To Whisper Her Name by Tamera Alexander

familiarity and ease with which this family interacted, she knew why.
    Because she’d once held such hopes for what marriage and family might be.
    As a girl, she’d daydreamed about it. As a young woman, she’d been groomed and prepared for it. And as a bride, she’d swiftly realized it was nothing like she’d imagined.
    There would come a day, she knew, when she would have to remarry. If only to avoid burdening the handful of people around this table who still welcomed — or at least tolerated — her company. But she prayed that day was a long way off. At least a year, if not two, abiding by the customary grieving period for a widow.
    And the next man she married — if given a choice, a choiceshe’d fight for this time — would be nothing like Charles. He would be feeble, paunchy, and dull. Scarcely able to raise his voice to her, much less his hand. If she was fortunate enough, she’d feel for him a kindly sort of affection. Not the depth of love and longing she’d once dreamed of. Those were the childish dreams of a little girl who hadn’t known any better and a young woman not yet acquainted with life and its realities.
    And disappointments.
    Olivia studied the napkin in her lap, smoothing out the wrinkles and fingering the elaborate
H
embroidered on one of the corners. Other attributes she’d wish for in a husband — if given the right to choose — were loyalty and honesty. And beyond question, he’d be a Southerner, dedicated to rebuilding all that was lost when the Confederacy fell.
    Laughter echoed around the table, bringing Olivia back to the moment, and she thought she heard her name. She lifted her head to see Elizabeth watching her, as was everyone else.
    “I was just asking you, dear … Have you heard the general tell this story before? It’s quite amusing and goes along rather well with our dessert this evening, which our Susanna makes to perfection.”
    Olivia blinked. “Ah …” Having absolutely no idea what Aunt Elizabeth was talking about, she forced a smile, seeing the young server from before setting bowls of syllabub in front of each of them. “I don’t believe I have, Aunt Elizabeth. But I’d certainly love to!”
    Olivia guessed, by the general’s satisfied expression and the way he settled back into his chair, that she’d answered correctly. Eager to taste a spoonful of the whipped-cream dessert — so light and airy, one of her favorites — she waited for Elizabeth to take the first bite, as etiquette dictated.
    “My late father, John Harding, God rest him,” the general began, “was quite a man who lived quite an adventuresome life, as my family well knows. Not only did he carve out the beginnings of what is now Belle Meade, but he was instrumental in shaping the framework for the city of Nashville. He and my mother used to entertain local and national dignitaries, and on several occasions —”
    “Oh, hurry, Papa,” Mary cajoled, “and get to the good part.”
    “And be sure to do Grandpa Harding’s voice too,” Selene added.
    He held up a hand. “Patience, daughters, patience.” Then he sneaked them a wink.
    Olivia saw the other ladies smile, so she did too. Until she saw General Harding looking at her.
    “I’m assuming you’ve heard of David Crockett, Olivia? The famous bear hunter and Tennessee congressman?”
    She nodded. Every child in Tennessee was taught about Davy Crockett.
    “Well, shortly before Crockett left Tennessee for Texas” — General Harding leaned forward — “my father and mother entertained him. Right here, at Belle Meade.” His smile grew wistful. “Mr. Crockett was one entertaining storyteller, ladies. After dinner we’d sit around for hours and listen to him weave his stories. One night …” He grinned. “My mother, Susan, served this very dessert.”
    As if on cue, everyone looked at their bowls then back at him.
    “When Crockett asked my father what it was, my father said …” General Harding lowered his chin a