“You make me feel more beautiful than I am staring at me like that. Now, I think we must go or we’ll be the last to arrive.”

  They were, in fact, the last to arrive, or it seemed so. To travel there, they’d taken a southerly course through the loveliest valley affording a view of the Millfords’ grand homestead for many miles. It was new and fresh and well built, a house of many rooms, smoke purling from its chimneys. The horses left in the cold blew frosty breaths incongruous with the warmth and golden light coming from indoors.

  Through glass-paned windows, Pigeon spotted glorious decorations, all manner of ribbons and bows. The laughter of guests and giggles of children spilled through the walls. Seen also were ladies in fine dresses on the arms of well-dressed men. Lafayette, himself, had donned a black suit and fashionable cravat. Having never seen him that way, her heart beat hard.

  He led her to the door and knocked. Within seconds, it opened to the face of a woman in an expensive dress that far outweighed her aged appearance. She’d pulled her hair into a coil at the nape of her neck, but it’d loosened with her movements, pieces fluttering around her face. She had kind eyes, but watery ones, as if she’d stood near the smoke too long.

  “Mr. Faulkenberg,” she said, making a curtsey.

  He gave a stiff bow. “Mrs. Millford.” He angled himself toward Pigeon. “This is my wife.”

  Mrs. Millford extended one hand, clasping hers and squeezing her fingers. “So lovely to meet you, my dear. Won’t you both come in?”

  They entered and the cheerful plink of a piano came from the far room, the warbling voice of a youngster singing a miss-rhymed Christmas carol.

  “Mr. Millford will want to greet you,” Mrs. Millford said, “but … oh …” She gave a joyous hop. “I just cannot keep the secret any longer.”

  What secret she meant was unclear to both of them. Dutiful, they wended through the crowd toward the opposite side of the room, coming to a halt in front of a couple that Pigeon knew immediately strictly by appearance.

  Lafayette trembled at her side, his eyes damp, the struggle for his emotions clear.

  The girl stepped forward. She glanced at her briefly, her brow furrowed, then transferred her gaze to Lafayette’s. “My dear brother,” she said, “did you think I would leave you alone at Christmas? Little Rock is never too far to come home and be with those we love.”

  CHAPTER 5

  To see his sister meant everything, to hold her, breathe in her perfume, the most peace he’d had in days. Lafayette wanted to weep on her shoulder, but did not. He forced himself backward instead and turned his attention to her husband, Niles, and the presence of Pigeon, his wife.

  “My dear,” he intoned, drawing Pigeon’s gaze, “this is my sister, Cosette, and her husband.”

  Pigeon made a delicate dip at the waist. “So wonderful to meet you both.”

  Cosette’s gaze asked, And who is she?

  He faced the question, suitably condemned, and spoke clearly. “This is Pigeon, my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Cosette glanced from her to him and back. “You did not tell me, and I thought …” Whatever else she wanted to say, she held in. “Listen to me. This is not the time or place. I can see my brother found someone exactly fitting for him.”

  Pigeon’s expression asked what that meant, but true to her nature, she didn’t inquire.

  “I hope while we are here we can spend time together,” Cosette said.

  “I would enjoy that very much,” Pigeon replied.

  The festivities and excitement of the crowd prevented further talk. There was the meal to enjoy, a veritable feast for the senses, all manner of savory and sugary treats, and afterward, cheerful music sung by those who attended. Thus, it was several hours before he saw his sister again. She curled her fingers over his arm and pulled him away from everyone else.

  Facing the room, they were observers of it, on the edge, able to see who chatted with whom. Cosette hooked her hand through the crook of his arm and leaned in, speaking low in his ear. “Truth, brother, she is the attraction in the room.”

  She, Pigeon. She was. Every bachelor male had worked his way near her and several married ones as well, much to the chagrin of their spouses. She fairly beamed at the attention, her behavior practiced and that of someone who’d been in such a position many times. Not like her letters at all, a woman who’d said she couldn’t stand crowds, who longed for open spaces. In contrast, this one fed others from her palm.

  “I like her,” Cosette continued. “She is sweet, but I’m wondering …”

  “Do not wonder,” he stated, knowing what she would ask. “I ran an advertisement, and she answered it.”

  Cosette, her lips pursed, cast him a curious glance. “She answered an engagement ad? Looks to me like she could have had her pick of a dozen simply by nodding her head.”

  It looked that way, and he questioned it. Why would she rather answer his ad than do what came so naturally to her? She wished to be here, locked in these mountains, instead of wearing silk and taffeta?

  “I cannot speak for her motive,” he replied, “but when I pleaded for her to come in time for Christmas, she agreed. I did not know you and Niles would return and couldn’t face it alone.”

  This made his sister’s face more solemn. “Brother, I have to ask. Does she …?”

  He swallowed past the coal lodged in his throat. “I told her. She, in fact, forced it from me and holds no ill will.”

  “I am happy for you then,” Cosette replied, “but can see you are hard on yourself still. Have I not told you dozens of times, Marianne forgave you? I spoke with her alone before her time of delivery arrived. She loved you very much and saw the folly of what you’d done together. She would have your forgiveness for her part in it.”

  “There would’ve been no folly if not for me, and mine is the only sin to forgive.”

  Cosette tightened her grip on his sleeve. “Not true. She had her eye for you. I’ve told you that as well. You both misstepped, but forgiveness has been offered, I would that you embrace it.”

  The words left her lips, but he had no time to contemplate them. Mr. Millford clapped his large hands. A rotund man with a bald pate, he resembled, in part, a citrus fruit. “Friends …” he said in his booming voice. “A suggestion has been made to me by our good friend, Thomas Vail, and I have agreed to it wholeheartedly. Though we’ve gathered to celebrate this holiday, we must center our thoughts on the birth of Christ.”

  He paused to inhale. “I know the church has been empty many months. We sorrow with you over this and seek a permanent solution. However, until then, it has come to our attention that we have an able substitute …” Mr. Millford flashed him an encouraging grin. “Our own good neighbor, Lafayette, is ordained. Good Reverend,” he said, “would you consent to speak a word tonight?”

  Lafayette’s blood rushed from his scalp down his limbs into his shoes. “No … I cannot …” he protested, soft. He was of all men the most vile.

  Cosette released his arm and gave him a slight shove. “You can. I have seen you do so many times.”

  Before. Before he misstepped and ruined another person’s life. He was not qualified now.

  “My son, Niles, has already located the Scripture in the gospel of Luke,”Mr. Millford continued. “You could read it to us, and perhaps, God will speak through your voice.”

  Every eye in the room focused on him, and the space seemed small, the people close. He could not, in good conscience, step aside and refuse, but seeking Pigeon amongst those gathered there, yearned for some sort of reprieve.

  She worked her way free of those around her and came in his direction. “Come, husband,” she said. “I’d like to hear you read and these, your friends, all are eager to support you.”

  Were they his friends? Stumbling forward, he asked it repeatedly. He’d seen the nicest people also act cruel. These who smiled at him now, might kick him in the spine later.

  Niles extended him the Bible, and Lafayette had no choice but to take hold. He settled it in his palm and gazed downward, the words blurring, but the familiar passage lifting in his heart. How many years had he read it? How many times had he intoned its words? Each one precious, the gift of the Savior, the salvation of mankind, which included him, though he continually refused it.

  He raised his gaze, but the verses that emerged weren’t of the gospel at all. “Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone, because I am a man of unclean lips … Then flew one of the seraphims unto me, having a live coal in his hand … And he laid it upon my mouth, and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged. Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. Send me,” Lafayette repeated, tears in his eyes.*

  The room fallen silent, not a soul moved, even the children strangely still. Mrs. Millford broke the spell. “Let us all sing ‘Silent Night’ …”

  The people’s voices rose, their attention turned from his, and his heart pounding, Lafayette made his escape. Pigeon appeared beside him within seconds. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, but sobbed when her fingers wreathed in his.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Millford, thank you so much for your hospitality.” Pigeon made their goodbyes, her words heartfelt. “It was a lovely evening. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Millford smiled, at the last second, embracing her neck. She smelled, strangely, like evergreens. “You and Mr. Faulkenberg take care.”

  Released from her, Pigeon sought her spouse and found him with Cosette. She made sure they saw her approach, not wishing to stumble in on any private conversations. They’d spent considerable time away from everyone else, and she’d seen in him a much softer side. He truly adored his sister.

  Thinking of that, Lafayette looked more composed than he’d been earlier, his tears dried, his shoulders squared. At the same time, he had a new, more animated light in his eyes. She wasn’t sure what caused that, nor, long range, how he’d feel about what’d happened. There’d been a few looks and a little whispering, but overall, everyone had been kind.

  Cosette approached, taking her hands. “We’ve promised to visit tomorrow evening. I told Lafayette not to worry about food. We’re glad to provide it.”

  She wondered, with that remark, what he might’ve said about her, but chose, as usual, to overlook it. “I look forward to it. I’m so glad you came.”

  There wasn’t much more to say then, although she did make a point to speak to Niles before climbing in the wagon. Lafayette was quiet on the way home, and she left him to his thoughts, unsure exactly how to keep him from sinking into moodiness again. He cast her a glance halfway home, and she gained some hope that maybe he wouldn’t, at least, not tonight.

  “You were most comfortable in that crowd,” he said.

  Her fingers curled over the seat, she rocked to and fro, the wagon tilting with the angle of the road. A shiver raced down her spine in the frosty air. “Was I?” she asked. “I’ve attended parties before.”

  “Attended them, starred in them …” He fell silent and looked ahead.

  Did he think that of her? She’d had a good time, met so many nice people. She’d been especially pleased to talk with Wilma and Thomas Vail.

  A number of minutes passed in silence. The darkness of the surrounding forest enclosed them, and she wished for the warmth of their bed, the sturdiness of his masculine figure taking space beside her. His last words returned to her. “Hardly the star,” she said.

  “No?” he asked. “I almost forgot we were wed for wondering which man would drool on you next.”

  There was a bite in his voice she didn’t like. How could he go from weeping, being so contrite, to this sternness? Though she knew the disparate items were related, right then, his unhappiness was directed at her.

  “Nonsense,” she replied. It seemed unlike him to be jealous when he had nothing to be jealous of.

  He dropped the subject, or she thought he had. Once arriving home, she went indoors while he unhitched the wagon. She was dressed for bed and reclined when he returned. His back to her, he removed his coat, tossing his shirt and pants in the floor atop it.

  She admired him, as she had often. He was finely made and not bashful or apt to hide himself. She put that down to their time together. They’d both grown lax in many ways as two people sharing living space would do.

  He took a seat, his long johns pulling snug across his frame. He gazed at her most stern. “Where did you learn to socialize like that? From your parents?”

  Pigeon debated on her response. Why did he bring that back up again? “They had parties occasionally.”

  “In the tenement?” he asked. “I have been adding two plus two for many weeks now and getting seven instead of four. I find it hard to believe your parents would agree to our match and am beginning to suspect they didn’t.”

  “I told you that already.” In different words and she’d hoped it wouldn’t come up again. For that matter, she’d rather he were solemn tonight instead of so displeased.

  “How did it work?” Lafayette asked. “You went behind their backs? In writing and answering the letters, I can see that as possible, but how does a very pretty, unwed woman, who attracts men like flies, manage to get on a train alone?”

  When she didn’t reply, he continued. “Ah. Another lie like the entirety of our correspondence. Tell me, my wife, who was the man you were supposed to wed?”

  She had indicated that, too, and in considering it, saw no harm in admitting, at least, part of the truth. “The Baron VonBradenburg, sixty-five, if a day younger, trim, with white hair and a chest-length beard. He breathed outward and money dripped from his lips. Our wedlock was to solidify a connection that my parents wanted. I was to be his third … no fourth wife. Your offer was much more attractive to me, so I left.” She was well aware how snooty that sounded, but couldn’t possibly tell him the full truth.

  “You speak from both sides of your lips,” he replied. “On one moment, I think you care for me. At my weakest, you offer encouraging words. But I cannot seem to line that up with the stories you’ve told. You lied to your parents to be here. You lied to me about who you were.”

  “You hate me then?” she asked. “I do not believe it. I’ve seen your face, heard you express your avarice. You wish to be my husband, but at night lose your nerve.”

  “I will show you ‘nerve’.” He barely uttered the words, his manner becoming volatile. Grasping hold of her, he curled his fingers around the neck of her night dress, tearing the fabric. A man possessed, his lips bruised hers, his fingers digging hard into her flesh.

  She screeched, fearful, but his intention becoming clear, couldn’t refuse his claim of her, and the gentle lovemaking she’d wanted for their union was instead, harsh and bitter. He took her virtue, giving her no alternative in it, and drove her hard into the mattress, the physical pain soon sparking her tears. What she hated the most, however, was her enjoyment of it.

  She deserved this. She’d let another woman die and pretended to be who she wasn’t. She deserved this and despised her elation in it, hated that she held any pleasure at all. He held in place once the act completed, his eyes dark, until her chest seemed unable to rise and fall. He rolled off then, placing his back to her, and fell asleep.

  By contrast, she could not. She could only replay his motions again and again, and sob silently, bruises growing on her flesh, the evidence of him drying there.

  Why with this did she realize what she wanted? His love in return.

  For she loved him. Enough to hold his hand this evening, enough she’d allowed him to reduce her to this. She loved him enough to want him to find his freedom and never return to the man beside her, one willing to damage his wife rather than feel anything. Because she saw it now. He hated his deficiencies and so had taken his frustration out on her, whether they were the result of jealousy from the evening or something that went far deeper.

  But his physical strength used in this manner only made him look anemic. She would see him truly well instead.

  She questioned what would happen tomorrow, though, when Cosette and Niles arrived. How would they look at each other and not remember this?

  Lafayette rose well before dawn and busied himself in the barn, unwilling to think about what he’d done, but with each forkful of soiled hay, each driven nail, each mindless task, saw how he’d destroyed the person who meant the most. Pigeon. At the same time, it hadn’t been her he was destroying. Once more, the person he’d abused, the image he’d tried to drive from his mind had been his own.

  She’d lied to him. Truth was, he did not care. She could say the most horrible thing, and he’d accept it simply to have her here. They were fit for one another, the fallen preacher, the degenerate man, worthy of the woman who’d spun so many lies, and the road they’d paved, set with bricks made of dung, leading to a house set on sand awaiting the next tide.

  To select a wife from correspondence was most foolish. To acquire a husband in that manner equally so. And now they both had created a conglomeration he wasn’t sure how to repair.

  He ran out of tasks eventually and grew hungry. He was tempted to skip breakfast just the same, but at the last minute, made his way indoors and found Pigeon frying eggs. The smack of the door caused her to bobble and, grease spattering across her fingers, she screeched.

  He sprinted to her side. Bubbles of reddened flesh quickly formed on her palm. She wept with it, not making a sound. He took her by the wrist and tugged her to the table. Urging her to sit, he went outdoors, gathered a small cup of snow and returned with it. He pressed her palm to the snow and, after removing the pan from the heat, took a seat across from her.

  Her hair clung to her cheeks, one tendril crossing her lips. He swept it aside, causing her to jump at the gesture. “Pigeon …” He spoke her name.

 

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