Bride of Thunder Read online

“Where’s Star?” asked Mercy, wide awake.

  Philip opened one blurry eye and grinned foolishly. “Where she’ll get lots of grain. Sold her to a man who wants a nice, quiet mare for his ten-year-old daughter.”

  “You sold Star?”

  “Well, not exactly.” He yawned, burrowing into the pillows. “Cards, my love. Debt of honor.”

  “You … you gambled away my mare?”

  “My mare, wife. What’s yours is mine. Anyway, fussy as you were about her, you should be glad. The old nag was wearing out. Now she’ll be pampered and fed oats with nothing to do but give some doting child a canter now and then.”

  His eyes were shut and he was snoring almost before he drawled the last words. Gazing at him for a few minutes. Mercy sprang out of bed barefoot and ran outside to weep against the oak tree. Star was gone! She had been her father’s gift, the last link with past, happier days. But if Star had a kind owner who could care for her, it was probably best. A ten-year-old would dote on the pretty mare, groom her lovingly, and bring her oats and apples. And it would have been hard to keep Philip from abusing her.

  This was great luck for Star. And yet … and yet …

  Mercy dried her eyes at last, slipped into a dress, and got a pail from the smokehouse. She couldn’t bear being close to Philip right now, and there were lots of mayhaws down by the creek where her father had taught her to swim.

  She guessed swimming was an unusual accomplishment for a girl, but Elkanah thought everyone should know how to do as many things as possible. She’d never heard him say girls shouldn’t do this and that, and ladies didn’t say this or that. “We’re to do the work of a human being,” he’d said, paraphrasing his favorite hero, Marcus Aurelius. “That’s a high-enough aim for anyone without hankering to be ladies and gentlemen.”

  But he had been a very gentle man.

  What would he say to her now? What would he say about Philip? Mercy couldn’t guess. But remembering him in this place they’d often wandered together made her feel better. She ate a few of the tart, juicy red fruits, washed her swollen eyes in the creek, and dabbled her feet in the sparkling stream. It was late morning when she returned to the house with a pail of mayhaws and a calmer spirit.

  Philip sat at the dining room table eating the rooster she’d cooked the night before. The meat was stringy, but it flavored the noodles tastily enough.

  “Would you make some coffee?” Philip asked plaintively as she put a few pieces of small wood in the stove and put on the mixture of roasted dandelion roots and ground acorns that she’d used through the war and seemed likely to brew a good deal longer. At least there was honey, brought by old Hughie in return for the syrups she concocted for his catarrh, and milk. Uncle Billy, freed long before the war by a grateful master whose life he’d saved, left a big crock of milk every other day on account of his wife, for Mercy had visited Aunt Hester almost every day of the wasting illness that had sent her to bed for a year before she died.

  Even though Mercy had reconciled herself to losing Star to people who could treat her well, she was still not able to sit down peaceably with her husband. She got the water buckets and went to the spring at the bottom of the slope on which the rambling L-shaped frame house had been built among magnolias and loblolly pines when her mother and father moved here from Kentucky right after their marriage. Father never mentioned Kentucky kin, so Mercy dimly supposed that there’d been some family disagreement. She’d wished sometimes for a mother, but, except for that, she’d never needed more family than Elkanah.

  Mercy paused before she filled the buckets from the stream that sparkled from a cleft in the rock to flow through halved, hallowed-out logs to the tank where cows and horses had watered. Now even Star was gone.

  A slab of oak was fastened between two hickory trees and a stone-and-mortar fireplace with an iron grate was close by, the copper-bottomed wash boiler upside down on it. After scrubbing the white clothes and sheets on the washboard in one of the two large, round tubs by the bench, Mercy rinsed them in the other and then boiled them snowy bright in the boiler before wringing them out and hanging them up to bleach in the sun.

  Ever since she was big enough, Mercy had helped Jennie, their housekeeper, with the laundry and other work, but shortly after Elkanah went to war, Jennie’s aged mother had broken a hip and Jennie had to move into town to care for the permanently lamed, old woman. She’d been troubled about leaving Mercy alone and had suggested she live with them, but Mercy preferred to stay on the farm. She missed Jennie, who’d worked more for love than money, but she was glad when the plump, motherly maiden lady’s life had taken a romantic turn. Jennie had caught the eye of a well-to-do cabinetmaker and had married him last spring. Life was so dreary or sad for most people that it was a relief to know that at least someone was happy.

  Sighing, Mercy filled the buckets and went back to the house, putting the water on the stand that held the enameled washbasin. The “acorn brew” was bubbling on the stove. Pouring in a little cold water to settle the grounds, Mercy put the pot on the table along with honey and milk. She was leaving to pick fresh mustard greens for dinner when Philip got up and pulled out a chair.

  “Come sit with me, honey,” he coaxed. “I’m sorry, really sorry, about your horse … sorry as hell that I’m not much good for you.”

  Hope stirred in her. Maybe he had learned a lesson. Besides, he was her husband, and, from long ago, her adored older cousin. It wasn’t reasonable to expect him to come home from more than four years of fighting and immediately settle down to a kind of life he’d never dreamed of leading. If they were to have any sort of life together, she must encourage him, be patient.

  “If Star can have grain, I should be glad,” Mercy said, sitting down. “Maybe someday I can even buy her back. Does the man who bought her live in Marshall?”

  “He has a plantation on the way to Jefferson.”

  “I might know him.”

  “You don’t.” Philip didn’t meet her eyes. “Stowell’s from the North. Just bought Colonel Meritt’s old place.”

  “You played with a Yankee when you say you can’t live here because of them?” Mercy asked unbelievingly.

  He shoved back the curling fair hair that fell across his forehead. “Well, I’m not proud of it, but it proves I need to get away! Besides, most of my old friends who lived through the war aren’t gambling these days. No money.”

  “We don’t have any, either! And now I’ve got no horse!”

  “So you are upset! Primed to yell at me every chance you get in spite of that sweetly resigned all-for-the-best act!”

  “Of course I’m upset! I loved Star!” Mercy tried to curb her tongue, but she couldn’t, and all her hurt, anger, and desperation burst out. “You shouldn’t be gambling! You shouldn’t be drinking! And you certainly had no right to wager my mare!”

  Philip turned red to the roots of his hair. He pushed back from the table, jarring the coffeepot so that the brew sloshed over the clean cloth. He must have remembered that he now had no horse to ride off on, for after a moment he said cajolingly, “Mercy, you must see this is no life for me—for us! Give us a chance, darling!”

  “What chance?”

  “Everybody’s going to Mexico—the governor of Texas, Pendleton Murray, the governors of Louisiana and Missouri, the former governors of Missouri, Texas, and Kentucky, and a whole passel of officers and generals!” He leaned forward eagerly, catching her hands. “Let me go, Mercy! As soon as Maximilian wins, I’ll send for you and we’ll make our fortune there—a whole new life!”

  Mercy shook her head, slowly, painfully. “I couldn’t stand it again—waiting, fearing, not knowing if you’re sick or wounded or dead.” She took a deep breath. “If you’re set on going, let’s be divorced.”

  “You’re out of your mind! Decent women don’t get divorced!”

  “Perhaps not, but I will if you go to fight in Mexico.”

  “Mercy!”

  “Can’t you understand?” she bla
zed. “I’m sick of wars, sick to death of waiting for you!”

  She was to grow sicker, for, though he gave in, she’d seemed to spend most of the next interminable year waiting—for him to come home, usually drunk, for him to find work, or study law, help his brother, or make something of the farm.

  She waited for him to be a husband, not a petulant boy. She wanted him as a lover, as her frustrated but healthy body insisted with mounting urgency that it demanded more than his infrequent, awkward usage.

  One night she awoke to a painful nightmare, crying out, writhing at savage hurt as he gripped her by the waist and thrust into her from behind. This wasn’t natural! He’d kill her, wreak some terrible damage! But as she screamed and struggled, he convulsed and fell from her, shuddering and spent.

  Appalled and bewildered, Mercy bit her lip to keep from whimpering as he got up and washed, then salved her injured tissues. Could that be another acceptable way? No. It hurt too much. Neither she nor Philip ever mentioned it, and the shock wasn’t repeated, but the dread that it might be added to her misery.

  They had food only because of the garden, a bounty of wild fruit and nuts, plus products exchanged for Mercy’s healing skills. Almost daily Philip walked to the main road and got a ride to town in someone’s buggy or wagon. As he drank and gambled, the few remaining valuables disappeared—his silver-handled sword, her mother’s pearls and garnets, silverware, an antique writing set, and Father’s ivory chessmen.

  And all the time Philip talked of Mexico. The emperor had issued an invitation to former Confederates to take up land as favored colonists. Hundreds were going. It wouldn’t, Philip argued, even be necessary for him to fight. They could sell this piddling, hard-scrabble farm to pay their stage fare to the paradise near Vera Cruz and be rich within a year.

  “Let’s get away from here!” he pleaded. “I know what I’m doing is disgraceful! I hate myself when I’m sober! But I swear, if you’ll come I’ll make it all up to you. Please, darling!”

  At last, because the life they had was insupportable, Mercy agreed. They sold the farm to Stowell, who was swelling his acres with those of impoverished neighbors, and Mercy watched the furniture she’d lived with all her life sold at auction. All she could take on the stage would be her few clothes, herbs and medicines, and her father’s letters and some of his medical books.

  She made a farewell round of her patients and took a gift of apples to Star, who whickered softly, plump and glistening, obviously spoiled by the small girl who watched jealously as her pet’s first owner said good-bye. Jennie paid a visit and left a large hamper of delicacies to eat on the journey.

  Numbed, scarcely able to believe what was happening, Mercy was like a sleepwalker when they got on the stage and jostled off toward San Antonio. Philip kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand.

  “You won’t be sorry,” he promised. “Bless you, darling, if you’ll just love me.”

  Did she? Now?

  2

  Frozen by the stark question that forced its way into her consciousness, Mercy’s heart constricted and she felt for a moment as if she could not breathe. Of course she loved Philip! He was her husband. Things would be different if he’d been able to finish his education in law and go into practice.

  If it hadn’t been for the war …

  What? inquired the suppressed and terrifying part of her. Other men, most men, had gritted their teeth, tempered their pride with patience, and set about the task of redeeming their lives and homeland. Robert E. Lee had refused to seek refuge, saying that he preferred to struggle for the country’s restoration and share its fate, that Virginia needed all her sons.

  No, men had taken defeat in ways as varied as they’d gone to war. Philip chose to hate the North and pursue any desperate measure that would save him from accepting reality. He saw himself as a cavalier. Mercy fought back tears but could no longer lie to herself.

  She saw him as a spoiled boy. And she didn’t want a boy especially not one she had to cajole and humor, one who’d leave her standing on a darkening street in a strange town. If she must have anything at all to do with the male sex, she wanted a man.

  The street blurred. She blinked rapidly, trying not to remember her father in this public place, for she missed him terribly. He’d been gentle and kind and strong. His letters were among the few precious things she’d brought with her. She was brushing tears away with her sleeve when a carriage, one of the high four-wheelers common to Mérida, drew up and a darkly handsome man smiled and said something in Spanish. Mercy gave him a frosty stare and turned to go to her lodgings.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. Men could scarcely be blamed for thinking she was for hire. Philip would be angry, but she was angry, too! And now that she’d finally confronted the bitter truth of their relationship, she meant to have a long talk with him, this very night, if he came in sober! They were married. She’d stay with him and do her best if he’d try.

  Otherwise …

  She took a deep breath. Otherwise, she’d leave him! She didn’t know how she’d manage. Perhaps she could find work as a nurse-companion here in, Mérida till she saved enough for her trip home. But she could not, would not, go on as they were.

  Could not. The words drummed in her ears like a marching rhythm so that she didn’t really hear the carriage till it stopped.

  “Mrs. Cameron?”

  An almost Texas-sounding voice, deep and pleasant. Even as she whirled, afraid that Philip had met with some disaster, she was resentfully aware of the strain of male curiosity and speculation in the stranger’s tone.

  Swinging down from the high, little carriage, he closed the distance between them with one long stride, gave her a sweeping glance, which, in spite of its rapidity, did not miss much, and bowed so low that she suspected mockery. Even in the failing light, she could see he had a lean, tanned face, eyes of some shade between gray and black, and a long, rather grim, mouth.

  “Forgive my addressing you without an introduction,” he said almost brusquely. “The circumstances are most unusual.”

  “My … my husband?”

  “You needn’t fear for him, Mrs. Cameron. His health is good.” The tall man paused, then gave a harsh laugh. “Better than his judgment.”

  Bewildered, thoroughly alarmed, Mercy swallowed to get command of her voice before she spoke. “I don’t understand, sir. My husband sent you to meet me?”

  It might have been the shadows, but something like pity seemed to soften his face for a second before he shrugged and slipped his hand beneath her arm. “He sent me. If you’ll get into the carriage, I’ll explain.”

  Mercy resisted his lightly insistent grasp. “Indeed, sir, you must explain here and now! How am I to know that you haven’t murdered my husband and now plan to … to …”

  “An entrancing prospect, madam.” Though he chuckled, there was an undercurrent of sympathy or embarrassment in his tone. Reaching into his coat, he produced a folded piece of paper. “If you like, you may take this back to the light of the church to examine. But perhaps even here you can make out the signature. It’s a note from your husband entitling me, Zane Falconer, to your services in settlement for a high loss at cards.”

  Mercy felt as if the earth had opened up and she was falling into a chasm where no one could hear her cries. She stared blindly at the paper, wanting to say it wasn’t true, wanting to scream and call for help.

  But to whom could she call, anyway, with her husband selling her?

  The ugly word brought a purging reality to the melodrama. Assuring herself that it was indeed Philip’s signature scrawled at the bottom of a single paragraph, she gave the note back to the stranger.

  “You can’t fool me, sir. Even though my husband may have been drunk or desperate enough to sign this absurd bond, it can’t have validity. Slavery is forbidden in Mexico.”

  “But debt bondage is not, dear Mrs. Cameron. If a man makes a loan he can’t repay, he and his children and their children may become what amounts to s
laves, because they’re charged for food, clothing, and shelter at a rate that keeps them permanently indebted. I do assure you that I can enforce what’s written on that paper.”

  Numb with shock, Mercy stood silent, motionless. “Get into the carriage,” ordered Falconer. He added more gently, “You look weary, Mrs. Cameron, and I believe your husband was to take you to dinner. Let me find you a meal and we’ll discuss this reasonably.”

  “Reasonably!”

  “I won’t drag you off willy-nilly,” he promised roughly. “But you have to be someplace, and presumably you won’t want to return to your husband. The next man he lost you to might not care about your objections.”

  “And you do?” she demanded scornfully.

  “My household’s harmonious, and I intend to keep it that way.” His tone was cool. “Have no fear, Mrs. Cameron. If, after a pleasant dinner discussion of what I require of you, you prefer to take another course, I’ll deliver you at whatever address you desire, wish you luck, and trouble you no more.”

  Whatever address?

  Where could she go? Returning to Philip was unthinkable. Making a tremendous effort to hold her head high and check the trembling of her lips, Mercy let Falconer help her into the jaunty little high-wheeled vehicle and climb up beside her.

  “Please,” she said, “I … I don’t wish to see Mr. Cameron again, but my things are at an inn a few streets away. Could we collect them now while there’s little chance of encountering him?”

  “Distress doesn’t unbalance you,” Falconer said. “I admire that. The name of your inn?”

  An hour later the carriage had been dismissed after the driver deposited Mercy’s baggage in the entrance hall of a spaciously simple house, and she sat with her host in a courtyard scented with flowers and canopied by trees and vines. A dark young man named Vicente brought plates of chicken and rice and a basket of tortillas, thin corn cakes that Mercy had first found tasteless but was now beginning to relish. There was a small dish of spicy sauce that Falconer advised her to use with caution, plus the most delicious, frothy, hot chocolate she’d ever tasted.