The Loyal Heart Read online

  Eventually he’d garnered the attention of Captain Devin Monroe and the officers in his unit. Over time, they more or less adopted him, teaching him manners and correct grammar.

  After Gettysburg, he fought hard enough and displayed sufficient skills to become an officer. A second lieutenant. Later, when they were captured and moved up North, Robert concentrated on making the best of the experience.

  Consequently, he was probably the only man to feel he came out of the prisoner-of-war camp in better shape than when he entered. Those men had not only continued his education in history, science, and literature, but they’d managed to teach him how to waltz one very long stretch of days when the temperatures loomed around zero and the snow and ice covered the ground in thick blankets.

  He’d also made some close connections. Soon after their release, he’d gone to work for a locomotive company. The owner had been looking for someone with Texas ties to help encourage new business.

  Just as he had in the military, he’d quickly risen through the ranks and reaped the financial rewards. And though most men might not consider him wealthy, he now was blessed with far more in his pockets than he’d ever dreamed of—and he looked the part as well.

  When his former captain had asked a favor, it had never occurred to Robert to refuse. He owed that man and his former unit both his life and his peace of mind, so he left the locomotive company’s employ and came here.

  Most days he didn’t think much about how his clothes fit. That moment, however, as he followed the curmudgeonly housekeeper up a flight of stairs into a surprisingly well-kept and spacious room at the far end of a long hall, he was sure the collar of his close-fitting shirt was in danger of choking him.

  That was what he deserved, he suspected, for lying through his teeth to a beautiful widow who looked so fragile that a strong wind would likely toss her off her feet. When he quickly realized Miranda Markham had no idea who he was—perhaps Phillip had never mentioned him in his letters?—he followed through with his intent to keep his connection to her husband to himself. His plan might be more successful that way. Mrs. Markham seemed like she was barely hanging on.

  However, though he had the best of intentions at the moment, he felt lower than he could ever recall. Well, not since he’d followed his captain out of the prison he’d shared with his four best friends in the world, leaving Phillip and so many others in unmarked graves in the small cemetery just outside their barracks.

  The housekeeper fingered the coverlet on the bed. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction, sir?”

  He didn’t bother to look around. In truth, his surroundings didn’t interest him as much as the woman downstairs did. It was true, as well, that rooms and amenities meant little to him now. If he was warm and dry, he would be a far sight better than he’d been on Johnson’s Island. “It is. Thank you.”

  Her expression flattened. “I’ll be seeing you, then. Let me know if you’ll be needin’ anything.” She took a breath. “That ain’t to say that I can find it, but I can try,” she said as she started toward the door.

  “Times still hard here?”

  She drew to a stop. “War ain’t been over that long.”

  “I meant in this house.” Of course, the moment he said the words he wished he could take them back. The woman had had to open her house to strangers. Things were obviously not good at all.

  She turned, umbrage in her posture. “Mrs. Markham runs a respectable establishment, sir. I don’t expect you’ll be finding anything remiss.”

  “Of course not. I suspected nothing less.”

  She nodded. “Good. I’ll expect you ta remember that.”

  “Shame she lost her husband,” he interjected quickly. He needed information and so far she was his best and easiest option to get it. “I mean, I assume she is a widow.”

  “She is.” After eyeing him for a long moment, she said, “Lt. Markham died near the end of the war.” Her voice lowered. “He perished less than a month before Lee surrendered at Appomattox.”

  “Shame, that,” he said lightly.

  “It was worse than a shame, sir. It was a tragedy.”

  “Indeed.”

  He considered his ability to even say two words to be something of an accomplishment.

  Because the fact was, he remembered Phillip’s death well. Too well. Phillip had lingered, fighting the inevitable with each breath. Robert had painfully watched him fight that losing battle, helpless to do anything but watch him waste away for days. On his last day, Robert had held his hand for hours, attempting to give him some degree of warmth in a very cold existence. Then, after he’d left his side and Devin Monroe had gone to take a turn, Phillip had passed on.

  “He died in a Yankees’ prison barracks, he did,” the housekeeper blurted. “He would write Mrs. Markham letters from there, trying to sound positive, but we all knew he weren’t doing well.”

  Robert had watched Phillip write those letters. They all had. But because he didn’t want anyone in Galveston to know that yet, he kept his expression impassive. “Oh?”

  “Oh, yes. He died up in Ohio, he did.” She grimaced. “Poor man, forced to live and die on an island in the middle of Lake Erie. Don’t seem natural, if you ask me.”

  He agreed. “I would imagine any prison would be a hard place to live. Or die.”

  After eyeing him carefully, she said, “I should probably let you know that if you stay on Galveston Island for any length of time, you’re going to hear a lot of talk about Lt. Markham and even more talk about Mrs. Markham herself. Some of it is ugly.” She closed her eyes. “Actually, the majority of it is ugly.”

  He knew she was warning him for his own good. He was more than willing to heed it. “I’ve never given much credence to idle chatter.”

  “If you are living here, that would be good to bear in mind,” she advised. “Sometimes life interferes with all our best intentions.”

  Robert felt as if the walls surrounding him were closing in. Remembering the drafty barracks, how cold it had been in the winter, how endless the days had lasted, he felt a thin line of perspiration form along the middle of his back. “Some might believe there’s more glory from dying on the battlefield, but I imagine there’s just as much honor dying in prison.”

  She lifted a graying eyebrow. “You really think that, don’t you?”

  “I do.” It took everything he had not to embellish his statement. He wasn’t ready to discuss his own imprisonment. Still less ready to remember his comrades’ pain, suffering, and eventual death. The memories were too crystal clear—the damp smell of their cells, the faraway look in his commander’s eyes, the long hours spent in boredom.

  Those memories, it seemed, were reserved only for the middle of the night.

  With a new awareness in her eyes, Winifred looked him over. She seemed to hesitate, then blurted, “Since you’re going to be hearing things anyway, you might as well know that folks not only say he died a coward’s death in that Northern prison, but he also died while being interrogated and gave secrets to the enemy.”

  Only by digging his fingers into the palms of his hands was he able to remain impassive. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. It don’t make no sense at all. If he died while being questioned, it would mean he kept his secrets, don’tcha think?” Before Robert could comment on that, she continued on in her loquacious way. “Sir, anyone who knew the lieutenant knew he would no more share precious secrets with the enemy than he would have harmed a hair on Mrs. Markham’s head. He was a good man.”

  Phillip had been better than that. He’d loved his wife, yes. But he’d also loved the men he’d served with. He’d been loyal to the cause. Even more than that, he’d been loyal to the men he served with and led into battle.

  As far as he was concerned, Phillip Markham had been the best the South had to offer. Anyone who said different was surely a liar and a scoundrel.

  “So you don’t believe he did share military secrets?”

 
She shook her head. “No, sir, I do not, and neither does Mrs. Markham. Even if one didn’t call into account the fact that he’d been injured, captured, then hauled up to the middle of Lake Erie, therefore not able to share anything of use, he weren’t that kind of man,” she murmured, her English accent sounding more pronounced. “That said, if he did say anything he shouldn’t, I’m of the mind that he should be forgiven, don’tcha think?” She stared at him, her pale gray eyes practically daring him to refute her.

  Or, perhaps, she was looking for hope instead?

  Robert stayed silent.

  He wasn’t sure who should be forgiven. They’d all committed atrocities in battle. They’d all done things in captivity they’d never imagined they would do before they’d donned a uniform.

  Visibly uncomfortable with his silence, the housekeeper spoke a little faster. “I mean, six months before General Lee signed that treaty, well, things were already a foregone conclusion. No Yankee cared about what a Confederate lieutenant had to say. And especially not one locked up on an island.” She looked at him worriedly. Practically begging him to reassure her. “Don’tcha think?”

  She was wrong, of course. Their enemy had cared about everything they knew. Then there were guards who cared about nothing other than recriminations.

  Though they were treated with a light hand compared to the atrocities of Andersonville or even in some of the other Union prisons, their guards hadn’t been especially kind to them. Why, once word got out about the horrors of the treatment in the Confederate prisons, their rations had been cut in half. Hunger and cold had been constant companions.

  Robert now knew any confinement was debilitating. “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

  She waved an impatient hand. “Whatever the reason, it would help Mrs. Markham if you kept the gossip you hear to yourself. I promise, nothing you could say will sway the gossipmongers, and it ain’t anything she hasn’t heard before.”

  “Understood.”

  Her face cleared then, seeming to come to a decision. “We’re pleased you’re here, whatever the reason, Mr. Truax. We serve supper at six and breakfast at seven. Don’t be late.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Charmer,” Robert heard her say under her breath as she walked out of the room.

  The moment the door closed behind her, he strode to the desk, found a letterhead, envelope, ink, and quill, and sat down to collect his thoughts. Though he would have preferred to simply telegraph his progress, he couldn’t risk anyone discovering his real mission. His job was to get to know Phillip Markham’s widow, ascertain how she was truly doing after her husband’s death, and make whatever changes he could to ease her life. Then he was to leave and go on about his life—unless Monroe summoned him for another assignment.

  This duty had seemed so easy when he learned its details from their former captain. His mission had felt cut-and-dried. He’d been certain he would have been able to remain carefully distant, even if she had known from the beginning that he served with Phillip. He’d imagined he would feel nothing more than pity for her. After all, she was merely one of hundreds—if not thousands—of women struggling to reconfigure their lives without husbands by their sides.

  But from the moment she’d entered the room and he’d caught sight of her beauty and heard her slow drawl, he’d been mesmerized. Then he’d noticed that her eyes were a curious shade of blue—almost lavender in color. And that they were framed by dark circles, illustrating her lack of sleep and an abundance of worry and stress. His heart had been lost.

  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? Ever
yone 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.”