The Reluctant Bridegroom. Shannon FarringtonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Henry was not in the habit of taking orders from others, but not knowing what else to do in the present moment, he offered Rebekah his arm. “Shall we?”
The blush on her cheeks darkened, but she allowed him to lead her toward the building’s exit. Outside the rain had stopped, but puddles covered the cobblestone.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch the carriage,” he said.
“Oh, that isn’t necessary. I don’t mind walking.”
So they started off. Henry had to resist the urge to look behind him, to see if Smith was following them.
“I cannot help but think of Mrs. Lincoln,” Rebekah said. “Of the pain she must be suffering. Her entire world has been turned upside down.”
Henry forced himself to focus. “I have heard she will remain in Washington for the next few weeks, until she is better able to make the journey back to Illinois.”
“Her heart must be broken.”
“Indeed.”
“I wonder if she knew what she was getting herself into when she married him.”
“I suppose not,” he said. And neither do you.
She looked up at him. Henry saw a myriad of emotions reflected in her eyes. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. Hope. Fear. He couldn’t take it any longer. Stopping in his tracks, he looked her square in the eye.
“Miss Van der Geld, there is something that I need to tell you—”
A passing news boy clipped his confession short. “Extra! Extra! New conspirator named! Right here in Baltimore!” A crowd rushed to devour the details of the latest suspect’s fate. Most of them had already pronounced sentence.
“There’s another one to hang...”
“...and it can’t happen soon enough.”
In his haste to grab the latest edition, a particularly bullish man was barreling down on Miss Van der Geld. Henry pulled her aside and shielded her from contact. Secure in his arms, she was close enough that he could smell the lavender water she had combed through her hair, close enough that he could feel her trembling. When she looked up at him, however, eyes wide with innocence and fear, Henry did not see her. He saw Kathleen.
Her future and that of her sister’s is still so uncertain.
“You were saying?” Miss Van der Geld asked.
Henry drew in a breath, once more letting anxiety override his conviction. Steering her away from the burgeoning crowd, he said, “It isn’t important right now. The streets aren’t exactly safe. I’d best get you home.”
Five days later, alone in his study, Henry scoured the latest edition of Harper’s Weekly. The front-page article, entitled “The Murder of the President,” featured a full formal sketch of John Wilkes Booth. He looked poised and polished, much like he had the day Henry had offered him a ride.
Revulsion tempted him to toss the paper aside. Fearful curiosity, however, kept him reading. The article gave an overview of Booth’s family, acting career and known associations. “His companions have been violent secessionists,” the publication read, “and there are doubtless many others involved to a greater or less degree in his crime.”
Henry’s heart beat faster. The article went on to describe just how the assassin had carried out the murder, citing evidence of deliberate preparation. Details included everything from a small viewing hole bored through a door panel to the seats in the presidential box, which “had been arranged to suit his purpose,” either by himself, or “by some coconspirator.”
He read further. “The villain succeeded in making his escape without arrest. In this he was probably assisted by accomplices...”
Henry laid the article aside and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew full well what would happen to those accomplices if they were caught. The local papers were reporting on the vast number of believed conspirators currently incarcerated in the Washington city jails.
Next he picked up the Free American. “As the search for Booth and his fellow conspirators continues, authorities turn their eyes toward Baltimore.” The paper for which David Wainwright and his wife worked spelled out what Detective Smith had hinted at during the funeral processional and what the paper boy had proclaimed loudly from the street corner. A man by the name of Michael O’Laughlen, a twenty-four-year-old Baltimore engraver and former Confederate soldier, had been arrested.
“According to authorities,” the paper said, “O’Laughlen was visited by Booth here in the city the day before the assassination.”
Breath quickening, Henry read on. “O’Laughlen insists in a statement that Booth did indeed come to Baltimore to convince him to join his plot, but he told the actor he wanted no part of any such activity. He then told Booth to leave...”
Henry was fully aware of what Booth had done then. He climbed into my carriage, and I drove him to the train station. It is only a matter of time before Detective Smith realizes this.
Or did the man already know? Was that why he’d boarded Henry’s carriage the day of Lincoln’s funeral procession? Does Theodore Van der Geld know, as well? Anxiety chilled his blood. It wasn’t only the thought of his potential political protector turning against him that caused it. It was the memory of Rebekah Van der Geld’s eyes the day he had sheltered her from the crowd.
What will Miss Van der Geld think if she learns her fiancé is a lying conspirator? Henry then wondered if his indiscretion could jeopardize her freedom. As the national outrage over Booth’s actions continued to grow, everyone from the stable owner who’d sheltered the actor’s horse to the widow who owned the boardinghouse where he had met with fellow traitors was now in custody of the authorities.
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