The Loyal Heart (16 page)

When she moved to stand and dismiss him, he held up a
hand. “I know you would like me to leave, but we still need to talk about the original reason I came in here.”

“I cannot discuss that with you.”

“I feel differently. Your staff is concerned about you. They are very worried about you.”

“I . . .” She swallowed. “My personal problems are not their concern.”

It would be so easy to accept her statement. To promise that he would alleviate her worries and then be on his way.

But he had begun to see that he cared about her too much now. She'd become not a mission but a reason to get through each day. In short, she had bewitched him.

Perhaps it was time to see if she, too, was under such a spell. Looking at her closely, he took care to be blunt. Jarring. “I have heard you have been depressed. Beyond depressed.” He lowered his voice. “Some might even say suicidal. You said yourself that you have not wanted to live. Do you want to die?”

She gasped, but said nothing.

Robert took her silence as an invitation to push even more. “Miranda, do you, in fact, want to die?”

“I cannot believe you asked me that.”

“Yet you didn't answer.” Staring at her coolly, he said, “And that, Miranda, is why I am here.”

She met his gaze. Stared hard at him. Then got to her feet and strode toward the window and pressed her hands on the cool glass.

If she thought he was going to leave now, then she was sadly mistaken. He was willing to sit on the lumpy settee and stare at her back for as long as it took to get some answers.

After all, as far as he was concerned, that was the real reason he was on Galveston Island. Beyond his loyalty to his unit, beyond
his promise to her husband, Robert had agreed to this mission because he needed to know more about himself.

He needed to understand why he'd done the things he'd done and why he'd survived.

He needed to understand why he had been able to get a job and finally flourish while so many men were still suffering from wounds and mental anguish. He needed to understand what was in his soul and in his heart. Only then, at long last, would he be able to find any peace.

D
O YOU WANT TO DIE
?

The question was blunt and bordering on blasphemy. It was one she felt no one should ever ask.

Yet Miranda had a feeling she might be the only person on earth who was afraid to answer it.

Which was the problem, Miranda realized. She'd been drifting in and out of her pain for so long, she'd begun to wear her depression like a mantle on her shoulders. After the mind-numbing grief she'd felt from Phillip's death had begun to fade, she'd been at a loss for what to do about her future. For too many years she'd felt confused and adrift.

But she'd had her home. Phillip's mother and sister were bitterly hurt that Phillip had made provisions to ensure she would always have the house as her home and not his family. But then she learned they were working with lawyers to try to contest Phillip's will, and she'd known she must do something.

When Winifred and Emerson, her longtime servants, had suggested that she turn the big mansion into a boardinghouse as a way to solve her financial problems, she'd first been aghast. Phillip would have never wanted her to live with strangers. He had often told her he liked taking care of her and seeing to her needs, much to his mother's dismay.

Miranda couldn't come to terms with the idea of converting his family's home into a place of work. But when their lawyer's letters had gotten forceful enough for Miranda to have to hire her own to fight them, the little money she had left began to run out.

Uncovering a force of will she hadn't even known had existed inside of her, she'd known it was time to take action. Therefore, she'd followed Winifred and Emerson's advice and opened the Iron Rail to boarders.

Oh, but those first few days after she'd placed that advertisement had been nerve-racking! Many of their friends had been scandalized, and acquaintances who had always looked down on her because she was not from Galveston blatantly turned their backs on her. Doubts had begun to set in.

She'd been sure she'd done something unforgiveable.

But then, one Tuesday, two things happened within three hours of each other. She'd received a telegram reserving a room for two weeks. Moments later, a gentleman had showed up and asked for a room for the evening. God had provided.

He'd paid when he arrived and had been both extremely respectful of her and appreciative of the mansion.

Winifred had cooked him a simple supper and Emerson had shined his boots. And in the morning he'd not only left a sizable tip, but promised he would return . . . and spread the word about her charming establishment.

And with his departure, she'd realized there was a chance that she was going to be okay after all. She'd started to think of herself as a survivor. She wasn't broken; she was mending. She was going to make Phillip proud.

However, she soon received her first threatening letter. The words had been ugly and cruel. That note had torn her apart and had reminded her of just how alone in the world she was.

But boarders and guests had continued to come and their company had soothed her soul. Until the letters came every week and the animosity she felt from everyone in her circle of friends had become more intense as rumors about both Phillip and her spread.

She hadn't understood it. Couldn't think of what she had possibly done to deserve such ire, such treatment. Why did everyone believe these lies? She even asked her best friend, Mercy, about it. Mercy had been by her side when she'd married Phillip, had held her hand when she'd first heard that Phillip had been captured.

She'd stayed with Miranda for days after they learned he'd died.

Miranda had turned to Mercy when Mr. Winter had first leered at her and the first time two women she'd known walked by her without acknowledging her. Almost as if she were a fallen woman.

But as she'd confided all her fears and worries to her best friend, a change had occurred. Instead of being supportive and optimistic, Mercy's expression had become shuttered. Instead of offering Miranda advice, Mercy had shuttled her out of her house.

And then had become as distant and aloof as everyone else.

That betrayal had been so difficult, almost as if she were experiencing another death. But this time, there seemed to be no one around her to lean on. Somehow, for some reason, she was all alone.

She'd begun a downward spiral after that, and it had culminated with the morning she'd not only contemplated jumping from the window, but gone so far as to open the pane.

But yet . . . she hadn't jumped.

Did that mean something? Did that mean she cared enough about her life to keep it? Or was she merely too afraid about failing in her suicide attempt?

Only to herself had she been able to admit that she hadn't been sure.

But now, with Robert staring at her, practically willing her to confront the truth, even when it was so shameful that she knew she'd barely been able to admit it to herself, she yearned to say that she did not want to die.

She blinked. Realizing that she felt more certain about that than ever before. She did not want to die. She wanted to breathe and walk and talk to other people and plan.

And even remember.

“I . . .” Perversely, the words felt stuck on the tip of her tongue. It was as if her brain was telling her one thing but her mouth was completely incapable of following its directions.

Still Robert watched her.

His attention, so intent, so unwavering, made her lungs tighten. It made her pulse skitter and race in a panic.

Abruptly, she looked at him, afraid he was going to stare at her impatiently. Show her that he was like everyone else in her life. Remind her that she wasn't worth his time, his conversation, or even his compassion.

But when their eyes met, she saw only acceptance. And patience. He wasn't waiting for her to be a different person. No, he was simply waiting for her to find herself.

That enabled her to find her bearings. She breathed deeply and forced herself to concentrate on this moment. Not the past, not an uncertain future.

Buoyed by that, she gathered herself and breathed in deeply. Finding success, she inhaled again. And felt hope.

It was as if God had finally spoken to her and blessed her. He'd taken so much, but he'd given her this man.

Oh, she didn't expect Robert to stick around. She didn't
expect him to even become her friend. But he was there for her at that moment, and the feeling of happiness that accompanied it was so sweet she almost felt giddy.

Suddenly, Miranda knew she had to tell Robert about her thoughts and her worries. About her hopes too. She had to convince him that she wasn't as bad off as everyone feared.

And, she realized, she had to convince herself that she was worth his time and attention. Somewhere inside of herself she was the same person she'd always been. The girl who had met handsome Phillip Markham at a soldiers' ball and enchanted him. The girl who had bravely hugged her husband with a bright smile before he went off to war, not wanting his last memory of her to be one of tears.

Suddenly, she was living, breathing, feeling.

She was alive.

“I do not want to die,” she said at last. “I . . . I, well, for a time, I wasn't so sure about that, but now I realize I want to live this life that was given to me. Even if it's not perfect.” She closed her eyes. Had there ever been a greater understatement? “I mean, even if it is painful, right now I realize I want to feel that pain.”

Slowly, he got to his feet. Looked at her steadily. And finally nodded. “Good.”

She thought he was going to turn around. She was certain he was ready to leave the room. Be rid of her now that he wasn't afraid she was going to jump or collapse or do whatever else he imagined she was on the verge of.

But he didn't do that at all.

“It's going to be all right, Miranda,” he murmured as he approached her. “You are not alone any longer. I will not leave you to face everything by yourself,” he said as he carefully wrapped his arms around her.

“I, too, have suffered, but I got stronger. You will get stronger too,” he whispered as he brought her into his embrace and held her close.

His warmth, his very being, felt so comforting that she allowed herself to relax. With great deliberation, she placed one hand around his waist, then the other. Leaned her cheek against his clean, starched shirt.

And clung to him.

Robert Truax, former second lieutenant in the C.S.A. and comrade of Phillip's, had become important to her. Not just because he was a handsome man. Not just because he had almost become a friend.

But because he believed in her.

And because right then, right at that moment, she believed in herself too.

She wasn't perfect, but she was alive.

She wasn't strong, but she could be.

She wasn't happy, but she had hope.

Furthermore, she was standing. She was blessed. She was being held.

She had not fallen yet.

I
T WAS NEVER EASY TO ASK FOR HELP
. H
OWEVER
, R
OBERT
had learned the hard way that it was far more difficult to face the consequences of failing by himself.

Because of that, combined with last night's memory of holding Miranda Markham fairly burning in his chest, he'd pulled out his quill and forced himself to compose the letter he hadn't wanted to write. Jess was now an ally, but Robert needed more.

I have learned, sir, that Mrs. Markham's difficulties are even worse than I had surmised. I have told you that her friends have abandoned her, even her best friend. Men who are so far beneath her that they should be doing nothing but begging for a kind smile are treating her as a pariah. Now I've learned that she has been receiving threatening letters for a year and is being blackmailed with the threat of some kind of false proof that Phillip was a traitor. All that on top of insinuations that she has dishonored her husband with other men.

In addition, she is still recovering from the loss of her husband.

In summation, she is a woman who has been through too much and has almost given up hope.

As Robert stared at his last sentence, his handwriting barely legible with poor penmanship and hopelessly cramped, he found himself smiling.

Because he'd been able to add one single word that changed everything.

That “almost” meant the difference between a chance of optimism and the knowledge that there was very little anyone was going to be able to do for Miranda Markham.

Last night, she'd realized she had much to live for.

When he'd thrown caution to the wind and enfolded her in his arms, she'd clung to him. That moment, that experience of holding her close, smelling her sweet scent, of knowing that she trusted him when she trusted so few . . . well, it had changed him.

Over the last two weeks, Robert's goals had changed. He'd come to Galveston to honor his friend, to fulfill a promise he'd made to a dying man whom he greatly admired. Then he'd gotten to know Miranda. Little by little, he'd begun to understand Phillip's fascination with his wife. Then, practically out of the blue, he'd felt a tenderness toward her that had nothing to do with dark promises and everything to do with the woman he couldn't seem to take his eyes off.

He'd become smitten. No, entranced. She was a wonder. No, wonderful. He now wanted to make her happy. Not because he could ease her problems but because he, Robert Truax, was a man she had come to admire too.

He wasn't necessarily proud of his feelings. Part of him felt like he was betraying a close friend's trust. However, the greater part of him, the part that had survived life on the streets and a long war, was far more pragmatic. Life was meant for surviving. And sometimes, if a person was blessed, he might experience love too.

Blinking, he pushed last night's memories from his mind and refocused on his report to Captain Monroe.

Because of the wealth of her problems, and because I did not at first tell Miranda my connection to Phillip and have for the time being lost some of her trust, I feel I must stay here even longer. The sheriff here is Jess Kern. Though I do not remember him, he tells me that he, too, was imprisoned at Johnson's Island the same time we were. He has fostered a tenuous friendship with Miranda. I believe he sincerely wants to uncover the author of the threatening letters, and I have taken him into our confidence. Not about everything, of course, but about our mission to help Miranda. I trust him.

Taking all the above into account, I am humbly asking for assistance, Captain. I fear if I continue to navigate her problems single-handedly in light of all you and I know, there is a chance of failure.

We both know that is not an option. Please advise at your earliest opportunity.

Yours respectfully,
Robert

After marking and sealing the letter, Robert addressed it neatly, blotted the ink, and walked downstairs.

To his surprise, he didn't come across Miranda, any of her servants, or even another guest. In fact, it was unusually quiet for eleven in the morning.

He wondered why. He knew enough about the workings of the house to have a pretty good idea of what everyone usually did at this time of day. Actually, this late-morning hour was one of the busiest. Winnie and Belle cleaned rooms and Emerson was either
cleaning fireplaces, washing windows, or tending to the winter garden outside.

Miranda herself spent her time working in her parlor, answering correspondence or greeting new guests. Not that he had seen more than one other guest the entire time he had been there.

But there was no sign of anyone anywhere.

His curiosity was slowly being replaced by worry and a vague sense of trepidation. Stuffing the letter in his vest pocket, Robert headed toward the kitchen. Perhaps Cook had prepared some jam tarts or some other delicacy and they were sampling the items. Miranda had told him that happened from time to time.

Just outside the kitchen, he heard voices. He breathed a sigh of relief and congratulated himself on not jumping to conclusions and making things seem worse than they were.

Opening the door, he grinned. “Cook, what treat have you made today? And please tell me you saved me a sample,” he called out.

Then he froze.

Miranda and her four servants were standing together and staring at a pair of thin women dressed in unrelieved black. One was older and looked to be in frail health. She was sitting on one of the hard kitchen chairs, grasping the armrests as if she was using them to keep herself upright.

The other woman had dark hair and hazel eyes. High cheekbones. She looked like the feminine version of Phillip Markham.

But that was where the similarities ended. Whereas Phillip always had a smile on his face and a rather easygoing patience about him, this woman was birdlike and sharp and agitated.

She was also staring at him in the way he'd always looked at two of their Yankee guards. Those men had been sloth-like and unkempt. Unfit and undisciplined. They were men who would have done poorly in Monroe's unit, and presumably weren't even
fit for fighting in the Union army since they'd been able-bodied and designated to serving on an island in the middle of the Great Lakes.

Because he was as different from those men as night and day, Robert raised his chin and boldly stared right back at the woman. Phillip had never told him he had living relatives, and why had Miranda not mentioned these two?

“Who are you?” the younger one asked rudely.

Before he could answer, Miranda walked to his side. “This is Robert Truax, Viola,” she said in a tremor-filled voice. “He served with Phillip.”

Viola scanned him with disdain. “What is he doing here?”

“He is staying as a guest,” Miranda said quickly. “I believe he has some business to tend to here in Galveston.”

She was attempting to shield him, Robert realized with a bit of shock. Miranda was trying to shield him from these two spiteful women.

He would have been amused if he hadn't been so sincerely touched. He was six foot one, was well muscled, and had been blessed with a bright mind. He'd grown up unafraid to use his fists to get what he wanted.

In addition, he had been an officer in the Confederate militia. He was used to commanding scores of men. He was used to being the person doing the shielding and guarding.

On top of that, he'd made himself into a gentleman. He prided himself on his ability to shelter the weaker sex.

He accepted that and had enjoyed the feeling of worth that had given him.

He did not enjoy the sight of Miranda fretting about him.

“Yet another man ruining your reputation, I see,” the old lady muttered.

When Miranda shook her head and visibly prepared herself to respond, Robert had had enough. “To whom am I speaking?” he asked curtly, in the same tone he'd used to snap at insolent corporals during training exercises.

When the lady did not answer, only inhaled sharply, Miranda once again rushed to the rescue. “Forgive my poor manners. Robert, may I present Viola and Ruth Markham, Phillip's sister and mother. Ladies, as I said, this is Robert Truax. He was one of Phillip's fellow officers in the C.S.A. and one of his best friends. He was also captured and imprisoned at Johnson's Island.”

The elder Mrs. Markham sniffed. “But you lived.”

It seemed her audacity knew no bounds. Lifting his chin, he stared at her directly. “Indeed, I did.”

Noticing that Miranda was wringing her hands, he looked at the servants. All four of them were wearing pinched, uncertain expressions.

That made no sense. He knew enough about the management of a household to realize that a mistress's ill-behaved guest had little effect on the state of the servants. Even as close as their bond was with Miranda, there was no reason, as far as he could see, for why they were standing in the kitchen and looking so awkward and nervous.

“Why is everyone in the kitchen?”

“It is no concern of yours, boy,” Viola said.

Before Miranda could run interference again, he spoke. “No one has dared to call me that since I was old enough to make sure they regretted it, Miss Markham. I have no intention to begin accepting it now.”

Viola flinched, but otherwise had no response.

“Viola and Mrs. Markham arrived an hour ago, sir. They came to share with me that their lawyer has discovered a way to
take the house away from me.” After visibly gathering her composure, she added, “After this announcement they insisted on a tour of the home.”

“A tour? If this was your son's, I am sure you know it well.”

“Mrs. Markham wanted to meet the staff. Her new staff.”

“We were interviewing them to see if they have any qualities that would necessitate them staying,” Viola said with a note of satisfaction in her voice.

“Is that right?” he drawled.

Miranda's eyes flashed. “I put a stop to it.” Her voice turned to ice. “As a matter of fact, I was just attempting to tell them that this was not settled when you came in.”

“No, it does not seem settled at all,” he agreed as he noticed that both Viola and her mother looked terribly uncomfortable. And Miranda? Well, Miranda looked madder than a wet hen.

Robert was so proud of her. This was the first time, at least in his presence, when she had believed in herself enough to stand up to the naysayers. It proved that she truly had had a transformation the evening before. But again, why hadn't she told him about these two presenting yet another threat to her well-being?

He hated that he couldn't smile at her and tell her how proud of her he was. Instead, he did something that was probably even better, and that was to succinctly inform these two biddies that they were mistaken about the house becoming theirs. Miranda and her staff needed them off the property as soon as possible.

“Miranda was Phillip's beloved wife,” he said.

“She was his wife,” Mrs. Markham said. “She was also his mistake.”

Miranda shook her head. “No, that is not true.”

When the old lady inhaled sharply, Robert hardened his voice. “You can say many things, ma'am, but you will never be
able to deny your son's complete and utter devotion to Miranda. He adored her. He carried her picture around on his person and gazed at it constantly. He wrote to her daily. And when he wasn't doing those things, he was talking about her. She was his world.”

Mrs. Markham looked like she'd just swallowed a particularly sour pickle. “She might have been those things, but she has since become his liability.”

“Never that.” He made sure to interject enough force in his words to cut off any further discussion, at least there in the kitchen. “Now, I suggest we leave this room and allow Miranda's staff to continue with their duties.”

“You are overstepping your bounds, sir,” Mrs. Markham said.

“I think not.”

Just as the lady was about to speak, Miranda cut in. “Everyone, it is time for this discussion to end. Robert, thank you for joining us, but I feel we all have better uses of our time than continuing this debate. Viola and Ruth, if you would like to stay here for the night, please let Winifred know. She will take you up to your rooms. Otherwise, I fear you have outstayed your welcome. It is time for you both to take your leave.”

Ruth got to her feet. When Robert attempted to offer her his hand, she batted it away.

“What about your staff?” Viola asked.

Turning to the four people who were still standing in a small row but now wearing far more relaxed expressions, Miranda said, “Do you need directions for your duties?”

“No, ma'am, we do not,” Winnie said with a glare at the two interlopers.

“Very well then,” Miranda replied. “Ladies, if you will follow me, please?”

Though Viola looked ready to argue, her mother walked toward
the door. Robert stood to one side as Miranda led the ladies out of the kitchen, down the short gap between the kitchen and main house, and finally inside again.