The Immortal American

  ~*~

  Mrs. Jones and I drank the remaining champagne bottles while she helped me get ready for my wedding. She never asked about the furniture or the champagne. She just smiled.

  She washed my hair in her magnolia and lily wash. Then, we drank more. Well, it was me who drank profusely. It helped cloud any thoughts, other than I was to be married soon. It was what I needed, to get drunk. My sister had died, the next day my mother. I attempted to kill Kimball only to be beat out by some mysterious person. And then there was Jacque . . . I went to whisky if I let him invade even an iota of my thoughts. I drank more than I ever had before, yet it never seemed to completely numb me, wash me in a cloud of stupor.

  Hannah had begun a dress before the incident that I guessed was for my wedding. It wasn’t finished when Hannah died, but Mrs. Jones had completed it yesterday. It was a soft cream fabric with simple, subtle frills—just for me. It was elegant and yet enchanting. It was Hannah.

  I wed in the early evening. I don’t remember much of it, to my embarrassment. I’d drained three bottles of whisky by myself and was as drunk as a lord. So was Bethany. I clutched at her before the ceremony. She cooed and soothed me the best she could.

  I remember seeing Mathew for the first time with the reverend. I remember how Mathew stared at me. He seemed in awe of me, and I was thankful my sister had designed such a beautiful dress. I remember the way he held my hand and rubbed the top of it. For part of the ceremony he had to remove his hand from mine. I looked down and suddenly remembered Kimball’s blood on it and almost retched.

  I remember saying the right words at the right time and being proud of myself for that. I remember how just as the ceremony was ending everyone thought they heard a wolf howling, but I wondered if it was my wounded, idiotic Jacque. I almost winced as I stopped yet another thought that revolved around him. I’d managed to clear my mind of all wandering feelings, even the grief filled ones, gorged with bone breaking sadness that my mother and sister were not here with me. I dared not think of anything, too afraid that if I did I might run from my own wedding, screaming, gnashing my teeth, pulling at my hair, and begging God for the apocalypse.

  Mrs. Jones and I drank more while many men and women came and wished their congratulations to Mathew and me. Both famous Adams men asked me for a dance. Mr. John Adams complimented my dress, but more my fortitude. He was sorry I had just lost my family, but, and although it was a piteous consolation, he admitted, I was gaining a new one. Since I adored his wife, I didn’t bristle at his words.

  Someone brought a fiddle, and sweet music filled my house. There was brief talk about a vigilante who had killed my sister’s rapist, but I only heard the whispers of their conversations. Then someone brought a bagpipe, the once forbidden music of my ancestry, and I couldn’t hold back any longer from my tears. I wept. Mrs. Jones sat next to me, clutching at me. I told her of our shared ancestry, since she was my sister now, and how my grandfather had played. She told me she had no recollection of her own father or grandfather. And like Mr. John Adams, I knew it was no solace, but I told her I’d be proud if she adopted my Scottish heritage as her own—bagpipes, haggis, and all.

  I don’t know when the townspeople left, but soon Mr. Jones was trying to separate Bethany and myself. We grabbed at each other. Me nervously, her crying for my sister and trying to whisper to me the secrets of how not to get sore on my wedding night. Mr. Jones had to carry her off over his shoulder.

  Then I was in my bedchamber with Mathew.

  “No,” I whispered to him, while he looked at my dress.

  “I . . . I won’t hurt you, Violet.”

  “Not this room,” I pleaded.

  Mathew blinked. He looked at the bed, then at the drawing of my sister I had made when I was but nine years of age, hanging over the bureau. It was a horrible representation, but I was nine and never all that artistic. I had made it out of love and as my sister grew she would smile at it and, of course, tell me how she adored it. Understanding spread over Mathew’s face when he glanced back at me.

  He smiled gently and nodded. “Of course.”

  I padded across the hallway to my mother and father’s room, wondering when or how had I lost my shoes? I had replaced the claymore to its rightful corner, and stood, watching it as Mathew latched the door shut. I heard him approaching, and felt . . . I don’t know how to describe it. I wasn’t disgusted with Mathew or what we were about to do, but felt unattached from the moment, from Mathew, namely myself.

  “Violet? Darling?”

  I turned to him, wondering if he knew how to take off my complicated dress.

  “I must have a word with you.”

  His tone was . . . harsh.

  That snapped me back into my body, into the moment.

  He sighed and plopped on a chair my father had made that held a lumpy purple cushion. Mathew winced and moved the round pillow to his lap, where he proceeded to cling to the fabric with tight fists.

  He knew. Mathew had to have known about Jacque, that I loved him, had loved him. I couldn’t love a man who would be that devious. Could I?

  “I don’t know how to begin.” His voice was rough.

  My knees were going to give way at any second. I began to tremble as I watched Mathew grip the pillow, seeming not to dare a look at me. I sunk to the floor, my dress billowing around me in creamy clouds.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have proceeded with our marriage,” he said, “but I needed to buy the house and farm for you, and our marriage finalized the deed, which is now in your name too.”

  My heart shredded into a thousand pieces, yet was beating excruciatingly loud. Surely, Mathew could hear it—how my heart was breaking for him. How could I be so despicable when Mathew was so giving?

  “Thank you, Mathew,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes.

  He nodded and gave me a quick look, but then his jaw tightened, and he stared down at the twisted cushion. His eyes grew dark, his blond brows furrowed. A muscle along his jaw twitched. He appeared to be brutally angry. I didn’t blame him. How could I make it up to him? Or could I?

  “I need to inform you about—” He glanced at me. His agonized face made me want to race to him, to comfort him, but then he bore down once more at the purple pillow on his lap with such a grimace, I lost all nerve then, as he continued to talk. “I need you to know the kind of man you’re marrying, Violet. I need you to know the real me, since we are to be partners in life, I need you to know what you are getting yourself in for.”

  I cocked my head. I thought he was going to point his finger and tell me he knew about Jacque, but this . . .

  “I—I must confess, first, that I’m not a virgin.”

  I folded my hands on my lap. “Oh?”

  He shook his head. “I meant to wait until tonight, our wedding night, but—are you a virgin?”

  I nodded. At least in that regard I had been a loyal fiancé to him.

  He slumped his shoulders on a heavy sigh. “I’m a cad.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, darling, I am. I thought that it would be a good idea to know what . . . making love would be like, so I could . . . please you.”

  “That’s thoughtful.” Again, I wanted to reach out to console him, but I couldn’t find it in me to do, since I had become grotesquely ironic. I was jealous. Insanely jealous, and there I sat, the woman who just the night before laid with a man in my bed. Certainly, Jacque kept all his clothes on, and we had only kissed, but—oh, I was the cad.

  He snorted and shook his head. “I’ve made love now a few more times than would be considered thoughtful.” He looked up at me suddenly. “But I’ll never do it again. With another woman. And I only performed with a lamb’s skin on my—do you know what I mean by that?”

  I nodded. I’d had a recent visit to the midwife who had educated me in many of the devices that might protect a woman from pregnancy.

  If I didn’t know better and if the light had been brighter I would have sworn tha
t Mathew was blushing, but he just continued. “I’ll never lie with another woman again. I promise.”

  I swallowed, feeling his words pierce through all the mutilated pieces of my heart. “Do you love her?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “No! Lord, no. I—she was—she knew I came to her for you.”

  “Oh,” I could only whisper, “well.”

  “Do you despise me?”

  I shook my head and looked down at my tortured hands as I contorted them in my hold. “I—no.”

  “Yes, and well you should. I am a rake of a man, a—”

  “No, I don’t despise you. I’m dreadfully jealous.”

  I glanced up at him. He blinked a few times then shook his head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded.

  “I should have waited for you, as you have done for me.”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you think you could still love me?”

  I smiled. “Mathew . . . my darling, if having intimate relations with another woman is your worst crime, than I’m a very lucky woman. Most men have mistresses and—”

  He’d snorted when I’d said the words “worst crime.” And now he appeared to be fuming. He kept giving his head a fierce shake. He flung the purple cushion to the bed, and rushed to one of the windows, where he stood looking out at the waxing moon. It was now more than half full, and shone enough to illuminate Mathew’s tense face.

  I finally stood and walked to him, but he sidestepped my advances.

  “I carried on about my virginity, or lack of it rather, when truly I am . . . I—I am a monster.”

  I reached for him, but he wouldn’t let me touch him and turned his back to me.

  “Mathew, you had carnal intimacies with another woman. I’m jealous, yes, but—”

  He swiveled back to me, his mouth in a snarl. “I love you so much, you know? I’ve loved you since I was ten years of age. I liked you a lot before that, you were my best mate, but it was then that I decided I’d marry you.”

  “And you have, darling. I am married to you now.”

  He shook his head slowly. “We could get a divorce. You could still own the land, of course. I’d give it to you. You wouldn’t have to contact me ever again.”

  I let out a shock of a breath. “What? You love me, but you want a divorce? What did I do?”

  But I knew what I’d done. I was just too much a coward to admit it. I was forcing him to admit my sin. God, I was a wretch.

  “’Tis not you, Violet.” He lashed out with his voice, but then quieted his tone as he said, “’Tis me that is the beast.” He leaned forward slightly, and that was when I heard a familiar thud-thud, a heartbeat. Only, it wasn’t mine. I distinctly heard Mathew’s heart racing. Oh, how the man must have been in pain. I tried to reach out for him one more time, but he continued speedily talking. “I have a demon inside me now.”

  “Demon?”

  He nodded, then turned away again. “If you want a divorce, I’ll understand.”

  Finally I grasped for his coat’s arm and yanked him to me. “What on earth are you talking about, Mathew? I don’t want a divorce.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, ‘tis too disgraceful for you.” He tentatively touched my chin. “You did nothing. You even saved yourself for me. We don’t have to make love. I understand.”

  I growled at him. “Mathew, you are wearing on my last nerve. I just married you. You, damn it! I know I will be getting the land, but I finally set the date because—because,” it pained me to admit how selfish I had been all these years, but I had to, for him, “I finally saw you. I saw whom you really are when you were arguing with that magistrate from Boston. I finally saw how loving and kind and determined you are, but more than that I saw you, how much you love me. Why on earth would I want to turn away from that?”

  He let his hands drop to his sides. “I murdered Kimball.”

  Chapter Eighteen: The Rider