eyes brightened with comprehension. “This is because of Harold Goss, isn’t it? Do you refuse to marry the parson because you’re still in love with that fool?”
“You don’t understand. You never have. Harold’s betrayal killed all the tender emotions I had for him. If he hadn’t up and married that hateful Belinda Grimes just because her father had bigger cotton fields than we did—”
“He would have found someone else with even more money, and he would have married her.”
“While he was engaged to me?”
Grandmother waved away her objection. “It could have been worse. Missy Conrad’s beau just never showed up for their wedding. Left her with a church full of guests and pink azaleas.”
“Yes, and she married a few months later and was the talk of Natchez. She had to endure both the pain of betrayal and public humiliation. Not to mention pity.” And the pity was the worst part. Everywhere Missy went, the Natchez elite stopped to whisper. And they’d done the same with Clarissa. “I can’t endure the whole town feeling sorry for me because I was the bride in a loveless, arranged marriage.”
“Then think of enduring Camellia Pointe going to ruin under your cousin’s management. He may well sell it, so imagine enduring the knowledge of strangers in your bedroom, in your grandfather’s study—in his little sanctuary.” Grandmother surveyed her a moment and then touched Clarissa’s cheek. “Can you honestly say you could give it up?”
At the rare tender caress, Clarissa looked into her grandmother’s eyes, a mirror image of her own. She saw something there she’d never seen before, and it looked like fear.
The bitter bite of fear welled up in Clarissa’s throat, as well—fear of loss, fear of trust. Grandmother was right about many aspects of this appalling situation, but she was wrong about Harold Goss. Clarissa wasn’t still in love with him. However, he had reinforced the lesson her father had taught her years before: men could not be trusted.
Clarissa choked back her own fear in light of her grandmother’s struggle, pulling a painful breath into her constricted lungs. She owed everything to the older lady. And she was the only family Clarissa had left—at least, the only family member who had not betrayed her.
She caught her breath as another thought embedded itself in her mind. What if she could bring Papa back by keeping their home?
The Spring Festival was scheduled on Clarissa’s twenty-first birthday, with the Mississippi Community Choir Association Contest taking place in Natchez for the first time ever. The association Papa had founded thirty years ago, back when he and Mother lived in the Delta.
And this year, Natchez stood a good chance of winning, with a larger choir than ever and a few new, spectacular vocalists. Most important of all, the Reverend Montgomery, a noted choirmaster, had agreed to lead them.
She pressed her hand to her throat as her thoughts swirled. Missus Milburn, president of the Spring Festival committee, had offered to hold the festival at her estate. But that was before the elderly woman had taken a bad fall. Perhaps Clarissa could host instead—at Camellia Pointe.
Then Papa might come back...
She’d call on Missus Milburn today. And write to Papa tonight.
She had no choice.
Drawing a deep breath of courage, she gestured toward the door. “Would you please fetch the reverend for me?”
“I will. And we can have the wedding on the front gallery at Camellia Pointe.” Grandmother hastened to the door and flung it open—a little too joyously for Clarissa’s taste. Within moments her cane tapped down the hallway. “Reverend Montgomery, are you there?”
Clarissa lowered herself to the hearthside wing chair, relieving her trembling legs but not her erratic pulse. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, but it failed to calm her. Heavenly Father, don’t let me make a mistake.
Could she do it—marry the parson?
She’d never trust any man enough to have a true marriage, true love. So wouldn’t a marriage of convenience to the parson be worth it if it meant she could keep Camellia Pointe—and see Papa again?
The reverend’s heavy footsteps sounded outside the ladies’ parlor, and she opened her eyes. He stepped in, his features soft with hope. He stopped beside her chair and lifted his gaze for a moment, as if to heaven.
As she had seen her grandfather do a thousand times.
Clarissa stood. “Reverend, I accept your offer.”
* * *
The late-afternoon sun cast the home into shadow, throwing a duskiness into Samuel’s heart as well. He pulled into the uphill circle drive and stopped his phaeton beside the graying sign with its faded letters: Camellia Pointe. He shielded his eyes from the lowering sun and gazed upon one of the largest, most austere Southern mansions he’d ever seen. At the sight of the immoderate display of wealth, he cast aside all he’d done to brace himself for his marriage.
Even in the fading light, Camellia Pointe showed herself off, her two-story galleries embellishing her white-stucco frame, her massive columns timeless, her Greek Revival lines impeccable. She stood proud, elegant—excessive.
Hardly an appropriate setting for a minister’s wedding.
Everything in him wanted to turn the buggy around and head back to town. Back to Christ Church. Back to a place of sanity and safety for his heart.
Perhaps he should have stood his ground when Clarissa had suggested holding the ceremony on the front gallery of her family home. But she’d clearly set her heart on it, and he’d hated to refuse her first request of him.
A church wedding—that’s what they should have had...
He stole a glance at Emma beside him and the book she’d immersed herself in every time they’d been alone since he fetched her from Kentucky. As she’d also done when Samuel announced his marriage plan. Could nothing move his daughter? Would she remain forever engrossed in her own thoughts, her own world?
She stirred as if sensing his gaze. Then she let out a squeal and clasped his upper arm with the grip of youthful exuberance. “Is this Clarissa’s home?”
Samuel paused, savoring his daughter’s hand on his arm—the first touch she’d given him since he’d left her at the Kentucky school four years ago. “It’s Camellia Pointe.”
Emma tossed the book to the carriage seat, her brown eyes gleaming. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful house. Can we live here?”
“This is no place for a preacher. We’ll live in the church manse as planned.”
With a frown, she dropped her hand from his arm and picked up her book. But as he urged the horse up the drive, she kept the book closed, her focus on the mansion.
Samuel fixed his gaze on Camellia Pointe, as well—the one thing, other than the infernal book, that had captured his daughter’s attention and brought her out of her melancholy. Even for those few moments. Despite Emma’s sentiments, he would hurry this wedding ceremony along and hasten his new family to the manse.
Cresting
