The Loyal Heart (4 page)

Miranda Markham was a woman in need of a savior. And though he was no heavenly angel, he was determined to do what he could to make her life easier. The first step in making that happen was to gain her trust. A tall order when he was beginning with a lie.

With bold strokes, Robert wrote that he had arrived, made contact, and would be in touch with an update soon.

For the first time since he'd come to terms with the outcome of the war, Robert had a new goal, a reason to step out into society, and, for once, to look forward to another day.

“He's a right one, he is,” Winnie declared when she stepped inside the kitchen. “At least six feet of muscle and brawn, all wrapped up in a handsome package.”

Belle Harden glanced up from the pot of chowder she was stirring. “Who is?”

“Our new boarder,” Winnie said as she trotted into the room, looking much like a pigeon. She was round and gray haired. By turns sharp and nurturing. Belle had loved her from the minute Winnie had invited her in to have a bowl of soup at the end of the war.

Within an hour of Belle's stepping into the kitchen, Winnie had procured her a job in the expansive mansion, known to everyone near and far as the Iron Rail. At first she worked for room and board, but once Mrs. Markham opened for business as a boardinghouse and business was good enough, Belle received a small salary. It was enough to save and fuel her dreams of one day working in a dress shop. To do that she was going to need money to pay for her own room. Until that time came Belle planned to stay in the confines of the Iron Rail and help out as much as she could.

After all, Mrs. Markham needed them.

Brought back to the present by Winnie's bright expression and even brighter tone of voice, Belle put down her wooden spoon. “How did Mrs. Markham receive him?”

“About the way you'd expect. She looked like she could hardly do anything but summon the energy to walk down the stairs
to greet him in person.” Winnie's warm expression fled just as quickly as it had come. “She's in a bad way today, Belle. If she doesn't improve soon, why, I don't know what we're going to do.”

“There's not much we can do. There's only four of us—you, me, Cook, and Emerson.” She didn't add that Cook and Emerson were recently married, and while they did a fine job with their duties—Cook in the kitchen and Emerson filling every job from handyman to coachman when needed—they spent any moments to themselves wrapped up in each other.

Winnie said, “We can start by trying to convince everyone who has been so unkind to her to let the past lie buried in Ohio like it should.”

“That would be a hard thing to do given the fact that Mrs. Markham owns this here house and any number of people want it out from under her,” Cook said.

“Not everyone,” Emerson pointed out. “Only Mr. Markham's mother and sister.”

“And every third ship captain who sails through and sees the dock,” Cook added. “Why, a man could sail here from any part of the world and walk right into the house without anyone knowing the difference.”

“I wonder why she doesn't simply give in,” Belle said. “It would make things a bit easier.”

“Maybe, maybe not. She likes this house and everything it reminds her of,” Winnie said. “If she left here, it would be like she left Mr. Markham too.”

Emerson grunted. “You women are far too sentimental. It's not just the memories keeping her here. We all know she needs the money. Plus, running a boardinghouse keeps her occupied.”

Cook guffawed. “I can think of any number of things to keep a woman occupied besides opening up her home to strangers.”

Pulling out a fresh rag, Emerson continued to polish silver. After carefully holding up a tray and looking for signs of tarnish, he placed it in one of the many cabinets underneath the counter. “Winnie, have you seen any more of those letters lately?”

“I found one she received yesterday in the trash this morning.”

“I don't understand how Sheriff Kern can't do anything to stop them,” Belle mused. “They are terrible.”

“It ain't like they're signed, Belle,” Cook said. “All we know is that they are local.”

“Well, that eliminates no one. Whoever started those tales about Mr. Markham did a good job. Nobody hardly speaks to her anymore.”

Winnie poured herself a fresh cup of hot tea. “You should say something to someone.”

“Me? I don't think so.”

“Why? Everyone seems to like you.”

Belle knew the men who liked her were secretly hoping she was a sporting girl. The good men, the churchgoing men, didn't give her the time of day.

The women who were of Mrs. Markham's class didn't even see her. To them, she was yet another young woman of questionable means cleaning rooms and peeling potatoes.

“I don't know who you think I'm friendly with, but I surely don't carry that kind of weight in this town,” Belle replied. “And beg pardon, but you three don't either.”

“Maybe not,” Winnie agreed. “But Sheriff Kern might listen to you. I think he's sweet on ya.”

Belle shook her head. “I don't think so.” Sheriff Kern had moved to Galveston in the summer of '65 and quickly been appointed sheriff. At first everyone thought it was because he was friends with the Northerners put in charge of their island. In no
time, he'd corrected that misunderstanding. He told everyone that he had been loyal to the South and that it was simply his experience in the war that had enabled him to be appointed so quickly and easily.

Most people took him at his word, but Belle had never been positive he was telling the truth. After all, he never talked about the war or where he'd served.

Blowing out a deep breath, Cook blurted, “All I do know is that Mrs. Markham needs a champion, she does. Someone somewhere needs to step up and help her before she loses hope.”

Belle completely agreed. But she also knew it couldn't be her. She needed this job. The last thing she wanted to happen was to be let go for being impertinent, and denied a little recommendation to boot. “Someone will, I bet.”

“I hope that someone does soon.” Winnie's lips pressed together tightly. “I swear, every time I think about the way her supposed best friend Mercy Jackson turned her back on her, I want to spit nails.”

“When I spied her pointedly ignoring Mrs. Markham on her last visit to the bank, I considered whacking that woman on the head with a saucepan, I did,” Cook stated. Glaring at Winnie, she said, “Don't know what possessed you to mention that vixen's name in my kitchen. You're liable to make all the milk curdle, you are.”

“I'm simply saying Mercy should be acting a little bit kinder to poor Mrs. Markham, seeing as her man came back from the war with hardly a scrape. She should be acting more like her name, you know.”

“If I know anything, it's that pain comes in all sorts of names and appearances,” Cook said. “All of us know that. Especially Mrs. Markham.”

And, Belle realized, especially herself too. She also had suffered during the long, bloody War of Northern Aggression. All she could hope for was that no one would ever discover the things she'd had to do to survive.

If anyone here found out, well, even these women in the kitchen would no longer give her the time of day. She'd be out of a job and out of a home.

And once again, she'd have nothing. Nothing at all.

I
T WAS A JOURNEY SHE HATED
,
BUT IT HAD TO BE DONE
. Every Friday Miranda made her way to the downtown business district, most of which was located on the Strand. It was a pretty area, and flourishing even after the war. So much so, many folks called it the Wall Street of the Southwest.

Miranda only thought of the walk as something she had to get through as best she could. She walked quietly, striving to attract no attention to herself as she passed the row of Victorian office buildings, most of which had survived the war intact, thanks to their brick structure and cast-iron fronts.

She would cross the small grassy expanse that filled the center of it, bypassing any number of horse-drawn carriages, groups of freedmen, exhausted from long hours working in the cotton warehouses, and noisy dockworkers eager to collect their pay. Then, at last, she would enter the bank. Once inside, she would stand in line and pretend she didn't feel everyone's eyes on her. As she was both ignored and observed, she would stand as straight and tall as her five foot six inches would allow. And act as if she didn't hear the whispered comments about Phillip and the woman they all thought she'd become.

The line would feel endless, even if there was only one person
in front of her. Her nerves would grow taut, and she would coax herself to pretend nothing was amiss, that her skin hadn't turned cold or her breathing hadn't turned shallow.

Then and only then would it finally be her turn with Mr. Kyle Winter, the teller. He'd look down his nose at her while he collected her week's deposit. He'd double- and triple-check the amount, making her wonder if he'd believed her husband had been both a thief and a traitor.

Just when her nerves would be stretched so tight that she feared she would either collapse in dismay or give in to weakness and allow her tears to form, Mr. Winter would nod. Smile crookedly.

“Your business is concluded, Mrs. Markham,” he'd say. Then he would look beyond her to the next person in line, triumph lighting his eyes.

She hated every minute of it.

All four of her employees had offered to do the errand in her place. Miranda knew it would probably do everyone, including Kyle Winter, a service if she accepted that help. But she also knew no good would come from avoiding the chore. If Phillip could go off to fight, get injured, and eventually die in his captors' prison, she could survive one grueling half hour a week doing her banking business.

At least, she hoped so.

With a sense of doom, she put her carefully counted money in her wallet and placed it in her reticule. “You can do this, Miranda,” she muttered to herself. “It's only a trip to the bank. Not a battle.”

Feeling a bit better after her talking-to, she reached for her favorite black wool cloak lined with a dark mauve satin. At least the beautiful cloak would give her some comfort. She was just about to slip it over her shoulders when she heard her new boarder's footsteps on the stairs.

“Going out, Mrs. Markham?” Robert asked.

“Yes.”

“Allow me,” he said as he took the cloak from her hands, gently covered her shoulders with the wool, then circled around her to fasten the closure at her neck. “Will this be warm enough? The wind is particularly powerful this afternoon.”

“It is January,” she stated. Which, of course, didn't answer his question.

He smiled pleasantly. “Where are you off to this afternoon?”

“The bank.”

“Is that nearby?”

“It's on the Strand. Only a fifteen-minute walk.”

He looked around the foyer. “I don't see a maid,” he said, sounding concerned. “Are you going by yourself?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Surely not.”

“No one puts on airs like that here in Galveston.” She tried to smile.

But instead of looking reassured, he only looked worried. “May I accompany you?”

“Accompany me?”

“I'd like to. If I may.”

Obviously he was worried about her safety. “There is no need.”

“Perhaps. But may I?”

“Why do you want to?” she asked suspiciously.

“I'd enjoy getting the opportunity to walk by a lady's side for a spell,” he answered easily. “Plus, I'm trying to get the way of the land. Per se.”

“While I can understand that, I don't need any help.” She also was in no hurry to see his expression when he realized just how vilified she was. Once he understood that, there was a very good
chance he would remove himself from her home, and then she wouldn't even have a deposit to make.

He continued to look at her directly, his gaze steady and sure. Somber. “Even if you don't need any help, it would still be my honor to accompany you. May I? I promise, I'll be a perfect gentleman.”

There was something startling about the way he was staring at her so solemnly. Almost as if he cared about her. Almost as if he already knew how difficult her weekly banking journey was for her to take.

How could he have any idea? And even if he did, why would he care? They were strangers. There was little chance they'd even become acquaintances. After all, when his business was concluded, he would leave. It was likely she'd never see him again.

But as she looked at him, noticed how sincere he looked, she found herself thinking it would be nice not to have to make this weekly journey by herself. “Mr. Truax, if you would care to accompany me, I would be obliged.”

His lips curved upward. “Thank you, ma'am. You honor me.”

With effort, she bit back a smile. His words were so gallant, so different from the way most people spoke to her, she'd almost felt giddy. “You, sir, are quite the gentleman.”

“Hardly,” he said as they exited the old house. “I'm afraid my skills in that area are rather rusty.”

“That's all right, seeing as how my skills are virtually nonexistent.”

“Tell me about the square. What is its name again?”

“It is called Recognition Square.”

He looked rather unimpressed as he eyed the small expanse of land lying just off to the side of the main thoroughfare. “It seems to me that it's a rather big name for such a humble area.”

“Yes. Um, well, I suppose it is.” For a split second, she was tempted to apologize for its state. Why, she had no earthly idea. She'd neither named the square nor spent time there. Feeling uncomfortable, she pointed to the stately Victorian on their left. “That house over there is owned by the McKenzie family. They hail from Scotland.”

Mr. Truax didn't even look. “What is it recognizing?”

“Recognizing?” she repeated.

“Yes. The square.”

With a start, she realized she'd been staring at his expression—and maybe his dark gray eyes—for far too long. “Oh, the, um, dead.” She pointed to the monument that had been recently erected on the far side of the square. “Both the name and the monument are to honor the heroes fallen in the war. It was just completed and dedicated two months ago.”

“I'm surprised the Yankees let you erect such a thing.”

“I was, too, as a matter of fact. However, to be fair, we, um, don't get a lot of reconstruction supervision around these parts. And a few of the wealthier shipping merchants paid for it.” Allowing a bit of humor to touch her, she added, “The Yankees seem to prefer to oversee the city dwellers.”

“I see.”

She doubted he did. She didn't, not that it mattered. Their town had been filled with Union soldiers by the end of the war. When the fighting had stopped and the treaty had been signed, Galveston had reinvented itself, becoming a rather booming port city with a decidedly ribald atmosphere. Anything could happen in Galveston, and often did.

Now, except for the monument, all that reminded one of the war was a sense of injustice, a loss, and the vacant stares of a great many widows like herself.

His expression turned sympathetic as he offered her his arm. “Come, show the monument to me.”

“I'd rather not.”

“It won't take up too much time.” Gesturing toward the stone, he said, “I see a great many names carved here. At least fifty, or thereabouts.”

“There are seventy-five,” she blurted before thinking the better of it.

“Seventy-five fallen. A shame. Where is your husband's name? I understand from your housekeeper that he was one of our cause's heroes.”

Such a simple question. It was a shame she didn't have the correct answer. “I am afraid I can't show his name to you.”

“Why not?” As if he'd just realized he'd been holding up his arm for a full moment, he let it fall to his side. “Are you worried we'll cause a scene? If so, I promise I will be on my best behavior.”

“No. I, um . . .” Why was she being so hesitant? Phillip's name's absence on the monument wasn't a secret. Why, any person in the town would most likely be thrilled to share the awful truth. “Phillip is not listed,” she said at last.

His expression seemed to harden, but that was likely her imagination. “But he was a Confederate soldier. An officer, yes?”

“Yes. He was a lieutenant.”

“And he died during the war.”

“Yes. In captivity. He was a prisoner of war on Johnson's Island.”

“Therefore, his name should be listed here. Honored.” His tone held a new edge to it.

It took her off guard. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “But, well, there are some, I fear, who feel that he died betraying the South. The townspeople elected not to include him.”

His expression turned murderous. “That is most unfortunate, ma'am.”

She didn't quite understand why he even cared. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Just then she noticed several people staring at them curiously. “We best go. We're causing a scene.”

But he didn't budge. “How would we do that? We are merely standing here. Reading the names of the fallen heroes.”

She didn't miss the sarcasm in his voice. Or the fact that his tone had risen enough to carry.

“Please, Mr. Truax. I am still unsure as to why you decided to accompany me. But since you did, I must ask you to abide by my wishes. I rarely leave the house and of late I never am accompanied. Your appearance and anger are going to cause further talk about me. And though it pains me to admit this, I have been a target for gossips and conjecture. I'd rather not give them any more ammunition.”

He backed down at once. “Of course not. Please forgive me.” Looking a bit abashed, he said, “Like I said, my manners have become quite lackluster. Any refinement I've ever had has taken leave.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I simply need you to see how things are.”

“I hope your circumstances change soon.”

She did, too, but she doubted they would change. Well, at least not for the better.

The rest of the way to the bank, Miranda tried not to be aware that his hands now remained clasped behind his back. That he was keeping a respectful distance from her side. That he remained stoically silent.

The first thing Robert noticed when they entered the ornate building was that it was in far better shape than most likely any other bank building in the state. The woodwork gleamed. The brass fittings on the drawers and cabinets sparkled. The marble floor looked shiny enough to eat off of.

In short, it could hold its own against any grandiose building in Philadelphia or even New York City. Which, of course, was impressive, given the fact that they were in the post-war South and living in the throes of Yankee Reconstruction.

However, even the building's imposing beauty paled compared to the second thing Robert took note of. And that was the way the teller eyed Miranda with a combination of disrespect and lewd appreciation. It was blatant. Bordering on how many men had eyed the sporting girls when they'd come to their camps during the war.

Robert was shocked, seeing as how Miranda was everything the camp's fallen angels were not. But what was more surprising was how everyone in the building allowed the man's behavior to go on. Did no one see or hear how a bank employee was speaking to her? Or was it simply that no one cared?