1901

Upon arriving back at the cottage, she and Molly, assisted by Lieutenant Colonel Harris’s wife, had worked hard to arrange an early ceremony. First, a clergyman had to be found. Since neither she nor Patrick had any strong religious affiliation-she was Dutch Reformed and he wore his Anglican faith lightly-almost any minister would be suitable. Father McCluskey, a portly Catholic chaplain who had been discussing marriage plans with Molly and Heinz, was approached. He had demurred and seemed worried that the Pope might find out what he was doing, but he was mollified when Trina’s father promised to build him a new church in his home parish. It was in Kansas and far away from the Pope.

Getting food for a reception and a place to hold it were no problem. As Patrick reminded everyone, generals do have some power. Whereas clothing for the men simply meant dress uniforms, getting gowns was complicated. But the Schuyler money produced a small army of nimble-fingered seamstresses and dressmakers, seemingly from nowhere.

Thus, even though the weather was an utter ruin, the wedding went off without a hitch. Jacob Schuyler gave away his daughter, who, dressed in a simple white gown, was radiant. Molly-in a better dress than she’d even seen before, much less worn and owned-was the maid of honor. Her pregnancy was not evident, as it was still in its early stages. Patrick wore dress blues, and Ian Gordon, as best man, was resplendent in Imperial regimental scarlet. Along with a handful of staff and other friends, the fifty or so guests included Funston, Wheeler, and MacArthur. MacArthur stayed only a little while. Pershing and Lee sent regrets. There was, after all, a war on. Funston and Wheeler, however, made up for the others’ absence and raucously tried to outdrink each other. They didn’t even notice when Ian left with a woman guest, a recent friend of Trina’s who’d also been working in the refugee camps. She was a little overweight and rather plain, but Gordon treated her as though she were the Queen of England. Patrick whispered to Trina that he would soon be her king, at least for that night. Molly and Heinz left early as well. Unable to walk or stand for long because of the still-healing leg wound, and with his arm heavily wrapped and suspended, Heinz was forced to spend much of the day in a wheelchair and was clearly uncomfortable and a little embarrassed.

Both the ceremony and the reception were held in a school, and a handful of musicians from the brigade provided a fairly high level of musical talent. Harris had found them. They’d gotten together to help alleviate the boredom of an army camp and were really quite talented.

It was not very late when Patrick and Trina made it back to the cottage. Tonight it would be theirs alone. Molly had made other arrangements for Heinz and herself. Patrick and Trina would have only the night and the next day. Work for Patrick was piling up, and Trina was starting to feel guilty about the latest wave of refugees she’d missed helping.

A little before dawn, Trina slid naked from their bed and padded softly to the window. There wasn’t much to see of the world as the rivers of water coursed down the panes. They might as well be on the bottom of the ocean, she thought, and wondered whether she’d be surprised if a fish swam by. On the other hand, the rain did appear to be slackening ever so slightly. Well, it couldn’t rain forever, could it?

Behind her, she heard the deep breathing of the sleeping Patrick Mahan. She sat on a trunk by the window and drew her knees up to her chin. So this was marriage. No, this was just the beginning. She smiled. A very interesting beginning. She stood and stretched catlike by the window.

The motion awakened Patrick and he lay still, looking at her. How exquisite she is, he thought, and how lucky I am. She was as lithe as a dancer, a picture of sinuous grace, with small but exquisitely pointed breasts and a flat belly with a tuft of light hair at its base. Her legs were slender and lean, not chunky as he’d been told Dutch and German girls’ legs often were. And to think she thought so little of herself. Once, she had described herself as plain and thought others considered her homely. What utter nonsense. He would have the rest of their lives to convince her what a remarkable person she was.

“You’re beautiful.”

She smiled softly. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Who me?” he teased. “I’d never fall asleep on our wedding night.” At least not now, he thought, as he watched, enthralled. She was so slender and lovely as the soft light of the stormy dawn danced across her body. A flash of lightning illuminated her like fire, and he saw she was smiling at him.

“Can I convince you to come back to bed before you catch cold?”