still he was magnificent.

  "You jerk," she muttered.

  He looked perplexed, then apologetic. "I'm sorry if I jerked you, love. I just wanted to get you away from the sickness inside and into the fresh air, so I . . ."

  "No, you are the jerk, the rotten husband who . . ."

  "Lieutenant, I believe I can handle this." Ashton's head snapped up to the young officer standing uncomfortably by their side. The officer needed no other prodding. In two strides he had escaped around the corner, where the other men stood.

  "I'm delighted to see you feeling so much better." He lifted her to her feet, and she grasped his powerful arms for support.

  "You have been spying on me this whole time." Her voice was flat, and Ashton's eyes immediately softened.

  "Inside, Margaret, you were extraordinary. I had heard that you were wonderful with the patients, but I..."

  "From your spy? Did he give you the details?"

  "No, damn it. From Lizzie, and, well, other sources."

  "The spy."

  Ashton pulled her close, and the gray cape encircled her. She tried to duck away, but he held her to his side,

  "What was I supposed to do, Mag? There are rumors that you do help your brother. I posted a man to watch you to clear your name as much as anything else."

  "Oh, no problem," she bit. "Nothing like a little marital trust, is there? Is this going to become a regular pattern? Everytime you suspect I'm doing something you don't particularly like, I'll see three men lurking around, just waiting to report to the boss?"

  "Who are the other men," he whispered. It wasn't a question, it was a demand.

  "I have no idea. Don't you?"

  He said nothing, his piercing gaze holding her close. Finally he let out a thick sigh. "No."

  Margaret suddenly felt completely drained. Ashton looked every bit as exhausted as she felt. Tears blurred her vision, and she reached up and placed her hand on his cheek, slightly scratchy with a light growth of whiskers.

  "Ash," she breathed. He was alive and with her, and she had done nothing to show him how exquisite it was to see him. "Happy birthday."

  He glanced down, and a small smile tugged on his mouth. "Ah, Margaret. I've envisioned our reunion many times. Somehow, no matter how many versions I dreamed of, it was never like this."

  They remained silent for a few moments, heedless of the bustling street sounds behind them, the grinding carriage wheels, the squeaking springs below passenger rigs, hooves clamping with gaits as individual as the riders. They walked slowly down the steps, Margaret relying heavily on his arm for support. At the bottom of the stairs, on a narrow wooden sidewalk, Ashton leaned against a hitching post and shook his head.

  "So you really have no idea who the other two men watching you are?" He adjusted the shawl over her shoulders, and she shook her head. He still wore his gloves, soft buff yellow with large, bell-like cuffs.

  "Nope. But I suggest next time you choose a scout, make sure his hair isn't bright red. Your guy is hard to miss."

  "I was hoping he would have blended in with the autumn foliage." He laughed. "I wanted to get one more mission out of him before the first snow. You put him against a white background, and you might as well have a brass band announcing your arrival."

  Margaret looked up at him, squinting against the dull sun. "How are you? I mean, how are you feeling, how have the missions gone, have you been hurt?"

  "I'm fine." He reached for her hand. "But I'm better now."

  "What are you doing here?"

  There was a slight hesitation before he answered, and a surge of anger made Margaret pull away.

  "I am not a spy, Ashton. I have no recollection of events here until I was ill, and in case you haven't noticed, I, too, have been rather busy. There are very few military secrets to be had in a hospital filled mostly with privates." She turned swiftly and began walking back to the Spotswood Hotel.

  A small crowd had gathered to watch them, the famous general and his lovely wife. Ashton followed her, very aware of the attention they were attracting.

  "Margaret, come here," he said between clenched teeth.

  She stopped, her back to him for several long seconds, her heel tapping angrily on the walk before she pivoted to face him. "For your own information, General, if I did happen to be a spy, you would never know. Unlike Belle Boyd or Rose Greenhow, I would not feel a compulsion to
tell the world of my exploits. The secret would go to the ground with me."

  With that she turned sharply. Unfortunately for her graceful retreat, the toe of her boot caught on the long hem of her dress, and Margaret fell face forward onto the slatted wooden sidewalk. Her hands had been clutching the shawl, so nothing was able to soften her fall.

  There was a stunned silence, a gentle gasp from a woman in an oversize green bonnet. Margaret lay for a moment with her face on the filthy wood, waiting for Ashton to come over and help her to her feet.