Whispers in the Reading Room (38 page)

In closing, I wanted to share that I am always so grateful to God for giving me the gift of writing. I am blessed to spend my days making up stories, and I know the words are possible through Him.

Thank you for picking up the book! I hope you enjoyed the novel.

Blessings,

Shelley Shepard Gray

Photo by The New Studio

S
helley Gray is a
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author, a finalist for the American Christian Fiction Writers’ prestigious Carol Award, and a two-time HOLT Medallion winner. She lives in southern Ohio, where she writes full-time, bakes too much, and can often be found walking her dachshunds on her town’s bike trail.

She also spends a lot of time online. Please visit her website:
www.shelleyshepardgray.com
.

Find her on Facebook at
Facebook.com/ShelleyShepardGray
.

Enjoy an excerpt from Robin Lee Hatcher’s upcoming novel,
The Loyal Heart

GALVESTON, TEXAS

JANUARY, 1868

A
t times, the pain was so intense, she wanted to die.

With a new sense of resolve, Miranda Markham skimmed a finger along the second-floor window pane just outside her bedroom door. As she did so, frigid drops of condensation slid across her fingers, moistening them . . . transmitting tiny bursts of pain along her skin. The glass wasn’t thick, surely no more than a quarter inch. It seemed, to her eyes at least, that the frame was rather rickety as well.

It would be so easy to break.

Miranda wondered what it would feel like to perch on the edge of the windowsill like one of the gulls that rested on the weathered wood
from time to time. She wondered what it would feel like to open her arms. To finally let herself go, to lean forward into nothingness.

To be free.

Perhaps she would feel nothing beyond a cold numbness, accompanied by an exhilarating rush of fear . . . followed by the blessed relief from pain.

Did pain even matter anymore?

The iron latch was icy cold as she worked it open. Condensation sprayed her cheeks as the pane slowly edged upward. Tendrils of hair whipped against her neck as the winter wind seemed to beckon.

She breathed deep.

If she could just garner what was left of her courage, why, it could all be over. Within minutes, in seconds, even, she’d no longer be awake. No longer be reminded. No longer be sad.

She’d no longer be afraid to rise each morning.

And wasn’t the absence of fear, that intangible notion of confidence that children enjoyed and the elderly remembered, worth everything?

Reaching out, she clasped the metal lining the frame. Felt the iron bite into her palm as she edged closer. At last, it was time.

“Mrs. Markham? Mrs. Markham, ma’am? Where should I put the new boarder?” Winifred called up from the base of the stairs.

Slowly—too slowly perhaps—one corner of Miranda’s dark cloak of depression lifted. She realized she was still standing on the landing at the top of stairs, the window open.

Winifred’s voice turned shrill. “Mrs. Markham, do ye hear me?”

Miranda dropped her hands. Turned. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Peering through the maze of mahogany spindles, she looked down. Blinked as her elderly maid came into focus. “A new boarder, did you say?”

Winifred stared back. “Yes, ma’am. E is here a wee bit early. A Mr. Truax, his name is. Mr. Robert Truax.” Her voice held the slightest
tinge of impatience now. She was a reluctant transplant from England, and seemed to always stare at her surroundings with varying degrees of shock and dismay.

“Remember?” Winifred added, raising her voice just a little bit higher, as if she was talking to a child. “We got the telegram yesterday that said he were arriving today?”

She didn’t remember much after receiving another threatening letter in yesterday’s post. “Yes, of course.”

“I been working on his room all morning, I have.” Looking pleased, Winifred added, “It sparkles and shines, it does.”

“I’m glad,” she said absently.

Until Phillip’s family ran her off, she was in charge of this house. With that came the responsibility of at least pretending she cared about the running of it. With a vague sense of resignation, she turned back to the window. Set about cranking it shut before locking it securely.

“Mrs. Markham, he’s cooling his heels in Lt. Markham’s study. What shall I do with him?” The maid’s voice now held a healthy thread of irritation. “Do you want to do your usual interview for new guests or would you rather I take ’im straight to his room?”

Miranda truly didn’t care where the man went. Any room would do, the further away from her, the better. But she had a responsibility to the rest of the staff to at least meet the man she would be allowing to lodge in the house for a time.

Phillip would have expected her to do that. Summoning her courage, she murmured, “Please escort him to the parlor. I’ll be down momentarily.” Stepping forward, she smoothed the thick wool of her charcoal gray skirt.

She avoided glancing at her reflection as she passed a mirror.

Though she was out of mourning and no longer wore black, no color appealed. Hence, gray. The general consensus among her four
employees was that the hue didn’t suit her any better than unrelieved black. Actually, Cook had remarked more than once that she resembled a skinny sparrow.

Continuing her descent, she said, “Please serve Mr. Truax tea. I believe we have one or two muffins left from breakfast as well?”

“We do. Since you didn’t eat.”

Miranda almost smiled. “Today it is most fortunate I did not.”

Grumbling, the housekeeper turned away.

When she was alone again, Miranda took a fortifying breath. Realized that a fresh scent wafting from the open window had permeated the air. Salt and sea and well, something tangy and bright.

It jarred her senses, gave her a small sense of hope.

Perhaps today was not the day to die after all.

The story continues in Robin Lee Hatcher’s,
The Loyal Heart
, available July 2016.