Cinnamon and Roses (12 page)

Instead, Holbrook nodded. “Then you're doing the right thing, son.
Very good, very good."

"That's it?” he asked, surprised. “You're not going to tell me I'm getting what I deserve for dragging her into my bed? You're not even going to yell at me for compromising a lady's virtue?"

"Seems to me you've already thought of those things. At any rate, it's too late for those considerations now."

Caleb snorted and levered himself out of the chair. He picked a cigar out of the box Holbrook kept on his desk and bit off the end.

"I don't suppose you'll be going back to
New York
, then?” Holbrook asked.

"Doesn't look that way,” he answered. “I don't think Rebecca would be very comfortable there."

Holbrook smiled. “Rebecca is a nice girl. She'll make you a fine wife."

"That woman doesn't know the meaning of the word
nice,
” he told his father as the older man held a match to the tip of the cigar. “Do you know what she did when I told her I was going to marry her and give the baby a name? She swore. She cursed me out and told me I had no right to interfere in her life."

"You
told
her you would marry her?
To give the child a name?"

"It's my child. I won't let it be born a bastard.” He pounded a fist on the mahogany desktop. “Rebecca is undoubtedly the most willful woman I've ever met."

"Your brother is the most boorish, insufferable oaf I have ever known! How can you live with him?” Rebecca pulled a rolled-up day dress out of her bag and threw it onto the bed.

Megan picked up the garment and shook it out, hanging it in the small wardrobe. “He's usually at the Express office, so I only see him in the evenings. Why are you so angry with him?"

Rebecca looked up, wondering how much to tell Caleb's sister. “We had an argument on the way here."

"Why are you staying with us, then?"

Straightening, she took a deep breath and considered how to answer Megan's question. “Caleb and I are getting married."

Megan's squeal hurt Rebecca's ears, and she expected every piece of glass in the house to shatter. Jumping up and down, the girl threw her arms around Rebecca. “This is wonderful! When? Oh, I'll wear my green dress. No, no, the yellow. Or maybe you can make me a new one. But, no, you'll be too busy sewing a gown for yourself. Oh, the yellow will be fine, don't you think? And I'll help with the preparations. I can write out invitations or—"

"Megan.” Rebecca touched her arm and said her name three more times before the girl quieted. “There won't be any need for your help."

Megan looked crestfallen, and Rebecca hastened to explain. “The preacher is coming in the morning.
At nine."

"So soon?” she asked, her head lifting. “But...” She seemed to change her mind about what she'd planned to say before hugging Rebecca again. “I still think it's wonderful. I'll finally have a sister!"

She stood in the morning sunlight, twisting her hands together, trying to convince her stomach not to empty itself on Reverend Patterson's spit-shined shoes. Holbrook had convinced them to hold the ceremony in the front yard to take advantage of the bright, beautiful day. With Caleb at her elbow and Megan and Holbrook on either side as witnesses, Rebecca felt boxed in and completely underdressed.

Earlier, when she'd realized she had nothing to wear except a few haggard-looking day dresses, Caleb drove into town to fetch her Harvest Festival gown. She hadn't packed it because it held memories—good and bad—that she didn't want tarnished by her new life at the Scarlet Garter.

But her plans had changed.

Even in her best dress, she felt out of place.
Though she had to admit that the deep burgundy color did seem ironic perfection for the bride on her wedding day—far from white and virginal.

"I brought the marriage certificate with me,” the reverend told Caleb. “After the ceremony, when we go inside, I'll fill in the names, and you and your wife can sign them."

"Fine,” Caleb answered. “Let's get started."

"Do you have a ring?"

Caleb swore,
then
colored when the preacher frowned. “I'll get them later."

Patterson began to argue but thought better of it. “All right, let's begin. I'll need your full names."

"Caleb Zachariah Adams."

They all turned to Rebecca, waiting for her to answer. She kept her mouth closed.

"Miss,” the reverend said, clearing his throat. “I'll need your full name."

"Rebecca...” She shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the front of her dress. “Fitzgerald."

"Wait a minute,” Caleb said. “That's not your name. Widow Fitzgerald only took you in. She wasn't a blood relative, was she?"

"Of course not,” Holbrook answered for her. “Octavia came here with her husband. She didn't have any other family."

"What's your real name, Rebecca?” Caleb asked, his brow beginning to furrow.

She cleared her throat. “I can't tell you."

"What do you mean, you can't tell me?” Caleb ground out, glancing briefly in the direction of the preacher.

"I can't tell you. I'm sorry."

"Well,” Reverend Patterson blustered, “I'm afraid I cannot marry you without knowing your full name. It wouldn't be legal. I can't do it."

Caleb leaned close, his voice lowered harshly. “Do you hear that? We can't get married without it."

Rebecca stood statue-still, not backing down from Caleb's intimidating rancor. But she couldn't grant a wish she had no power over. Lifting her shoulders and holding his gaze, she said, “Then I guess we won't be married."

"That's it.” Caleb took Rebecca's arm and led her away from the group, up the front walk to the house. Once inside, he dragged her to the parlor and closed the sliding doors.

Rebecca watched, wondering why he bothered. The only person in the house besides themselves was Nina, and she had her hands full preparing the midday meal.

"I want to know what's going on, Rebecca. We have to be married, so why won't you tell me your name? You're not wanted by the law or something, are you?"

"No."

"Then what the hell is going on? And I want the truth."

"I've already told you the truth. I can't tell you my name.” Caleb's face reddened, and she quickly explained. “Because I don't know what it is."

Caleb's open mouth closed by degrees.
His eyes narrowed, and his rigid posture relaxed. “I'm not sure I catch your meaning."

"I really don't have a last name. Not one that I know of, anyway. As I told you, I was ... orphaned at a very young age and don't remember people calling me anything other than Rebecca."

"Did you ever think to ask? Someone surely knew your parents."

Rebecca shrugged and swallowed. “I never asked. I was just a girl. It didn't seem important."

"No, of course not.”
Caleb ran splayed fingers through the hair he'd groomed so perfectly for his wedding ceremony. “What do you propose we do?"

Rebecca's eyes widened in surprise.
“I don't know,” she said, following him with her eyes as he began pacing the length of the room.

"You've gone by Fitzgerald since the widow took you in, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Then that's the name you'll use.” Caleb stopped his agitated movements and gave an affirmative nod.

Rebecca's fingers traced the seams at the sides of her skirt. “I don't think that's legal."

"Why not?”
Caleb held up one hand and began ticking off reasons. “You don't know your parents’ name. Widow Fitzgerald took you in when you were only..."

"Thirteen,” she supplied.

"Thirteen,” he said. “You lived with her until her death. She practically adopted you. You've lived in Leavenworth for ... How many years?"

"Ten."

"Yes, ten.
And whenever necessary, you've used the Fitzgerald name. Correct?"

Rebecca felt like a prisoner being interrogated in front of a firing squad. “Yes,” she answered.

"Sounds legal to me.”
Arms crossed over his chest, one side of Caleb's mouth quirked up in a grin.

"I don't ... I don't think so."

"Let's ask Reverend Patterson."

"No.
Caleb, no.”
Rebecca followed after him, but it was too late. He took the porch steps two at a time and came to stand at the preacher's side. After saying a few words in the man's ear, Caleb turned and led the reverend back to the house. Rebecca stood in the frame of the open front door, close enough to see Caleb wink at his father and sister, letting them know everything would be fine.

She stepped aside as Revered Patterson entered the house. Caleb ushered them both back to the parlor and once again closed the doors. Her heart beat three times faster than usual, and she clenched her fingers in the fabric of her dress.

"Reverend Patterson,” Caleb began in a tone worthy of any courtroom lawyer, “we have encountered a small dilemma concerning the use of Rebecca's last name."

The reverend's bushy black eyebrows drew together, and his forehead puckered.

"You see, Rebecca was orphaned at a very young age and never really knew her parents. Isn't that right, my dear?” He turned, waiting for her to answer.

Rebecca drew a deep breath and stepped forward to stand at his side. “Yes, that's right."

"How dreadful,” the reverend said, shaking his head sadly. “That must have been terribly difficult for you."

"Yes, it was.” Lowering her head, she kept her sights on the toes of Reverend Patterson's black shoes and nearly jumped when a strong arm circled her shoulders. She raised her eyes to look at Caleb, who pulled her close to his side.

"She was too young to even remember her last name,” he explained.

The reverend's eyes widened. “That does pose a problem."

"Yes. But we think we've found a solution."

"Oh?"

"When Rebecca was only thirteen, Octavia Fitzgerald—God rest her soul—took her in and gave her a home. She even allowed Rebecca to use the Fitzgerald name, though the widow never legally adopted her. Do you see what I'm getting at, reverend?"

"Yes, yes.” Patterson nodded several times and then shook his head. “No."

Rebecca turned her face into Caleb's shoulder, stifling a laugh. She felt Caleb give her shoulders a squeeze.

"We feel that Rebecca should use the name Fitzgerald, since Octavia was like a mother to her for so many years. Our main concern is about the legality of such a decision.” When the reverend didn't answer, Caleb continued. “Do you think it would be possible for Rebecca to use Fitzgerald on the wedding certificate?"

"You don't have any recollection of your true birth name?” Reverend Patterson asked Rebecca.

"No, sir."

"Well, if there's no other option..."

"None,” Caleb said.

"Then I don't see why not."

A relieved sigh escaped her lungs as she leaned against Caleb. She would have fallen had he not tightened his arm around her and held her up.

"Let's go,” the reverend said, sweeping out of the room. “We have a wedding to see to."

Reverend Patterson stayed for the reception, an early lunch of cold roast beef and a celebratory bottle of wine, which only Holbrook, Caleb, and the reverend chose to drink.

By noon, Rebecca was exhausted, nearly asleep on her feet. After waving good-bye to the reverend, she excused herself and went to her room to rest.

When she next opened her eyes, the room was dark. The curtains had been drawn, and only a scant blush of evening sun shone through. Rebecca sat up with a yawn, stretching and resisting the tiredness in her muscles that beckoned her to roll over and go back to sleep.

A gasp escaped her when she spotted a figure near the door. She jumped and pressed herself against the headboard.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

Caleb's low, textured voice reached her ears, and she put a palm to her chest, trying to slow the erratic hammering of her heart.

"Well, you did,” she said, breathless.

"Sorry."

"What are you doing in here?” She pulled the edge of the quilted bedspread she was sitting on up to her neck, an unbidden reflex, since she was still fully clothed.

Caleb came to the opposite side of the bed, lifting the chimney of the lamp long enough to strike a match to the wick. A soft glow illuminated the room, and Rebecca turned away to slowly allow her pupils to adjust to the light.

"I thought I would move your things while you slept. That way you wouldn't have to bother."

"Move my things? Why?
Where?”
Rebecca now looked directly at Caleb.

"To my room."

He turned and went back to where he'd been taking articles out of a drawer and stuffing them into her valise. Then she noticed all her dresses had been moved from the closet to hang from a brass hook on the back of the bedroom door, obviously waiting to be transported.

"Wait a minute.” She scooted out of bed, untangling her skirt and feet from the covers and hurrying to his side. She grabbed the camisole from his hand and hid it behind her back. The thought of Caleb seeing her
underthings
, much less
touching
them, made her blush. “I thought this was to be my room."

Paying no attention to the interruption, he simply went to her dresses and caught the wooden hangers on his thumb. “That was only for last night, to keep up pretenses Now that we're husband and wife, we can share a room."

Rebecca shoved the camisole back into the dresser, along with the things Caleb had already put in her bag. “What if I don't want to share a room with you?"

"I don't remember bringing it up for discussion."

Rebecca bristled, clutching the carpetbag before her like a shield. “No, you didn't. Nevertheless, I think we should discuss it."

"You'll only end up packing them again,” Caleb said, gesturing toward the clothes she had returned to their rightful places.

"I'd rather stay here. This room suits me perfectly."

"I'm sure it does. But how would it look to others if we didn't even reside in the same bedroom?"

"The same as being married so quickly, without inviting guests, I imagine."

Caleb chuckled. “Yes, I imagine. No sense in giving them more grist for the gossip mill, however. If you'd rather move your things into my room on your own, that's fine with me.” He returned the dresses to the brass hook on the back of the door. “Just be sure it's done by suppertime.” Checking his timepiece, he smiled. “
Which happens to be in ten minutes.
See you then, wife."

He quit the room before Rebecca had a chance to answer. But not before she decided the devil would be serving ice-cold lemonade in hell before she bent to Caleb's will.

"Dinner was delicious,” Rebecca
said,
which was the truth, though she'd managed to eat little with an upset stomach. She followed Nina and Megan into the kitchen, all of them carrying handfuls of dirty dinnerware.

"Wasn't it, though?” Megan set down her pile of dishes and patted the young cook on the back. “Would you like some help washing them?"

"No, thank you.” Nina reached for her apron, slipping it over her head and tying the strings behind her back. “Peter will not be here for an hour. I need something to keep me busy."

"How is Peter?” Megan asked.

A rosy blush stained Nina's cheeks, and she turned away. “He is fine."

Megan smiled and turned to Rebecca. “They've been courting for almost a year. I really think Peter is going to propose any day now. Will you accept, Nina?"

"Of course.”
The woman
turned,
her face serious.

"Come on,” Megan said, taking Rebecca's arm and giving a sly wink. “Let's leave Nina alone to the dishes. I'm sure she doesn't want us around while she daydreams of marrying and having pretty little babies with her beloved Peter."

Rebecca cleared her throat and averted her eyes. She didn't know if Caleb had told his family the real reason for their rush to wed, but she knew Megan was observant enough to figure it out before long.

They walked through the dining room and foyer as Megan led the way to the parlor. “I don't know where Caleb and Papa have gone. They're probably in the study.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I don't know why Papa insists on smoking those hideous cigars. And then he has the audacity to complain of a cough.” She shook her head. “I will never understand men.
Never."

Rebecca tried to smile. Neither would she.
Especially one particular man.
A man who had made it plain he had married her only because she was carrying his child, yet who insisted on sharing a bedroom. Rebecca mentally shook her head. No, she would never understand Caleb Adams.

Megan lifted her skirts slightly and crossed one leg under the other before plopping down on the settee. She patted the cushion, motioning Rebecca to join her.

Rebecca sat, smoothing her skirts modestly, unlike carefree Megan. Not that Rebecca was a prude, but a nervous jitter gnawed at her belly. She'd been comfortable in the Adams home before, when she came for Megan's fittings, but this time felt very different. This time she wasn't a visitor. She was Caleb's wife. This time she couldn't leave when her business was complete. There was no escape.

Rebecca's stomach lurched, and her fingers dug into the carved wooden arms of the sofa. She turned her head away, breathing deeply, trying to convince herself that she wasn't about to be sick.

"Are you all right, Rebecca?"

She nodded, keeping her eyes tightly shut.

A gentle hand touched her cheek and hair. “You don't look very well. Perhaps you ought to rest.” Megan helped Rebecca to her feet and to the bottom of the steps. “Don't
worry,
it's probably just all the excitement of your wedding day. I'll tell Caleb where you are."

Rebecca forced a thank-you through drawn lips and clutched the
bannister
like a lifeline, dreading the trek upstairs.

Once she reached her room and lay down, the nausea seemed to pass. She sighed, counting in her head how much longer this morning sickness—which seemed to find perverse pleasure in striking throughout the day—would last. The doctor had told her it usually lasted through the first three months of pregnancy. That meant she would be miserable for at least another month. The thought did not cheer her.

She rolled over, moaning at the lurching discomfort it caused in her head. If only she could sleep for six weeks or so and wake up as healthy as she'd ever been.

Rebecca awoke to the sensation of floating. She opened her eyes and found herself hovering at least a foot off the bed. Her body stiffened, and she threw out her arms to catch herself. When she looked up, she found a set of brown eyes staring back at her.