hateful letter into the fire.
She didn’t want to live with Absalom any more than Samuel did—that much was clear. And if they’d known this stipulation before the wedding, would she have gone through with it? Would Samuel?
He shoved the thought aside. No matter what they would or would not have done, they were married now. And it was up to Samuel to make sure they kept this home, as much as he didn’t want it. Something about the desperation growing in her eyes made him want nothing more than to send President Davis’s carriage—and its owners—down that long, winding drive to the road, so Clarissa would never have to see them again.
And by the grace of God, he’d make sure to do just that.
“I won’t have it!” Cousin Absalom slammed his fist onto Grandmother’s fine mahogany table, eyes blazing like the flames in the fireplace opposite him. “Clarissa will twist this whole situation to her advantage, and I wouldn’t put it past you to help her, Duncan. Now that she’s married the Fighting Chaplain, he will too. I’m calling in another attorney to examine this will, and I’ll pay him whatever it takes to defend what should be mine.”
Any shred of hope Clarissa might have held for a quick, easy end to this calamity now faded in the span of a heartbeat. Her cousin truly would fight to the death for their grandfather’s property, even if that death was Grandmother’s rather than his own. Which, despite her attempt to appear calm and unaffected, could happen if her current angst caused her health to deteriorate as it had after Grandfather’s passing.
In a sudden flash of clarity, Clarissa recalled a moment earlier that day, when Grandmother had offered her wedding dress to Clarissa. She’d pressed her wrinkled hand to her chest as if her heart palpitations had returned. Thinking back further, Clarissa remembered seeing the same gesture even before that, when her grandmother realized she’d mistakenly caused the parson’s dilemma.
Had her heart malady come back?
As this possibility sunk in, Clarissa clenched her teeth before her fear could steal her determination. Losing Camellia Pointe would be heartbreaking. But losing her grandmother would be almost as bad as...
She drew a halting breath as a tragic, long-ago night invaded her thoughts. A night before they’d left Camellia Pointe, before they lost Grandfather, before the War. A night that had formed her future. For a moment, she lived it again: the labored breaths, the little involuntary cries of pain, the goodbye kisses on soft, feverish skin—
Her vision blurry with tears of remembrance, Clarissa set her gaze on the family portrait over the mantel, painted during the last days they were happy. For the first time in two years, she focused on the dark hair, much like her own but longer, thicker, and the soft lips that would never kiss her again. It was true—losing Grandmother would be almost as hard as losing Mother.
No matter the cost, Clarissa couldn’t allow it. Not if she could somehow prevent it. She hadn’t been able to avert the tragedy of her mother’s death or the heartache that followed. But perhaps she could somehow find a way to shelter her grandmother, keep her healthy.
The only way to do that was to hold on to Camellia Pointe.
An idea suddenly coming to her, she whisked away her tears and turned to her cousin. “Absalom, you never were sentimental about this home, and certainly not about Good Shepherd. Let’s divide the Camellia Pointe land. I’ll keep the house and five acres, and you can have the other twenty-five. Build on it, sell it—do what you want with it—and we’ll somehow divide Good Shepherd too.”
“You think I’m going to settle for a mere twenty-five acres of useless ground and half of a worthless tenement, leaving you with everything else? I’ll knock every inch of stucco off this house and tear it down brick by brick—and go to jail for it—before I’ll accept an agreement with you.” Absalom shoved back his chair and shot to his feet, thickening the air with his tone and the weight of his words.
“It’s all I can offer. This is a country villa, not a plantation. You know our acreage lies in the Delta.”
“By all rights, I should get half of that too.”
“By all rights,” Joseph said in that threatening tone he reserved for unruly clients, “I should record your statements and conduct so they can be taken into consideration at the end of the year. And if you continue, I’ll do it.”
The Reverend Montgomery stood and positioned himself behind Clarissa, one hand on the back of her chair. “I’ll be watching every move you make—you and your family. Keep that in mind if you take a notion to start swinging a sledgehammer.”
“You’d better hope I don’t swing one at you,” Absalom muttered under his breath.
“Simmer down and listen. He hasn’t finished reading the letter.” Joseph looked at Absalom with unveiled contempt, the kind only the very aged could get away with in polite Natchez society.
Samuel continued. “‘My grandson will make any needed repairs to the main house. My granddaughter will repair and restore the gardens, landscaping, bridge, sanctuary, gazebo and pergola. All work must be completed one month from today. The pastor of Christ Church of Natchez will determine whether each party has successfully completed the task.’”
“This isn’t fair.” As Absalom bellowed his outrage, the heat of his breath hit Clarissa in the face. “She has an advantage, marrying the parson. He’s supposed to be an unbiased party in this contest.”
Joseph gathered his documents into his ancient portmanteau and stood, cloaked with the dignity of a man who’d spent sixty years advising the best and the worst of Natchez aristocracy. “Adams, you have a nerve. Waste your money on another attorney if you like, but it’s not in your best interest to insult your cousin or the reverend. You know the Fighting Chaplain’s reputation, and Clarissa has made herself invaluable in Natchez during the recent hard times. She’s a favorite among the citizens. Better keep your bitter opinions to yourself if you hope for a fair judgment in this town.”
“What’s she done that’s so great?”
“Besides helping to stabilize the church after it lost its founding pastor, overseeing her grandfather’s waterfront mission for the poor, keeping the city orphanage running and caring for her grandmother?”
Absalom kicked his chair, sending the Duncan Phyfe antique sailing against the wall, and stormed toward the door. “None of that will make a bit of difference. I intend to have this property, Clarissa. You might as well get used to that—in fact, don’t even bother moving back in.”
As his thundering footsteps pounded down the center hall toward the front entrance, Clarissa fought the urge to head out the back. This was her wedding day, and she’d scarcely looked into her husband’s eyes since the ceremony ended. It was also the first day of her year-long contest with her cousin, and she wished she hadn’t seen the vitriol in Absalom’s face, heard it in his words. At the moment, it seemed the year would never end.
Upon remembrance of Grandmother’s hand pressed against her chest, she realized the year might end too soon, cutting short Clarissa’s time with her.
“Don’t worry about Absalom. He talks big but it’s mostly blustering.” Joseph turned to the reverend, an expression of sympathy flitting across his
