The Loyal Heart (8 page)

But he soon discovered Miranda also had a certain number of skills. She was a master of walking along and mixing in with crowds. She could talk to him without making eye contact with anyone surrounding them.

And she could look at ease and serene even when it was obvious that people were whispering about her.

He instinctively knew she hadn't been born with such skills or had even practiced such behavior in her childhood. When she let down her guard, Miranda seemed bright and vibrant. That was who Phillip had spoken about with such care. Robert believed her husband would have been truly dismayed to see the way she was forced to behave now.

After she led him into a sweetshop where he bought some hard candies, he walked with her down the street until they were looking only at the ocean beyond them.

The air was ripe with the scent of salt and ocean and decay and mildew. The combination was unusual, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was also decidedly distinct. Right then and there, Robert knew if he ever smelled it again, he would instantly think of this moment with her.

He was about to comment on a flock of seagulls circling a
shrimp boat when he noticed Miranda had her chin slightly lifted. She looked bright and alive and vibrant. Beautiful.

“You like it here in Galveston, don't you?”

She laughed. “I suppose I do. Even though I've had so many difficult days here, there is something wonderful about standing here at the pier. I enjoy the water.”

“You don't mind the fishy smell?”

She laughed again. “Not so much. I've grown used to it, I think. The air is odorous, but it is pungent and fresh too. And if I stand still, I can feel faint droplets of water from the ocean. And taste the salt. I don't think I'll ever forget the combination of it all, even if I move far away from here and live for thirty more years.”

Her comment made him curious. “Where did you grow up?”

“In a small town west of Houston. We had a ranch and my father ran his uncle's mercantile.” She sobered. “Everyone is gone now, of course.”

“And you met Phillip there?”

“Oh, goodness, no. Phillip would have ridden right by my dusty town without a second look,” she said without a trace of embarrassment. “Actually, my cousin Carson joined the army around the same time Phillip did. Somehow they bonded during basic training and Carson's letters were always filled with stories about Phillip.”

“So you started writing to him?”

“Not at all. Phillip and I met when I went with some other cousins to a dance in Houston.”

“It must have been quite a dance,” he teased gently.

“Oh, it was. Phillip had recently graduated from West Point and was in his uniform. He looked resplendent.”

Her words were sweet, her voice softly lilting.

No woman—no person, really—had ever spoken to him or about him that way.

Robert carefully bit back the sharp taste of jealousy that coursed through him. “I imagine he was quite a sight to see.”

Still looking moony, she sighed. “He was. But everyone was dressed to the nines.” Giggling softly, she said, “My mother and aunt had outdone themselves, outfitting my cousin Beatrice and me.” She giggled. “We arrived at that dance in beautiful dresses.”

“What did yours look like?” he asked, hoping to keep that soft smile playing on her lips.

Her voice took on a dreamy quality. “Mine was white with pink bows along the bodice and the capped sleeves. I also had the most beautiful long white gloves. And a bonnet with silk roses! It was gorgeous and so, so heavy!”

Though it wasn't that long ago, she was referencing a time that most every Southern man tried to forget. The memories were too sweet. “I'd almost forgotten about hats like that.”

“Bea and I had our fancy bonnets and our princess dresses. We were sure we were the most fetching young ladies in attendance. Why, we were sure we were sporting the biggest hoop skirts this side of the Mississippi.”

He laughed. “I most definitely do not miss those skirts.”

“Because they got in the way of everything?”

“Because a man could never get close enough to the woman he was flirting with,” he teased.

When she laughed again, he smiled at her. He liked seeing her like this, so carefree and happy. He liked it almost as much as the idea of her being all dressed up in a white dress and gloves and dancing with Phillip for the first time.

“I bet you took his breath away, Mrs. Markham.”

“Maybe I did,” she mused. She bit her bottom lip. “I'm sure I couldn't say.”

“Surely your husband paid you many compliments.”

“He did. But he was the person who looked so dashing.” Her voice went soft as she rested her elbows on the wooden railing. “He was handsome and tall and so very kind.”

“He sounds like a true gentleman.”

She sighed. “He was. Even with everything that's happened since, with all the rumors and innuendos and pain, I've never regretted falling in love with him.”

“I would wager that he would have been happy to know that, ma'am.” The moment he said the words, he tensed. No doubt they sounded too familiar for a man who was a stranger to say.

But instead of looking confused, she simply shrugged. “Maybe.”

She looked away from him then and stared back out at the gulf. Below them, water lapped at the wooden pilings under their feet. The faint echoes of fishermen coming off boats floated toward them, their sharp orders and barks of laughter and raucous conversation mixing in with the shrill cry of the seagulls overhead.

“No . . . I mean, I know so,” she said after several minutes. “We were a love match. He would be pleased to know that my love for him has never wavered.”

He made no reply. Instead, he leaned his forearms on the weathered railing and simply let the moment wash over him. After years of barely surviving, it seemed especially sweet.

Far too soon, Miranda stepped away. “I think we had better get back, Robert. I'm no longer a child or a young bride. I have things to do.”

“Yes, it is probably time we returned.” He had been too entranced by her for his own good.

As they started walking, she said, “I'm sorry, I chattered on about myself this whole time.”

“I enjoyed your chatter.”

She smiled. “No, I meant, I bet you probably have your own stories to tell about those dances. Do share.”

He laughed. “I most definitely do not have any stories about officer dances.”

“No? Why not? I was under the impression that all officers were expected to attend those assemblies.”

“They were, but I did not enter the army as an officer, Mrs. Markham. I could never have afforded that.” For the first time that afternoon, he felt a small burst of pride. He could never compare to a gentleman like Phillip Markham, but he wasn't without any redeeming qualities.

“Robert, you earned your rank?”

“I did.”

Her eyes widened. “I've heard that is hard to do.”

“It would have been near impossible . . . if we hadn't been at war.” He shrugged. “My captain needed men unafraid to take chances. I was fearless.”

Thankfully, she didn't ask him to divulge stories about the battlefields. “So you mean to tell me you never had a sweetheart? I'm sure you eventually attended a dance. They were all the rage here.”

He debated about how much to tell her, then realized it was of no consequence what she thought. It wasn't as if he ever had to worry about truly impressing her. No matter who he was or what he'd done, he was never going to be good enough for a lady like her.

Especially not after she'd had a husband like Phillip Markham.

“Miranda, when I first entered the army, I had no manners to speak of. I was as unruly as a bobcat in the wild.”

She looked skeptical. “I am positive you weren't quite that bad.”

“I was. My only redeeming qualities were my size and my lack of fear. My officers taught me discipline and deportment while my captain and men like your husband taught me everything else.”
Thinking of how awkward and frustrating those lessons had been for all involved, he shook his head. He thought he would never conquer proper table manners.

“It is actually because of them that I'm even fit company for a woman like you,” he added.

She tilted her head to one side. “Robert, why was that? Did your parents not teach you those things?”

“I had no parents to speak of.”

Her eyes widened. “Who raised you?”

“Experience, I guess.” He didn't want to sound too ramshackle, but he didn't want to sugarcoat his past either. Miranda had been too brave, too vulnerable about her faults and hurts for him to attempt to hide his past. “My mother died in childbirth and my father . . . well, he took off as soon as he could. Though some of his neighbors helped me out from time to time, for the most part I grew up on the streets in Ft. Worth.”

She looked shocked. “I . . . I'm sorry.”

He was too. For most of his life, he'd always felt rather bitter about the things he didn't have and the care that had never been given. He'd wondered how the Lord could have overlooked the basic needs of a young child. Surely he couldn't have been that much of a brat?

But now he realized all of that had brought him to this place and this moment. He was walking sedately next to a true lady. She was holding his arm and he was not only protecting her but making her happy.

“Don't be sorry, Miranda,” he said lightly. “I am not.”

When she blinked, then cautiously smiled, he smiled too.

And realized he'd told her the truth.

Captain Monroe would have been pleased.

T
WO DAYS AFTER THEIR WALK ON THE
S
TRAND
, M
IRANDA
was still reliving the outing. She found herself dwelling on the feel of Robert's arm under her hand. Of how safe she felt by his side—as if no one would dare to slight her out of fear of incurring Mr. Truax's displeasure. For a few hours, she'd allowed herself to forget all about her problems. She'd forgotten her pain, pushed aside her worries, even managed to stop thinking about what would happen when Robert left and she was alone again.

Instead, she had let herself remember the feel of the ocean breeze on her skin, the scent of the wharf, the antics of the pelicans and seagulls. She'd smiled more than she had in months.

For a little while, she'd simply been a woman on the arm of a handsome and attentive gentleman.

Last night she'd fallen asleep remembering their conversation about their childhoods. Somehow, remembering how idyllic hers had been while Robert's had been so painful had helped her heal even further. It seemed she'd needed to remember that no one ever had an easy life. Instead, there were gaps and curves and dips and valleys. Men and women of strong grit survived instead of giving up.

She certainly liked the idea of being a survivor.

Indeed, that small outing had changed her in ways she hadn't expected. As had the man himself.

Today the house had felt abnormally silent without Mr. Truax. Cook had informed Miranda that he'd left shortly after breakfast, saying he would likely not return until close to nightfall.

But even though she'd known not to expect him, throughout the day Miranda still found herself looking for a sign of her new boarder. In spite of her best efforts to remind herself that one lovely walk didn't mean they would go out on another outing anytime in the near future.

But as she walked down the empty hallways, it was apparent that Mr. Truax was not only still not about but he hadn't been for some time. He was an unusually messy boarder. He left his papers and his handkerchiefs and his books all over the place. She and Belle and Winifred had even started placing everything they found in a little basket in the dining room. That way he could deposit his articles back in his room easily.

And since he was paying extra to have his room cleaned, Miranda had also learned he was just as messy in his room. Clothes were left on the floor, his bed was a constant rumpled tangle of sheets and blankets, and blotting papers were strewn about his desk and on the floor underneath.

More than once Miranda had wondered how an officer in the military could have such untidy habits. Now, though, his basket was empty and the table and chair where he ate his meals were absent of his usual disarray.

Picking up the empty basket, Miranda realized she missed the clutter. Missed all signs that made Robert unique. How could one man make such an impression on her, and so quickly too? She'd hosted many guests in the mansion over the last year. For one man to mean so much, well, it hardly seemed fair.

“Oh! Hello, Mrs. Markham,” Winifred exclaimed as she entered
the dining room. Right away her gaze zeroed in on the basket in her hands. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course. I, um . . . well, I was just thinking I should put this someplace out of the way.”

“No real reason you should, if you don't mind me saying so. We both know we're gonna be filling it up with Mr. Truax's items soon enough.”

Hastily, she set the basket down again. “Yes. I imagine so.”

But as if her housekeeper was used to her making no sense, or maybe because she didn't know Miranda had ever acted differently, she smiled brightly. “It's right quiet without him here, don'tcha think?” Winifred asked as she pulled out a rag from one of her pockets and started wiping down the shelves on the top of the server.

She was too embarrassed to lie. “Yes. He not only is rather messy, he's loud.”

“I don't mind a man making a noise every now and then myself. Makes me think of my pa. When he got to talking, well, no one else could ever get a word in edgewise.”

“My father was quieter, but I know what you mean. Thank goodness for Emerson or we'd be a quartet of women.”

“This is true.” With a wink, she said, “I won't tell him that, though. It'll cause him to get a big head, it will.”

“We can't have that.”

Winifred giggled. “Anyways, Cook told you Mr. Truax left just after breakfast, saying he had several people to meet and might not be back until nightfall, didn't she?”

“Yes, she did. I wonder whom he needed to meet,” Miranda mused before she stopped herself. All sorts of activities and projects came to mind, all of them nefarious.

“I expect he'll tell us when he returns,” Winifred said, her voice suspiciously bright. “He's a friendly sort, he is.”

“He is, indeed.” Needing to get her mind off the man before she was reduced to watching for him out the window like a lovesick girl, Miranda picked up the stack of letters Winifred had left neatly folded for her on a small table by the door. “I'll be in the parlor sorting the mail, then.”

Winifred paused in the doorway before taking her leave. “How does some tea sound to ya? Belle can bring you a cuppa.”

“Yes, thank you.” A cup of piping-hot tea was exactly what she needed to get through the rest of the day. It would settle her nerves and hopefully rejuvenate her enough to sort the day's mail in lightning speed.

Moments later, Belle arrived in the parlor with a cup and teapot, along with a freshly baked scone. “Hot tea and a currant scone, ma'am.”

Miranda smiled at her. Today Belle was wearing a light gray dress. It should have made her look washed out and tired but, as everything did on her pretty maid, it only seemed to emphasize her beauty. “Thank you, Belle.”

“Oh, you're welcome.” Smiling at the plate she'd just set on the corner of Miranda's desk, she added, “You're in for a treat, Mrs. Markham. The scones are especially good today.”

“I think we say that every time Cook bakes.”

“I guess we do.” She shrugged. “But it's better than thinking they could always be better.”

Miranda chuckled. “Indeed. Thank you for bringing me this treat.” Belle set about straightening the room, and after taking a fortifying bite of the scone and a bracing sip of tea, Miranda pulled out her letter opener and began slicing open the envelopes.

The first five were reservations, two others were bills. One was a letter of appreciation for a restful visit.

And the last was another threat.

Hating the sight of it, her hands shook as she pulled out the letter. The handwriting was familiar. The letters were ill formed and slightly block-like. Though she wanted to do nothing more than crumble the offending paper away, she forced herself to read it.

I know what he did. I know he betrayed the South. I know how you have been dishonoring his memory. And I can prove it all. Soon, everyone will have the proof if you don't leave Galveston and never come back. I've been warning you for a year, and my patience is gone. Your time has run out.

Her hands were trembling so much that the paper fell through her fingers. Panicked, she grasped for it but knocked the tea over instead. Hot liquid splattered over the desk and on the rest of the correspondence.

Miranda jumped to her feet to escape being burned. That action caused the rest of the letters to drift to the floor.

Tears pricked her eyes as every worry she'd pushed aside came back, tenfold. The return of her fear was almost as frightening as the letter itself. She had thought the letters couldn't be any more threatening, but it seemed she was wrong. She'd thought she was done being afraid of everyone in Galveston, but that fear was still there. Alive and well. Stronger than ever.

But what if the rumors were true? Even if they weren't—and she was desperately clinging to that belief—what if this monster had falsified documents that made it look like Phillip was a traitor? It had to be someone who hated her enough to torture her and blackmail her into leaving her home. Did she dare to contemplate who that might be?

Belle rushed to her side. “Oh, Mrs. Markham! Are you all right? Did you get burned?”

Miranda worked her mouth but, try as she might, no sound came out.

“Here, come sit down, ma'am. I'll get this cleaned up in no time.”

Miranda said nothing as Belle wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her to the chaise lounge in the corner. “Here, ma'am. You just rest for a moment.”

“I . . . I am fine, Belle. Yes, as you said, it's merely tea. I don't know how I managed to spill it. I'm not usually so clumsy.”

“We know you ain't clumsy at all, Mrs. Markham. It was just an accident. That's all. Everyone has them.”

Relieved that Belle wasn't making a fuss over her anymore, Miranda attempted to smile. “Yes, they do. I guess it's my day.”

“Wish my day didn't come up quite so often,” Belle said as she wiped up the tea with the tea towel. “I'm forever knocking into things.”

As Belle continued to prattle on, Miranda closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply.

“Now that it's all spick and span again, may I bring you some more tea, Mrs.—” She abruptly cut off her words with a gasp. “Oh no. You got another one of them.”

Miranda popped open her eyes. When she realized Belle was staring at the letter on the floor like it was about to gain legs and jump out at her, a terrible realization settled inside of her. “What did you say?”

Belle stood up slowly. “Beg your pardon, ma'am,” she whispered, her cheeks turning bright red. “I didn't mean to look at your letter.”

“My letter?” She cleared her throat.

Wringing her hands, Belle whispered, “I am sorry I said a word. I promise, it won't happen again.”

It was a sweet apology. However, it most certainly wasn't a retraction. “You, um . . . you have been aware that I've been receiving letters like this? Threatening letters?”

Belle swallowed. “Yes, ma'am.”

Shock, mixed in with a bit of paranoia, set in. For a split second, Miranda considered the possibility that someone on her staff might very well be behind them. It would be so easy for them to make sure she received them on a regular basis.

But then, as she remembered how hard they all worked, how much they put up with her, with their mistress's mood swings and self-doubts and, yes, self-loathing, Miranda knew no one who acted like they did could be so duplicitous.

“Belle, when did you first discover them?”

Her maid's eyes darted around the room. Settling on anything but herself. “Well, ma'am, I don't rightly know. I couldn't say for sure.”

“Please, do try to remember. It is important to me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Looking truly miserable, Belle swallowed hard.

Miranda knew she needed to get control of her patience. “I promise, I won't get mad,” she said as gently as she could. “I simply want to know. And it must be said that I feel I deserve an answer.”

“Yes, Mrs. Markham. Yes, you do.” But instead of blurting out the information Miranda had asked for, her maid was chewing on her bottom lip.

With a sigh, Miranda got to her feet. “Belle, I am doing my best not to lose my temper, but I have a feeling that I'm about to lose that battle. Answer my question, if you please.”

At last, Belle visibly steeled her spine and took a fortifying breath. “To be real honest, I don't recall that single moment when I discovered you were getting those awful letters. It was more like I simply became aware that you were receiving them.”

“Simply aware? That makes no sense.”

“Well, um, it kind of does. Because, you see, we all know about them.”

Miranda didn't know if she was more shocked, embarrassed, or bemused. She never would have thought that something she had tried so hard to keep hidden would be common knowledge . . . and that her servants were attempting to keep their own secrets too.

However, she could almost hear her well-bred mother's voice in her ear, reminding her that servants know everything that happens in a house and a good mistress made sure that nothing untoward happened. “We? All?”

Belle shifted uncomfortably, looked down at the soiled towel in her hand, and deposited it on the tea-filled plate. “Well, me, Winnie, Cook, and Emerson know about the letters.”

“All of you do.” She raised her brows. “And not a single one of you decided to speak to me about it?”

“As a matter of fact, a couple of times one of us made that very suggestion, but then the others knocked that idea down. You see, we all kinda figured it would be best if you thought these letters were your secret.”

“Because?”

“Because we all saw how upset they made you,” Belle said. Looking decidedly more uncomfortable, she added, “We thought if you believed no one knew, then you might not worry about them so much.”