Always (33 page)

She stared up at him for a long moment, absorbing his blunt rejection. He thought she might burst into tears, but then those shimmering blue eyes turned cold again. “It’s Emily Winters.”

“Leave Emily out of this.” He realized he had spoken too quickly and cursed himself for being so transparent.

“It
is
her, isn’t it? I knew it! You haven’t been the same since she came back home!”

Her hand moved again, but this time Ross caught her wrist a split second before she could make contact. “Sorry, Johanna. You only get one shot.”

“You fornicating liar. If you marry that hussy, I’ll sue for breach of promise, and, as for her, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing.” He’d had all he was going to take. She had a right to be angry with him, to hate him, perhaps, but Emily was another matter.

Lowering his voice, he leaned in so close they were nose to nose. “As it stands now, you can say anything you want about our broken engagement. You can tell your friends that you were the one to change your mind. That should save you heaps of embarrassment, and I won’t say anything to contradict it, but if I hear one nasty rumor about Emily...” He paused, not needing to finish his threat to expose the truth, that he had indeed broken off with her in favor of another woman. He knew that Johanna’s vanity would make it difficult for her to publicly admit such a thing, much less bring a messy legal action against him. “Do you understand?”

Her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. She yanked free from his grasp. “Yes! But you’ll regret this.”

Oh, she was sorely wrong about that. Ross turned his back on her for the last time.

“When my father finds out what you’ve done, you’ll never get a decent job in this town again! Do you hear me? You’ll regret the day they ever let you out of that rotten prison!”

Dusk was falling as Ross slammed the Davenports’ iron gate closed behind him. He didn’t reply to Johanna’s threats. He was well aware of the consequences for his actions this evening. Tomorrow he would face Malcolm.

*

As the clock on the parlor mantel chimed midnight, Emily finally laid Ross’s manuscript on the lamp table. Her eyes burned and her neck ached. She should have been in bed long ago—she had big plans for tomorrow—but she hadn’t been able to put Ross’s manuscript down until now.

The novel revolved around Andrew Flannery, a twenty-two-year-old private in the Fiftieth Pennsylvania regiment, and his sidekick from home, Gregory Lewis. Flannery’s name and rank came from Ross’s imagination, and Emily wasn’t sure about Lewis, but she sensed that the rest was real. Andrew Flannery was Ross. Some other names might have been changed, too, but the events must have taken place in one form or another.

The writing was vivid, much too vivid for Emily to remain detached as she read. She saw what Flannery saw: starving men skirmishing over bits of tainted meat; panicked teenage guards shooting men who crossed the “dead line” for nothing more than a taste of clean water; renegade prisoners murdering bewildered newcomers for their scanty possessions. She envisioned the frightening Captain Wirz, the one they called the Flying Dutchman. He rode a pale horse and presided over the filthy prison stockade like the Grim Reaper personified.

But even as Emily smelled the death and disease and tasted the poisoned water that killed so many, in those pages she found hope, too. Few of the men would leave their wretched conditions when the enemy came recruiting, and there were always plans in the making for escape. When Flannery closed his eyes at night, he comforted himself with memories of home, particularly childhood memories of times spent playing by a creek in the woods with Lewis and Lewis’s younger sister, Eleanor.

Eleanor
.

Emily frowned. With the exception of the fictional Lewis, Flannery’s memories bore a striking resemblance to...

“Oh, good heavens. Look at you, still awake at this hour.” Wearing a white cotton nightdress and nightcap, Marguerite stood in the doorway of the parlor holding a bedroom candlestick.

“I’m sorry. Did my light wake you?”

“No.” Her mother entered and set the candleholder down on the lamp table next to Emily. “I had a frightening dream in which my daughter was working herself to a frazzle. That’s what awakened me. Now I see it wasn’t a dream, after all.”

“I was just getting ready to come to bed.”

“Of course you were,” Marguerite said doubtfully as she took a seat opposite her. She nodded to the manuscript. “Is that what’s been keeping you awake half the night?”

“It’s Ross Gallagher’s novel.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about his prison experiences. It’s very good.”

“I’m not surprised. Your father always said he was a talented writer.”

At the mention of her father, Emily couldn’t help a twinge of guilt. “Ross asked me to illustrate for him.”

Marguerite raised an eyebrow. “Did he, now?”

Emily frowned, wary of the knowing expression on her mother’s face. “I’m not going to do it.”

“Indeed? And why not?”

“Well, because... because I can’t. He’s marrying Johanna Davenport and—well, I just don’t have the time.”

“Hmm. I see your point. Not having the time, I mean. As for Johanna, I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Emily cursed the part of her that wouldn’t allow this cryptic comment to pass. It was the same part that had held out hope Ross would break off his engagement after what had happened in his parlor. “Why do you say that?” she asked. “Their wedding is the Saturday after next, and if what I’ve heard is correct, half the town is invited.”

“Call it motherly intuition.”

“I would, except you’re not Ross’s mother.”

Marguerite smiled. “True, but I’m yours.”

“That hardly answers the question.”

Marguerite’s smile faded. She seemed to search Emily’s face for something before speaking again. “Have you had a chance to tell him about the baby?”

Emily was stunned by the question. It wasn’t only that they’d managed to tiptoe around the subject for years now, but there was something in her mother’s dead-on, level expression that intimated she knew full well that Ross had fathered Emily’s child. But how could she know? Unless Karen had divulged her secret, but that was unlikely. Karen had never gone back on a promise before.

“Why would I—” Emily had to swallow hard to get the words out. “Why would I tell him such a thing?”

“The child was his, wasn’t it?”

Emily tried to take a deep breath, but it suddenly felt as if a brick had lodged in her chest. She wiped sweating palms on her skirt. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. Not for certain. But I suspected from the beginning.”

“Oh, dear,” Emily muttered, closing her eyes. All at once, she felt a little dizzy. “Did you tell Papa?”

“No, I did not tell Papa.”

Emily forced her eyes open to face her mother. “But why not? He was so angry when I wouldn’t tell him.”

“Yes, he was, but it wasn’t my place to speak up. You needed to make that decision for yourself.”

Emily couldn’t help but remember how shocked and angry her father had been when he’d learned his youngest daughter was expecting a child. When he’d demanded that she tell him who the boy was, she had refused, stating only that it was not Karl Becker. In truth, she hadn’t intended to blurt out even that much, but her father had been in such an agitated state she feared he might go after poor Karl and force him to the altar. Now, she shuddered at the memory. The whole household had been in an uproar. What a dreadful time that had been.

“I couldn’t tell him about Ross,” she explained. “He wouldn’t have understood.”

“Perhaps not. At least, not then.”

“And now he’s gone.” Something stuck in Emily’s throat so that tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back. “It’s too late, and he never forgave me, did he?”

At this, Marguerite frowned. She rose from her seat to sit next to Emily on the sofa. “Perhaps it’s too late to tell him about Ross, my dear, but you mustn’t think that he never forgave you for making a mistake. Why, nothing could be further from the truth. Good heavens, you haven’t been laboring under that ridiculous misapprehension all this time, have you?”

In fact, she had. Because she knew it was true. During the four years that she had lived with Aunt Essie, Marguerite had come to visit a number of times, and Karen had sometimes come along. Nathaniel, however, had accompanied her only three times. They were awkward visits, too, with Marguerite and her sister Essie keeping up the small talk while both Emily and Nathaniel had perched like two stiff, uncomfortable bumps at opposite ends of the dining table.

When Emily didn’t reply, Marguerite put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her tightly. “Of course he forgave you. He loved you. You were his special girl, didn’t you know that?”

Emily stared down at her lap. “But he never said—”

“No, I don’t suppose that he did.” Straightening, Marguerite took Emily by the chin and forced her to look up. “I thought you knew him better than that. Your father was a wizard with words when it came to expressing his political views in print, but I’m afraid he fell drastically short when it came to personal matters. How many times do you remember him telling you that he loved you while you were growing up?”

Emily blinked. Her vision was still blurry from pent-up tears, and, looking into her mother’s dry-eyed, patiently lecturing expression, she suddenly felt all of ten years old. “I can’t—I don’t remember,” she began, but then she started to really think back. “Never?”

“And so what did you make of that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps you thought he didn’t care for you at all.”

“No!” Emily was insulted that her mother would even say such a thing. “Of course he cared! Why else would he have let me hang around the print shop all those years? Why would he have shown me how to run the presses and write copy and carve illustrations and—” She stopped.

With a little nod, Marguerite let go of Emily’s chin and folded her hands in her lap. “And why else would he have been so upset when he learned that his little girl was suddenly a woman and facing a situation no woman should have to face alone? Why would he have felt so angry and frustrated and helpless when his little girl refused to confide in him? Why do you suppose that was, Emily Elizabeth?”

“Because he loved me.”

“Yes, and because he loved you, he wanted to make things all better. By grabbing some boy by the scruff of the neck and marching him down the aisle, he would have been able to do that, but you wouldn’t let him, would you?”

Emily pursed her lips and frowned. “It wouldn’t have fixed anything.”

Marguerite gave a little shrug that indicated she didn’t necessarily agree. “All that’s in the past. The point is, your father loved you and he forgave you, even if he never did quite figure out how to deal with the willful woman you grew up to be. Perhaps the two of you were just too much alike.” She stood and adjusted her nightcap. “Mule-headed.”

Emily’s spine stiffened. “Why does everyone call me that? I am not mule-headed.”

“Oh, of course not. That’s why you’re so bound and determined to keep that blasted print business going. Believe me, your father, wherever he may be at this moment, is tickled pink over the whole idea.”

“Darn right. That’s because it’s a good idea.”

Marguerite laughed as she reached for her bedroom candle. “What was that military saying you mentioned Karl Becker was so fond of? Full steam in the sails and...?”

“Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead,” Emily supplied. Amazing, but she now felt rejuvenated, not tired at all. “I believe he was quoting Vice Admiral Farragut.”

“Oh, yes.” Marguerite moved to the doorway and paused. “Your father would have liked that one, don’t you think?” She gave a conspiratorial wink before disappearing into the darkened hallway. “Get some sleep, dear. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The sky was clear, the fields a deep green. A soft summer breeze ruffled the cornstalks, offsetting the growing heat of a new morning.
A fine day to get the boot
, Ross thought as he reached the edge of town. He felt light on his feet today, which was miraculous, considering he still had Malcolm to face. Then Emily.

He figured he was as prepared as he would ever be to face Malcolm Davenport; it was Emily he was unsure of. He worried that his decision to end his engagement and his career at the
Herald
might have come too late.

Offering Emily his manuscript had been a last-ditch effort to appeal to her emotions. It was a low blow, but if it affected her the way he hoped, then to hell with playing fair. Besides, he hadn’t lied. He did want her to illustrate that book. It was a part of him, and she was the only one who had ever been able to see into his heart.

When he came within sight of Centre Square, he saw that the sidewalks seemed more crowded than usual for a weekday morning. Was there something happening that he’d forgotten?

A disgruntled group of bearded, broad-bellied tradesmen and a sizable group of well-dressed women stood in front of the city hall building. Hand-painted placards mounted on wooden stakes waved above the women’s heads, JUSTICE FOR OUR DOWNTRODDEN SISTER! proclaimed one facing in Ross’s direction.

The militant sign-bearer was Miss Beatrice Ellinger, a petite, bespectacled boardinghouse proprietress well known to possess the temperament of a bulldog once she latched onto a devout cause. Ross thought that Miss Bea had to be almost seventy by now. Many of the others he recognized to be active Episcopal churchwomen. And could that be the shy, soft-spoken Melissa Carpenter who stood by Miss Bea’s side?

Oddly enough, these two core groups—the ill-humored, cigar-chomping men and the irate, fire-eyed church ladies—were engaged in a shouting match. It was no wonder that they had already attracted a crowd of curious onlookers.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Respectable women marching about in public like a bunch of rabble-rousing suffragists!” shouted a man Ross didn’t recognize. “Get you home where you belong!”