A Path Toward Love (8 page)

Katherine climbed the stairs to the attic before the sun transformed it into an inferno. She rifled through several steamer trunks lined with cedar in search of a few more lightweight summer frocks. The year before he died, she thought she remembered Charles storing some up here for her as autumn arrived. She'd just about given up when she spotted a dusty trunk in the corner that she hadn't opened. It was worth a look.

But instead of a pile of clothes, she discovered old letters tied with string. Glancing through the small stack, she found notes she'd penned while Charles was courting her. She cringed at how she'd poured out her soul on paper. Obviously, he saved everything. It probably took too much effort to sort through old keepsakes and discard. Or had he truly cared about her? Once?

She climbed down the stairs and directed Etta Mae to bring the trunk down to the front veranda. Five minutes later Katherine continued sifting through the old chest. Without rereading any of the silly
billets-doux
, she ripped them in two and tossed them into a trash basket.
Good riddance
.

From the bottom she pulled out a packet with handwriting she didn't recognize. Who would've written in such a feminine hand? Her breath caught deep in her lungs. Were her suspicions about Charles's infidelity true? During the last years of her marriage she'd wondered if he kept a mistress, though she seldom allowed her mind to wander in such a dangerous direction. Long periods of time away from home, no interest in their marriage, no love. All the warning signs were there.

For several seconds she held the heavy packet and stared at the dark blue ink. She ought to rip them up without a second thought—and without reading them first. As she had with her own. But wasn't it better to read them now and spare herself the agony of imagining the worst?

With trembling hands, Katherine untied the string and removed a sheet of inexpensive paper.

My dearest Charles,

I've missed you so, my darling. My life without you is empty and meaningless. I try to stay busy and distract myself, but I'm just so terribly lonely. Please hurry back to me. I count the days.

All my love,
Harriet

The letter was dated a few years after Katherine's marriage to Charles. Why were there so many letters? Her heart squeezed so tight it hurt. Who was Harriet?

Katherine pulled open the next note and then the next until she'd skimmed all but a half dozen of them. Tossing them aside, she glared at a blizzard of paper spread across the beige seat cushion.

Reluctantly, she fished out one of the earlier letters to reread it.

I don't understand why your father dislikes me so. Is it because I'm not of your social set? You say you don't care about his opinion, but I fear very much that you do. If only I came from a prosperous and respectable background we could marry soon, as we both wish. But I don't, and I can't change that unfortunate fact. I hope he softens his attitude toward me when he realizes we are meant to be together. I couldn't bear to lose you, my love.

Katherine sat perfectly still while white-hot anger burned through her chest like flames to the skin. Gradually, she pieced together what had probably happened. Charles had met Harriet a few years before he'd met Katherine. Old Mr. Osborne had unyielding control over his family. He must've forbidden Charles to marry Harriet, so Charles obeyed. He'd never mustered the gumption to confront anyone. He'd drown his cowardice in whiskey and gambling instead.

But after the elderly Mr. Osborne died, Charles might have felt free to indulge his passions without any repercussion. He must've taken up with Harriet once again.

It would explain Charles's neglect. Katherine had ignored his frequent absences and chose to believe they involved business dealings, though if she'd used her God-given common sense, she'd have realized that couldn't possibly be the case. He seldom set foot in the office or groves. Their bank account dwindled, yet he refused to explain why. Katherine moaned quietly. How could she have closed her eyes to what was right in front of her?

She knew the reason. To admit her marriage had failed would compel her to take some sort of action. Either she'd have to return home to her parents and confess her mistake or stay at Buena Vista and suffer in silence. She chose to ignore the problems and hope their marriage would someday improve. But it didn't.

Katherine heard the front door open and footsteps on the gray painted floor. Glancing up, she saw Andrew approach, a look of concern etched in his face. She sniffed back a sob and blinked away tears, embarrassed to be found in such a state. Hastily she searched her pockets for a handkerchief, but they were empty.

He pulled one from his own pocket and offered it to her. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice trembling. He dropped into a nearby rocking chair and focused his attention on her. His beautiful blue eyes radiated an ocean full of sympathy. He didn't ask for an explanation, but she fought the urge to tell him.

“I was reading old letters. I let my emotions take over.” She gave him a pathetic imitation of a smile and wondered if Andrew would accept her explanation. Even though she'd told him a little about her unhappy marriage, she didn't want to burden him with the ugly details.

He glanced toward the door as if ready to leave her alone with her grief. “I'm sure your pain must still be raw. One doesn't get over a marriage quickly, I assume.”

She warmed to his kindness. “It's difficult to overcome the past and look toward the future. But I'm trying.” She bowed her head and a torrent of tears wracked her body. Her shoulders heaved and her sobs grew louder and more desolate. “I'm so sorry for making a scene. I should learn to handle my feelings.”

Andrew pushed the letters on the swing to one side and sat close beside her. Hesitantly, he touched her hand. “Do you want to talk about it, Katherine? It might make you feel a little better. I don't know a lot about love or marriage, but I'm a good listener.”

She stiffened. If she weren't more careful he'd offer so much empathy she'd let her entire story slip out. She didn't want to share her humiliation with anyone, even Andrew. She'd said enough already.

Katherine touched his hand. “You're a true friend and I love you for that.” Embarrassment scorched her face. “You know what I mean, don't you? We're the truest of friends. Our affection goes far beyond romance.” She sputtered a nervous laugh. “I'm not saying this correctly . . .”

His crooked smile seemed to be covering up an amused grin. “That's all right. I believe I understand.”

She wasn't encouraging him in a romantic way, was she? She'd never forgive herself for misleading him. After Charles, she vowed never to wade into those poisonous waters again. Andrew was the dearest friend she ever had, and she'd never intentionally hurt him with false hopes—in case he had any.

Katherine felt the tears burn again. More than anything she wanted to lose herself in Andrew's kindness and tell him what she'd learned about Charles. Andrew would understand, but should she burden him with her husband's infidelities and her sorrow?

She only had to look into his eyes to know she couldn't. He was a friend, possibly a bit more than a mere friend, and she'd never do that to him. Yet it was probably her weakness that drew her to him right now and not anything else.

She pushed that thought away.

Andrew looked down at the letters and then up at her. Did he want her to explain what was written on the scattered pages? Of course, he'd never ask.

He waited a few moments and then rose. “I'll give you your privacy, Katherine. I feel as if I'm intruding.”

She didn't stop him, even though his departure left her feeling torn. When his footsteps died away, Katherine stared at the closed door a long time before she opened another envelope, her hands shaking, her pulse still racing. She wasn't sure why she tortured herself by perusing these hurtful letters. But perhaps she could completely rid her mind of Charles if she faced the brutal truth. Then, not one shred of emotion for him would remain to torment her.

For the last several years she'd combed the memories of their marriage trying to understand what exactly went wrong between them. She'd believed it was her fault he'd lost his passion for her. Shortly after old Mr. Osborne passed, open hostility had replaced Charles's love. He blamed her for their alienation and she'd believed him.

She believed she was at fault because her own mother had said nearly the same thing. Mama claimed she was outspoken and stubborn and willful. So the problem lay only with her—though now, when she scrutinized her married life, she couldn't recall when she'd acted in a headstrong manner as she had so often as a child and young woman. With Charles she'd never fought for her way or defended herself. She'd given in to his wishes at every turn.

Now she knew the cause; Charles longed for Harriet and saw Katherine as the only remaining obstacle. Katherine glanced through the next letter, and then another. The illicit words of lust twisted her stomach until she thought she'd vomit. There was just one letter left, the envelope blank. She steeled herself to read it; then she'd be through with Charles forever.

After ripping the letter open, she started reading, expecting more sickeningly sentimental words. But this was different. It was from Charles to Harriet, and it had never been posted.

My darling Harriet,

I'm so sorry you are suffering because I'm still living with Katherine. You know my heart is with you, and I yearn to join you soon. I can't tell you how agonizing it is for me to remain with my wife in a loveless marriage when I only wish to share my love with you and our little son.

Son? Katherine let the letter fall to her lap. She'd never suspected Charles had a child. Her hands trembled as she tried to absorb this new revelation. She'd wanted to give him a child, but that dream hadn't come to pass. Swallowing the bitterness rising in her throat, she picked up the note and resumed reading.

I shan't stay here at Buena Vista much longer. I can't abide the tension. At present, I'm trying to put my affairs in order so we can be together. As soon as possible I shall ask Katherine for a divorce. We make each other miserable, and I regret the day my father convinced me to marry her. But I shall soon rectify that sad part of my life and join you, my darling, the one I should have taken in holy matrimony.

I am desolate, my dearest Harriet, and I long for your sweet touch. Do be patient with me, my love. We shall soon be together, forever.

Katherine gasped. The date read only a day before Charles fell ill, and merely a week before his untimely death. He'd caught a fever and died quickly. Never once had he mentioned Harriet or their son, nor had he asked for an end to their marriage. But he'd been too sick and weak to think of anything except getting well.

Katherine had nursed him, stayed by his side, and worn herself out praying unceasingly for his recovery. He was probably yearning for his mistress and their son while she cared for him night and day.

But God help her, she hadn't felt any grief when he died, only relief. Her heart swelled with anger and humiliation. He'd been the most despicable of hypocrites.

Katherine shredded the letter and tossed it into the trash basket. Gathering the rest of the notes, she tore each one in strips and threw them away too. Finally, when the porch swing was bare once again, she arose, dabbed at her stinging tears, and strode into the house.

She found her father and Andrew in the seldom-used office next to the library. Whether Papa was at home or not, he needed to keep abreast of his railroads, and from Andrew's look of eager concentration, he reveled in work as well.

“I have something to announce,” she said, clutching the back of a chair. “I've made a decision. One you'll like, Papa.” Her voice sounded thin and reedy, as if it came from far away.

Papa smiled in anticipation.

“I've considered my circumstances and I've decided I shall return with you to New York for the rest of the summer.”

Andrew's jaw dropped open, and her father beamed a grin as bright as a lightbulb.

She put up a palm. “I can't agree to move home permanently. I still love these citrus groves and my work here, and I hope this fall's harvest brings us closer to profitability. But I believe a change of scene is just what I need.”

“I'm so pleased,” her father said, obviously overcome with relief. “You won't regret your decision.”

“If I'm to leave, then I'll need someone reliable to take care of the groves and run the business for the summer. I'm not sure I can find a good manager, but I shall try.”

Papa placed the cap on his fountain pen and stood. “Leave it to me. I shall contact Stuart Osborne. I imagine he'll take over the company on a temporary basis.”

With the hope I'll eventually sell
. Papa would pay him handsomely for his trouble. She preferred to leave the day-to-day operation to someone other than Charles's brother, but she didn't know anyone else who could fill in for her on short notice. And the idea of trying to find the right person wearied her further. “All right, Papa. Thank you.”

“I'll get on it right away.” Her father dropped his pen and papers on the desk and headed into the hall for his bowler and walking stick.