Trinity_Bride of West Virginia Read online

  “You’re a brave young thing to travel all this way to marry a stranger.” She glanced at me expectantly. “Are you coming?”

  “Yes.” I gritted my teeth, knowing it was too late to change my mind. Mr. Witherspoon paid for the train ticket and the lodging in Philadelphia. He sent spending cash as well. I agreed to be his wife. I … had to marry him now.

  The hollow entranceway echoed, ringing with the sounds of conversation and feet shuffling, as people came and went. Several doors led to offices, a clerk sitting behind a counter at the far end, where a man stood, holding a cane. The newspaper in his other hand held his attention. I glanced at Mrs. Dexter questioningly.

  “That’s Mr. Witherspoon.”

  My future husband’s hair had greyed completely, his posture slightly bowed. The cut of his sack coat bespoke expensive tailoring, the cane polished to a high shine. He wasn’t much taller than I, his figure portly. This was hardly the sort of person I dreamed of marrying. I took an inadvertent step back, encountering someone who had entered the building.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Would you like me to introduce you?” Mrs. Dexter smiled politely. “It’s a strange situation, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed.” My spirits flattened—considerably.

  “He’s a kind gentleman. You’ll find him friendly. He’s fair with his staff. I’ve been in his employ for more than ten yours now. I knew his late wife, Mrs. Jacqueline Witherspoon.”

  “Oh.”

  Mrs. Dexter leaned in, whispering, “You’ll find there are a few benefits to marrying a distinguished gentleman. He may not be young or devilishly handsome, but he can offer all the comforts a young lady could ever wish for.”

  “He’s told me as much in his letter.”

  She glanced at my apparel. “You’re in need of tending to, Miss Kroger, if you don’t mind me saying so. Mr. Witherspoon can afford to transform you, my dear. You won’t even recognize yourself when he’s finished lavishing you with furs and jewels.”

  Had I dreamed of something that extravagant? All I had ever hoped for was a husband I could love, a house of my own, no matter how small, and children. “I’m just … ” a wave of dizziness had me swaying, “just a little hungry.”

  “When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

  “Y-yesterday.”

  “You are far too thin.” Her look narrowed. “Will you be able to stand through the ceremony?”

  “I should.”

  “We had best get to it then, hadn’t we?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dexter.”

  “Lilith. Please call me Lilith.”

  “Please call me Trinity.”

  Sensing we had arrived, Mr. Witherspoon turned on his heel to look at us, his expression stern, the lines between his eyes deeply grooved. A greying beard hid fleshy jowls, his cheeks tinged red. “Is that you, Miss Kroger?” The pitch of his voice sounded higher than I expected. “Is this my young bride?” That question resounded in the foyer, several people turning to look at us.

  I wanted to flee, my instincts telling me to run, but a firm hand landed on my lower back, Mrs. Dexter, saying, “Now’s the time to smile, my dear. Come meet your soon-to-be-husband.”

  Ever since I lost my parents at the age of three, the glass fate had given me seemed perpetually half empty, my luck horrid. I either married this fellow on the spot, or I returned to Boston and submitted myself to poor lodgings, even poorer employment, and a life of labor. Those were my choices.

  Sucking in a deep, fortifying breath, I squared my shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Dexter escorted me towards Mr. Witherspoon, his rheumy eyes drifting over me. “Here she is, sir. Fresh from Boston. Your lovely bride, Miss Trinity Kroger.”

  “Lovely indeed.” His grin revealed yellow and brown teeth, a few having been removed. “She is a vision.”

  His smell drifted over me, the slightly sour hint of body odor. Tobacco smoke clung to his sack coat. “H-hello.”

  “She’s a mite shy, sir.” Mrs. Dexter released the grip she had on my lower back, as a man approached.

  “Shall we begin?” He held several pieces of paper. “I’ve a few documents you need to sign. Then we can begin the ceremony and make it official.”

  It felt as if the room spun, my senses revolting. I should have eaten something today, but I hadn’t wanted to waste the money. Mrs. Dexter, perceiving I might not be feeling well, held me by the shoulders, her grip surprisingly firm.

  “We really should adjourn to the next room then. Miss Kroger’s rather famished. The sooner, the better, I say. Then she can have some refreshment.”

  Mr. Witherspoon frowned. “Are you ill, my dear?”

  “No,” I managed. “I’m f-fine.”

  He took my hand, his feeling ice cold. “Let me assist you.”

  With a cane in one hand and mine firmly captured in the other, we strolled towards a set of doors, the housekeeper holding them open. As I passed through them, I felt as if I died. This freed my spirit to float from my body… higher towards a plastered ceiling, where I looked down upon the scene before me. This was not how I envisioned my wedding. This was not my dream; it was a nightmare.

  Chapter Three

  “There. Done. You’re as good as married,” said the judicial officer, who presided over the ceremony. “Congratulations.” He grinned broadly.

  I glanced blankly at my husband, who smiled smugly. The ring he slid onto my finger felt cold, the gold heavy. I had come back to my senses after being pronounced Mrs. John Witherspoon, but it was too late now to change my mind. We were legally wed. I had honored my agreement to become an old man’s wife. Now … could I live with it?

  “Stop!” A voice barked from the doorway. “Don’t go any further!” A tall, lean man strode into the room, his boots clicking on the wooden floor. “These two cannot marry.”

  “I’m afraid you’re a tad late, sir,” said the judicial officer. “They are legally wed.”

  I stared at the man, seeing someone in a grey coat with black trousers, his dark hair tousled. He looked as if he had been running, his chest rising and falling. He glared at Mr. Witherspoon—my husband.

  “I told you this was foolish! You never should’ve gone through with it.”

  Unperturbed, Mr. Witherspoon grinned. “Is that any way to congratulate your father? I’ve a new bride, Nathanial. The least you can do is offer us your compliments.”

  Stunned by the intrusion, I stared at the man, realizing he was … oh, gracious; he was my stepson! I felt certain he was older than me by several years.

  “I warned you against this foolishness. To marry a complete stranger; are you mad? I know losing mother has been difficult, but … but to start over again at your age with someone,” he glanced at me, “this young?” He hadn’t looked at me before, but he did so now, his gaze lingering on my face. He blinked rapidly, as if adjusting his eyesight. “She’s far too young for you.”

  “That may be, but this woman has agreed to enter into marriage all the same. We signed the paperwork. We’ve had the ceremony. We’re married.”

  I managed to remain standing, although I felt terribly dizzy, the floor shifting beneath my feet. The lack of food, the lack of sleep, as I had tossed and turned all night long, had taken its toll. Meeting my … my stepson, who had barged into the room in a fit of anger, added to the strain of the day. Swallowing, my mouth felt dry, while a sheen of moisture lined my forehead, which felt cold and clammy like the palms of my hands. A strange tingly sensation began at the top of my head, the feeling drifting over me …

  “She’s going to faint!” warned Lilith.

  And then I did, but, instead of my hitting the floor, a pair of strong hands grabbed me, and then I remembered nothing more, the world going black.

  ***

  The jostling of a carriage woke me, my head rolling against a soft leather seat. I became aware of a conversation.

  “What in the blazes
are you doing?” asked an angry voice.

  “It’s so rare that I’m blessed by your presence, Nathanial. I can’t tell you how gladdened I am that you came, but I don’t care for your tone in the least. I’m a grown man. I may do as I wish. I intend to live the rest of my years with a pretty young woman, who shall keep me quite happy.”

  “She’s younger than I am!”

  “I never did ask her age.”

  “A mail order bride? Is that truly what you’ve done?”

  “It is. It’s been most effective. I’ve made my choice. I plan to take very good care of this pretty young lady. She shall want for nothing. Just look at that skirt. She’s in desperate need of a fresh wardrobe.”

  “This is insufferable.”

  “You’re worried about the will. I’ve no plans to change it, Nathanial. If you’re upset I’ll disinherit you, you need not. However, if you continue to sling insults my way, I might reconsider. You needn’t have come all this way to try to stop the wedding. But, now that you’re here, I do hope you’ll stay for supper. They don’t need you in Boston the day after tomorrow, do they?”

  A groan of frustration filled the carriage. “I’ve left clients waiting. Yes, they need me.”

  “I do believe she’s coming to.”

  I had kept my eyes closed, listening to the conversation. I felt someone’s fingers on my cheek, the brush light. “Mrs. Witherspoon?”

  That name sounded foreign to my ears. “Hum?” I opened an eye a crack, seeing the handsome visage of Nathanial Witherspoon. “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t hit your head. I prevented it.”

  I sat up straighter, smoothing out the skirt. “Thank you.”

  “I was going to take you to the hotel to celebrate,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “They’ve a marvelous restaurant. But, because of your collapse, we’re going home instead.”

  Nathanial withdrew a shiny silver flask from the pocket in his waistcoat. “Here. This might help.” He held it to my lips.

  A strong, burning sensation slid straight into my belly. “I don’t usually drink spirits.”

  “One sip won’t kill you,” he muttered, screwing the top back on. His gaze drifted over me, a pronounced frown emerging. “Are you dizzy still? Are you ill?”

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

  “It’s no matter, my dear.” Mr. Witherspoon glanced out the window. “We’ve arrived. I’ll have Lilith arrange lunch.”

  “You’re not with child, are you?”

  I gasped, staring at Nathanial. “No!”

  “Why else would a young woman answer a mail order bride ad?”

  “That’s quite enough, Nathanial. I’ll not have you accusing my wife of such things. You’ve tried to ruin my wedding and my happiness as it is. I might be an old man, but I’m not too old for another family. You may disagree with my choices, but you’ll learn to live with them.”

  Nathanial ran fingers through his hair, frowning deeply. “I came to save you from yourself, but I’ve arrived too late.”

  The door of the carriage swung open, Mr. French waiting at the bottom of the steps. “Well, it’s always good to see you, son.” Mr. Witherspoon alighted with the help of Mr. French, who held his arm. “I rarely have the pleasure of your company since you fled to Boston.”

  “I work there.” Nathanial stepped from the conveyance, turning towards me. “Come along, Mrs. Witherspoon.” Annoyance laced his tone. He held out a hand, waiting for me to take it.

  Having overcome my moment of weakness by losing consciousness, I felt steadier now. Scooting towards the door, I reached out to take Nathanial’s hand, the contact producing a tingling, electrical effect, which seemed to race straight up my arm to my throat, my breath catching. Whether he felt it too, I did not know, but he drew me to him, his lips near my ear.

  “You have your hand in the cookie jar, my dear, but don’t think you’ll get one single crumb.”

  The anger in his tone startled me. “P-pardon?” I caught hints of whatever soap he used, mandarin, lavender, and cedar wood teasing me.

  With a tug, he pulled me from the carriage, my feet tripping on the steps. I fell into him, his arms going around me. The shock of the encounter left me speechless, my mouth parting to speak, but no words came forth. Standing there before an enormous white house with ornate pillars, the only vision that filled my eyes was of the man who held me, his anger palpable, greyish-green eyes glaring at me.

  “Do unhand my wife. You’ve your own fiancée to maul,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “How is the lovely Victoria anyhow?”

  “We’re not yet engaged.” He released me, casting one last angry look my way. Then he turned to the house.

  Roger French brought out my luggage, carrying the bags towards the large front porch. The housekeeper, who had been at our wedding, traveled in another carriage, the vehicle having gone to a back entrance. She appeared on the front steps smiling.

  “Welcome home, sir and madam.” Several maids joined her, all of them being women of color. They wore serviceable dresses with starched, white aprons and frilly caps.

  Nathanial sprinted up the steps, ignoring the maids and disappearing into the house.

  “Don’t mind him.” My husband held out his arm. “Come inside, my dear. You’re in need of something to eat and drink. You’ve had a taxing morning.”

  I held the flowers from the wedding, the roses looking wilted. “These could use water.”

  “Someone will attend to that.”

  My new home was indeed impressive, the structure three stories tall and surrounded by deeply green lawns. “It’s pretty.”

  “It was built in 1839. I purchased it nearly a decade ago. I’ve made some refinements. You’ll note the neo-classical appearance. I do so admire that look. It’s quite grand, especially for this area. My wife, Jacqueline, adored the style as well. It reminded her of Washington, the capital. She spent a great deal of time finding the right furnishings and artwork. I sent her to Europe nearly every year to bring back little treasures.” He smiled wistfully. “She did enjoy her jaunts.”

  We reached the steps, where I faced an assortment of women, all of whom looked at me expectantly. “Hello,” I managed shyly.

  “Welcome to your home, Mrs. Witherspoon,” said Mrs. Dexter. “These are the maids that work at the Witherspoon Mansion. This is Henrietta, Penny, Lucinda, Selena, and Natalie.”

  I nodded to each of them. “Hello.”

  They curtsied politely. “It’s lovely to meet you,” Selena murmured. The others greeted me as well.

  Mr. Witherspoon labored on the steps, his cane supporting him. “Yes, very well. You’ve met your new mistress, now get back to work!” He glanced at Lilith. “My wife requires a meal and a cup of tea.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” She turned on her heel, striding down a hallway lit by wall sconces.

  I peered into the house, my eyes widening. Two things hit me at once, the first being the sheer opulence of the surroundings and the second the sound of music. My husband ambled inside the foyer, turning to see if I followed.

  “How do you like your home, Mrs. Witherspoon?”

  With wide eyes, I gazed at the entranceway, standing on what looked like black and white marble. A grand staircase swept to one side, while a drawing room opened to the left, elegantly appointed furniture arranged before a massive marble fireplace, the mantel reaching the ceiling.

  “My stars,” I murmured.

  “See, there are some compensations for marrying an old-timer.” He laughed at the joke, the sound raspy.

  “Where’s the music coming from?”

  “A violin. Nathanial is fond of playing it. I rarely dabble anymore.”

  I hadn’t expected such luxury, feeling insignificant amongst the artwork, which graced the walls going up the stairs. It smelled of roses, the flowers bursting from a crystal vase on a table before a gilded mirror. A chandelier hung overhead, although it had not been turned on. I eyed the crystals dangling beneath it, stari
ng straight towards the ceiling, which sported ornate plasterwork.

  Perhaps … my husband was right. Perhaps the future wasn’t as bleak as I thought, or had pretty, shiny things blinded me?

  Chapter Four

  Lilith escorted me to a bedroom, where finely carved mahogany furniture and thick carpets filled the cavernous space. I stood upon the threshold, staring into the room, not believing it was truly mine.

  “W-where does Mr. Witherspoon sleep?” I held my breath, waiting for the answer.

  “Across the hall.” Mrs. Dexter drew the heavy draperies aside, showing a balcony. Sunlight streamed in, which revealed the pattern in the carpet, roses bunched together in a whimsical design that repeated itself, over and over. “It’s pretty.”

  “This was Mrs. Witherspoon’s room. She was fond of roses. We’ve a hot house out back. You’ll need a tour of the grounds after you’ve rested. I’m having tea and sandwiches sent up as we speak.” She indicated a large armoire, with a gilt façade. “You’ll find clothing in here, but the style might not suit you. Mrs. Witherspoon was not a young woman. You may wear what you wish.” She eyed my outfit. “Do you have things that need washing?”

  The bags had already been brought up. “I … do have a few things that require attention.” A bedspread of white satin with a floral design and ruffled pillows caught my eye, the canopy above decorated in the same fabric. “Oh, gracious be.”

  “I see this will take some getting used to.” She smiled kindly. “Let me show you to the water closet.”

  “Yes, that would be good.”

  “It’s right down the hall. You’ll find Witherspoon Mansion a more than hospitable place. We’ve all the conveniences of the finest hotels. No expense was spared here.”

  “I can see that.”

  The water closet held a commode and a bath, the clawed-foot tub attached to plumbing with hot and cold water. I gazed at myself in the mirror over a sink, finding that although I felt starved and exhausted, a happy light danced in my eyes. In the bedroom, someone had brought in a tray with a teapot and a cup, a pair of daintily cut sandwiches arranged on a gold-trimmed plate. I grasped one, biting into it, tasting cucumber and butter.