A Journey of the Heart Collection (27 page)

A
UGUST
1866, W
ABASH
, I
NDIANA

T
he ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway echoed in the shrouded darkness of the parlor. Emmie Courtney sat on the black horsehair sofa, her hands clasped in the folds of her silk skirt. She stared into space as she desperately tried to imagine she was some other place, that the reason her friends and neighbors were gathered in her house on this sultry August day was something else entirely. The clatter of carriage wheels on the fine plank streets outside the
open window couldn't drown out the beat of her heart pounding in her ears.

He can't be dead. I have to wake up. This is just a nightmare. A nightmare.
She repeated the litany to herself as she closed her eyes to avoid the pitying eyes of her friends.

Only last week her life had been perfect. Married to a handsome, up-and-coming lawyer in the burgeoning town of Wabash, Indiana, her life seemed like a fairy tale come true. The War between the States was over, and parties and gay life were everywhere.

But now her dashing husband lay buried in a grave under the rain drizzling down outside. The nearly overpowering scent of the flowers massed around the room couldn't quite cover the stench of decay that had wafted up from the casket and permeated the room for the last few days. That undeniable smell told her quite clearly that this wasn't a nightmare.

Her neighbor Lally Saylors touched her shoulder. “Do try to eat a bit, Emmie, dear.” She handed her a cup of tea and a small bowl of stew, then sat beside her.

Emmie took it and forced a sip of tea down her tight throat. “I still can't quite grasp it, you know. I keep expecting Monroe to come bursting in the door
shouting for me to get my cloak and go for a drive or something. I don't think I'll ever forget the sound of the horses screaming as the carriage rolled over.”

“You were lucky to get off with only a concussion.”

“But Monroe—I needed more time with him.” Emmie broke off, too choked to continue.

Her eyes misting with tears, Lally patted Emmie's hand. “I know, dear.”

It had been three marvelous months. Emmie had lived securely in a love that she'd never before experienced, a love that shone from Monroe's laughing brown eyes whenever he looked at her.

“How did you meet? Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

Emmie smiled as the memory swept over her. “Things were always . . . difficult at home, and I often took off to walk along the river. My father had been particularly nasty one day, and I went to my favorite spot at Hanging Rock. I was sitting there wiping tears when Monroe stepped out of the shadows with a daffodil in his hand. He said no one as beautiful as me should look so sad, and he wanted to do something to make me smile.”

“And did it?”

“No one could be sad around Monroe. He was always so full of life and laughter. He said his goal in life was to never see me cry again.” Her throat thickened. “He would have been grieved to see me now.”

“One only had to see how he looked at you to know he adored you.” Lally took a sip of her tea. “Have you thought yet about what you will do?”

Emmie shook her head. “I haven't heard from Ben and Labe since they left for the Dakota Territory. I don't have any other family.”

“I just hate it that you're here all alone, so far from your kin at a time like this.”

Emmie nodded. She was used to it, though. She and her brothers had never been close, and after her mother died, her father was almost always drunk until his death three years ago. Emmie had grown up in a ramshackle country home just outside town, with the animals for friends. Her brother Labe had given her sporadic attention, but Ben ignored her except when he wanted something. Ben was obsessed with making the Croftner name stand for something other than “the town drunk.” He would have approved of Monroe.

She'd never had a best friend and didn't really know how to have fun until Monroe swept into her
life like a whirlwind. They'd married after a courtship of only six weeks, and after three months of marriage, she still felt she hadn't even begun to know her fascinating husband.

Now she never would.

She took another halfhearted nibble of her food. “I'll probably stay here at least for a while. The house is paid for, and we never seemed to want for money. Surely there is enough to live on for a while if I'm careful. Mr. Eddingfield is supposed to come out tomorrow to discuss my financial affairs.” She cringed at the thought of facing Monroe's employer and his sympathy. All she wanted was to curl up here in the dark house and be left alone.

Somehow she got through the funeral and the burial until all the well-meaning friends and neighbors left the reception with promises to call again. She shut the front door, then lay down on the sofa. Through the open window she heard the shouts of children playing hopscotch across the street and the gentle hum of bees in the honeysuckle just under the window. The fecund scent of the Wabash River, just down the hill, wafted in with poignant memories of happy picnics with Monroe beside its placid waters.

How could life continue as if nothing had happened? She bit her lip as the hot tears coursed down her cheeks, then pulled the afghan down off the back of the sofa onto her shivering body. It was hot, but she couldn't stop shaking, a reaction to the trauma of seeing Monroe's casket lowered into that dark, forbidding hole in the ground.

She hadn't been able to sleep since the accident, but now she was so tired she couldn't keep her eyes open. The creaks and rattles of carriages outside on the busy street faded as she fell asleep, dreaming of Monroe.

The parlor was deep in shadow when she awoke. She gazed around in bewilderment, not sure what had awakened her. The clock still ticked in the hallway and carriages still rattled over the street outside. Then someone on the front porch banged the knocker again. Brushing at the wrinkles in her silk skirt, she lurched to the door. She felt disoriented and fuzzy-headed as she pulled the door open.

“Emmiline Courtney?” A young woman stood on the porch with a small boy of about two in her arms.
She was neatly dressed in a dark-blue serge dress with a demure white collar. Gentle brown eyes looked out from beneath a stylish though modest bonnet with a single drooping ostrich feather.

“Yes. May I help you?” The child reminded her of someone, but she was still too groggy from sleep and sorrow to place whom he looked like. And the woman's calm appraisal put her hackles up in some indefinable way.

The woman glanced away, then set her small chin and looked straight into Emmie's inquiring eyes. “May I come in? I have something of the utmost importance to discuss with you. It's about Monroe.”

Emmie stared into the woman's determined eyes and nodded. “This way.” She led the way into the parlor, then lit two more lamps and seated the young woman on the sofa before sinking into the matching armchair facing her guest. Discarded china from the funeral dinner still littered the smooth walnut tables.

Emmie rubbed her eyes. “I'm sorry for the mess. The funeral and all—” She broke off on a choked sob.

Her visitor nodded as she settled the little boy on her lap and removed her gloves.

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.” Emmie's gaze was caught by the pity in the woman's eyes. She caught a whiff of a faint lilac sachet as the woman pleated the folds of her dress nervously. She used to wear the scent herself, but Monroe didn't like it, so she'd switched to lily of the valley.

The young woman took a deep breath. “This is going to come as quite a shock to you, and I'm truly sorry for that. I'm Mrs. Monroe Courtney. Catherine Courtney. Monroe was my childhood sweetheart. We were married three years ago in Cleveland.”

Mrs. Monroe Courtney.
The words had no meaning to her. How odd that they were married to someone with the same name. Then the pity in the woman's gaze penetrated her stupor. Surely the woman didn't mean
she
was Monroe's wife? Beginning to tremble with an awful premonition, she stared at the woman.

At Emmie's silence, the woman tipped up her chin. “Surely you wondered why he never brought you to meet his family? He didn't dare reveal he was a bigamist.”

Bigamy.
There had to be some mistake. Emmie wetted her lips. “He said they were all dead. That they died in a train accident when he was seventeen.” Emmie's lips barely moved as she spoke in a whisper.

Catherine's mouth tightened, and a flush stained her pale cheeks. “He has four brothers and three sisters. His mother and father are both in excellent health. They've been very hurt by his silence.” She opened her reticule and drew out two pictures. “Here's a family portrait of Monroe with his father and the rest of the family. It was taken just before he disappeared. This one was taken after our marriage.”

Emmie took the first picture and stared down into Monroe's familiar laughing eyes. An older man with a curling handlebar mustache sat in the middle of a group of young adults. There was a marked resemblance between Monroe and the other people in the photograph. They all had the strong jawline that made her husband so attractive, the same large, expressive eyes. The second showed Monroe with his arm around this woman, and she smiled up at him.

Something squeezed in her chest, and she handed back the photographs. “If you were married to him, why were you living apart?”

Catherine drew a deep breath and adjusted her little one on her lap a bit. “We had an argument. It was silly—over nothing, really. But he'd been acting restless and short-tempered for several weeks. He took
off, and I never heard from him again. I saw his obituary in
The Plain Dealer
just this week
.
He didn't even know about Richard here.” She indicated the little boy, who had his thumb corked in his mouth.

“Monroe was never very good at responsibility. Even as a child he enjoyed pretending to be someone he wasn't. There were spells when he'd take off, but he always returned in a few weeks. This was the longest he'd ever been gone. I heard he passed himself off as a lawyer here too. The truth is, he only got about halfway through law school before he grew bored and quit.”

Emmie gripped her hands together. Monroe already married? Where did that leave her? She couldn't seem to take in the horror of her situation.
Bigamy.
The very word brought a wave of shame and nausea. Monroe had always seemed mysterious. That had been part of his magnetism. And it was true he was easily bored. But his eagerness for new adventures was part of his charm.

“You still have not shown me any proof of this marriage.”

“I have an affidavit from his father and my marriage lines, of course. I will present them to Monroe's lawyer tomorrow. I can show them to you if you
insist.” She leaned down and pulled the documents from her purse. Keeping a hand on them, she showed them to Emmie.

Emmie read over the affidavit. There seemed little doubt the woman's claim was true. “What do you want from me?”

Catherine looked her over. “I wouldn't have come if it wasn't for my son. But my family is poor, and Monroe's father has been supporting Richard and me. But he's struggling too. I heard that Monroe had amassed a small holding here. It's only Richard's due that he inherits his father's possessions. You're young, and you don't have a baby to worry about. You can always go home to your family.”

Emmie wanted to burst into tears and wail aloud, but she held her head up. There was pity in the woman's face. Emmie was sure Catherine thought she was a fool for believing Monroe's lies.

But who could have suspected Monroe capable of something so heinous?

Catherine shifted little Richard to her shoulder, then stood. “I'll leave you to consider all I've told you. If you need to contact me, I'll be at the Blue Goose Inn.” She gazed down at Emmie's face. “I'm truly sorry.”

Blood thundering in her ears, Emmie watched Catherine leave with a last pitying look.
That's whom the child looked like.
He was a younger version of Monroe right down to the pouting upper lip. She sat rigidly in the chair with her hands clenched. What was she going to do now?

TWO