Vengeance is Mine. . .
by
ShiningStar
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program
"Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and
have been used without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.
Part I
Leaning forward so that his wife could light his evening
cigar, Royce Wardell smiled with satisfaction. “One month, my darling Victoria.
One perfect month.”
She pulled the hassock close to the chair and sat down,
resting her arms on his knees. “You’re very gallant—keeping up with the time
like that.”
“I’m a lucky man.”
“We’re both blessed.”
He nodded. “I had a letter from my brother Paul today. He
invites us to visit.”
“You’ve met my family. Perhaps it’s time I met yours.”
“I haven’t been to Tennessee in over a year, but I’d like
to go now—to go and show off my beautiful bride.”
“At my age, I’m scarcely a bride.”
“Of course, you are! Paul says that the family is anxious
to see the woman who stole my bachelorhood.”
“Is that what I did?”
“Well, perhaps I relinquished it to you.”
They laughed together.
“When are you considering the trip?”
“Could you be ready to go next week?”
“Whenever you like, Royce.”
“The weather’s good—we can ride if you like, and you’ll
see where I came from.”
“I’ll enjoy that very much.”
“Good. Then I’ll get the rail tickets and telegraph Paul
to expect us. We’ll stay with him. He and Ona have more room than Ellis and
Eliza—their daughter is living there temporarily while her husband is in
England on business. She has five children under the age of eight and needed
help with them.”
Victoria shook her head. “I remember those days.”
“Paul’s sons are married, too, and live on the farm, but
they built homes of their own.”
“What about your other brother, Royce—the one killed at
Gettysburg?”
“Andrew was the youngest. My mother never got over his
loss.”
“Is he buried there?”
“Oh, yes—there was no money to bring him home. My parents
are buried on the farm, of course. A small family cemetery—much like the one on
Barkley land.” He put aside his cigar and took her hands. “I wish my mother
could have known you, Victoria. She would have loved you very much.”
“Did she know Catherine?”
“She met her only once—we were always posted at such
remote garrisons.” He hesitated, then shook his head as if to clear it.
“Your thought is unfinished.”
He twisted his mouth a little. “I was just going to say
that our baby daughter—Catherine’s and mine—was named for her—Rose Ellen.”
“How lovely.”
“We had decided on the name quite early—though a boy would
have been named for me, of course.”
“Of course.”
He kissed her hands. “Are you quite sure you want to take
a sentimental journey with a foolish old man?”
“Not with a foolish old man—with my husband. My dashingly
handsome, magnificently charming husband.”
“Ah, Victoria, we’re blooming with youthfulness, I
believe!”
“I’ve heard that love keeps one young.”
“Or makes one young again?”
“Perhaps.”
He opened her palm and brushed it with his lips. “I do
love you, my darling Victoria.”
* * * * * * * *
Victoria charmed and was charmed by her husband’s large
extended family. “It seems as if I’ve always known them,” she remarked one
afternoon a few days before they left for New Orleans again.
“Well, they are unfamiliar with the Barkley name. The
Barkleys of Stockton.”
“Would that make a difference?”
“Not necessarily, but it’s a name fraught with some
celebrity in California.”
Victoria sighed. “I suppose I realize that.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“Tom intended to build an empire and rise above all those
he felt had slighted him in his youth. He came from an impoverished family in
Georgia.”
“He wasn’t alone—many from such backgrounds went west to
seek their fortune.”
“Sometimes I felt his pursuit of wealth and power took
precedence over his family.”
Royce frowned. “I’ve never heard you speak like that
before.”
“Perhaps for the first time I can be honest about some of
my long-buried feelings. They don’t shadow my good memories.”
“I should hope not.”
“But I think, Royce, that you’ve brought out a part of me
that I’d kept hidden for a long time—that I’d tried to deny.”
“And that is?”
“A softer side. A side that needs tenderness and complete
devotion—selfish as that may sound.”
“Not at all, my love. I need it myself.”
“I hope you feel that you have it.”
He lifted her hands to his lips. “Every moment of every
day.”
* * * * * * * *
Most days after breakfast they rode over the countryside.
Royce said it was like coming home for the first time. “I have good memories of
my childhood despite the poverty. My parents were good people. There was a
great deal of love in our family.”
“But you’ve been back before.”
“Only to visit—not to reconnect—and there’s a difference.”
“Yes, I see.”
“And I have you to share all this with now. That makes a
difference, too.”
They reined in their horses at the top of a small rise
behind the house that Royce had built for his mother and which the family kept
maintained in her memory.
“Mamma had a hard life, but she never complained. She
taught us not to complain.”
“How did she feel about your selection for West Point?”
He smiled ruefully. “Well, Mamma wasn’t very
well-educated, and she wasn’t quite sure what West Point was. To her, it just
meant that I’d be leaving home—probably for good. Pappa wanted me to be a
preacher like he was, you see.”
“But you never felt called to do that.”
“Not really. If Andrew hadn’t died in the war, I think
he’d have followed in our father’s footsteps.”
“It’s too bad he never had the chance.”
“Yes—too many young men never had a chance to live out
their lives the way God intended.” He
looked thoughtful for a moment, then glanced at her. “You look quite at home on
horseback, Victoria.”
“I must admit that I feel quite at home. I always rode
astride after we came West.”
“Much safer and more sensible—and it doesn’t detract from
your feminine qualities.”
“You’re full of compliments this morning.” She edged her
mount closer to his. “Repaying me for last night, perhaps?”
He grinned broadly. “I’m afraid that debt is impossible to
repay.” He leaned over and kissed her. “You’re a very satisfying bedfellow, you
know.”
He kissed her again. “Shall we ride a little more?”
* * * * * * * *
On the last morning but one, they walked down to the
cemetery where his parents were buried and stood in silence for a moment. Then,
after Victoria laid a small handful of flowers on each grave, they started back
for the farmhouse. “Where is Catherine buried?” she asked almost as an
afterthought.
“I don’t know,” he said tersely.
She stopped abruptly. “You. . .”
He patted her hand on his arm. “I don’t know, my love.
Just leave it at that.”
* * * * * * * *
Ona sat with her sister-in-law as she completed the packing
the next morning. “It’s been a real pleasure, Victoria.”
“For me, too, Ona.”
“I—well, perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but Paul has
commented on it several times. You’ve made a big difference in Royce’s life.”
“As he has in mine.”
“He’s a good man—but until now, there’s always been
something—oh, I don’t know—sad—almost defeated—do you know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“He needed you.”
“We needed each other, Ona. I love him very much.”
“That’s plain to see.”
“You know what happened to Catherine, of course.”
“Yes.” Ona looked away uncomfortably.
“Tom Barkley died violently also. We have that in common.”
“I didn’t know.”
“He was shot by the railroad men almost six years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well, I did my grieving—and then, when I met Royce, I
knew it was time to get on with my life.”
“Your family approved then?”
“All except my second son, Nick. I don’t think he’s dealt
adequately with his father’s death yet—but I pray that he will. The others like
and respect Royce a great deal.” She smiled automatically as she heard Royce
calling her name. “In here, darling.”
Royce put his head past the door. “Paul has the wagon
ready.”
“I’m just finished packing. Ona was keeping me company for
a last chat.”
He came in and lifted the valise from the bed. “We should
be going. Ona, thank you for your hospitality,” he said, brushing her cheek
with an affectionate kiss.
“You’re welcome, Royce. I hope you’ll come again.”
* * * * * * * *
The visit had been pleasant, but on their first night at
home, Victoria woke in the night and found the bed empty. “Royce?” she called.
He materialized from the balcony, the tip of a cigar
glowing red in the darkness. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “No, don’t get up,”
he added hurriedly as he heard her moving around. “I’m all right.”
When he lay down again, she pillowed her head against his
shoulder. “Thinking of all the work you’ll have to catch up on at the office
tomorrow?”
“That’s it,” he said quickly—too quickly, she thought.
“”Although I’m sure Rand Vandemeer has seen well to the business.”
“Still, you’re in charge.”
“Yes.” He stroked her hair. “I’m in charge. Go to sleep,
Victoria. I’m sorry I woke you.”
* * * * * * * *
It happened again at the end of the week—and a third time
a few nights later. Victoria thought her husband seemed tired in the mornings
and slightly removed from her. Oh, he was attentive and affectionate, but there
seemed to be an invisible veil between them that was as impenetrable as a wall.
Even their lovemaking took on an impersonal aura—the gentleness was there, but
the passion wasn’t.
She didn’t speak of her feelings, however. Whatever was
troubling Royce would resolve itself sooner or later. And something was
definitely troubling him. Was it going home to Tennessee? By his own admission
it had been a true homecoming—and she had felt welcomed by his family. But when
she analyzed the time, day by day, she came to the conclusion that the visit to
his parents’ graves had begun the restlessness. No—on second thought, perhaps
it was her mention of Catherine—her query as to her grave. Royce’s reply that he didn’t know had
shocked her, and he’d told her to leave it. Perhaps that had been a
mistake. Perhaps, with some encouragement on her part, he’d have talked about
it—gotten rid of his feelings which, she suspected, had been bottled up far too
long.
Several times she was on the verge of revisiting the
subject, but something held her back. Then it happened.
They’d been to dinner with the Vandemeers that night, and
Royce had seemed more like himself. He’d made love to her when they came home,
and they’d fallen asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. Now he was thrashing
about—and then the screaming began.
She sat up. “Royce! Royce! Wake up, darling! It’s only a
dream!” Her hands smoothed his face and neck comfortingly, and the screams
subsided into moans that tore at her heart. “Royce, darling, wake up! I’m here!
It’s all right!”
Without warning he bolted upright and grabbed her roughly.
“Royce!”
Her voice brought him out of his dreams just as his hands
closed around her throat. “Oh, my god! Oh, my god, Victoria, I’m sorry! Oh, my
god!”
She pulled is head down and cradled it against her breast.
“Shhhh, shhhh, darling. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean it,” he whimpered almost like a child.
“Please—I didn’t mean it!”
“I know. You were far away—where, Royce? Where were you?”
“In a dark place I thought I’d left forever,” he murmured.
“The war? Afterwards?”
He shook his head and clung to her. “Forgive me,
Victoria.”
She rocked him in her arms. “I love you, Royce. We’re here
together. Everything is all right.”
He didn’t speak again, and afterwards, though he slept,
she lay awake. Despite the uncharacteristic display of near-violence, she
hadn’t felt afraid of him—but she was afraid for him. They’d shared such
perfect happiness for almost three months, and she loved him with all her
heart. But she realized now that she didn’t know him—not all of him—and that
ignorance could destroy them.
Since the next morning was Saturday, Victoria didn’t wake
her husband when he slept past his usual time for rising. But she kept watch on
him, and when he stirred, she hurried away to give him some privacy. She was
arranging flowers in a bowl on the foyer table when she heard him on the
stairs.
“Good morning,” she said pleasantly.
“Good morning. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I thought you needed the rest.”
“Victoria, I. . .”
She turned, holding up her hand to silence him.
“Whatever’s troubling you will remain your affair until and unless you choose
to share it. Would you like some breakfast?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
As she prepared a tray, she considered how haggard he
looked. She’d seen Tom Barkley worried—impatient—angry—but never like this. If
Tom’s soul had ever been in turmoil, he’d hidden it well. He’d known what he
wanted and set out to get it, and she’d met his demands without flinching or
complaining. She’d known what he expected and what to expect from him.
But Royce Wardell was not Tom Barkley. She’d known him
scarcely six months and been his wife for only three. He demanded nothing of
her except to be allowed to love her. Despite his economic success, he had no
agenda for increasing his wealth or becoming anyone except who he was. Now she
realized that it was who he was that was troubling him—and she felt helpless to
assuage his anguish.
She brought the tray to the parlor where he’d drawn up a
small table beside his armchair. “I brought a little for myself, too,” she
commented casually. “After such a large dinner last night, I wasn’t really
hungry again until now.”
He filled their cups from the silver coffeepot. “It was a
feast, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
They ate in silence, and finally Royce laid his head back
against the chair and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Victoria.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“I am sorry about last night.”
“You’ve no need to be.”
His eyebrows went up slightly. “Well.”
She replaced the table with the hassock and sat beside
him. “Heath still has nightmares about Carterson occasionally.”
“And well he should.”
“We ask the impossible of our men—to fight and die and
take the hell of war in stride—and to forget when it’s over.”
“Fighting and dying isn’t impossible—it’s the rest of it.”
“I know.”
He moved his hand to her hair and stroked it gently. “It’s
not the war that haunts me, Victoria. I commanded troops—fought with them, saw
them die, watched them buried—or rode away of necessity and left them to rot. I
did what I had to do and prayed for forgiveness—and felt I received it.”
“God and glory are rather at odds, aren’t they?”
“It’s not the war. It’s afterwards. It’s what I did
afterwards that I can’t forget—or even begin to feel I deserve forgiveness
for.”
“The men you tracked down.”
“I would have killed them in cold blood, Victoria. Shot
them down like dogs and laughed at their death throes.”
“Perhaps I’d have killed the men who murdered Tom if I’d
had the opportunity.”
“It was only God’s mercy that they were out of my reach
when I finally found them.”
“Being hung wouldn’t have vindicated Catherine. The man
she loved wasn’t a murderer.”
He touched her
face. “Why is it you always understand?”
“Perhaps because I want to understand.”
He sighed deeply. “I never knew that Catherine had
been—killed—until much later. One night I was checking our picket lines—I had a
habit of doing that even though it wasn’t a colonel’s job—I ran into another
old classmate from West Point. He was scouting—which wasn’t his job, but we’d
both learned from the same book, you see.
“Anyway, he had a bottle, and we found a rock overhang and
tucked in. In the dark, the difference in our uniforms wasn’t apparent, and he
knew why I’d enlisted in the Confederate army—and understood. By then we both
knew the South was dying, so we put the war aside for a few hours and talked about
better times.
“He told me about some of the people we’d known at the
Point—and mentioned in passing that John Lyles had been bushwhacked by
deserters—beaten, robbed, and hung. Then he said that he’d heard John was more
or less out on his own—meeting a woman—and that the woman had been killed, too.
That’s how I found out.”
Victoria caught his hand and laid her face against it.
“Oh, Royce,” she murmured.
“I couldn’t believe it—couldn’t accept it—so I prayed he
was wrong and went on. Lee surrendered a few weeks later. I threw away my uniform and used my old
officer’s credentials to get to New York. When I reached Catherine’s brother’s
house, he wouldn’t even let me in. I—I was in shock, but I remember asking for
her things—our things, and he refused to give them to me. But the next morning
there had been a box left for me at the desk. It was her wedding ring and the
picture we’d had made before we went to our first post. He’d written in a note
that he wanted me to have them and remember that they were—that I was—why she
was dead.”
Victoria fought back tears, but he saw them and brushed
them away gently.
“I went to Washington then and managed to find out a few
things about John’s death. His parents lived near there, so I went to see them,
and they filled in the rest. They knew about Catherine—he’d written to them
that he was going to help her—it was so like him, you see—to be loyal to an old
friend—to want to help where he could.
“They didn’t blame me. It was the war, they said, Mr.
Lincoln’s war. They called it an abomination—said that it hadn’t
solved anything—just taken the best and the brightest of an entire
generation—and they were right. Before
I left, I swore to them that I’d get the men responsible. They let me know that
they felt vengeance was wrong—and said they’d pray for me.
“It took me five years, Victoria—and it’s those five years
I can’t forget and for which I can’t forgive myself.”
“I’m not sure I follow your reasoning.”
“I drank—I fought—I gambled—that’s how I financed my
single-minded pursuit. I was conscienceless—without any scruples about whom I
hurt. I became estranged from my family. My brothers begged me to come home and
rebuild the farm with them, but I refused. I never went to bed at night without
picturing in my mind exactly how I’d take the lives of the men who’d taken
mine. I reasoned that I was dead anyway, you see.”
Victoria nodded, steeling herself against the weary
bitterness of his words.
“I found two of them in Virginia—or rather their unmarked
graves in a prison cemetery. They’d been hung for other crimes—the court
records never mentioned John or Catherine. After that—after that, I was lost.
Rage and hatred consumed me completely.”
“And you found the others, too. . .”
“One by one—serving prison terms in three states—safe—where
I couldn’t get to them. Oh, I tried. I even signed on as a prison guard in one
of the places, and I carried a knife that I intended to use—but there was no
opportunity. Once I thought the time had come, but. . .” He caught his breath.
“That night I got very drunk and broke up a saloon. In the morning I found
myself beside the river covered in my own waste. . .”
Victoria gripped his hand tightly.
“Covered in my own waste—and I realized that I’d become as
inhuman—as much of an animal—as the men I wanted to kill. I managed to crawl to
my horse and mount, and then I threw my gun into the river. I’ve never touched
one since.”
Victoria gazed up at him with brimming eyes, unable to
speak.
“I made peace with my family—heard of an opportunity in
New Orleans and came here and tried to rebuild my life. I won’t say that I was
content to be alone, but I never dared think it might be different—until I met
you.”
Taking her damp face in his hands, he looked unflinchingly
into his eyes. “Tell me, Victoria, if you’d known the truth—known everything
about me—what would you have done?”
Covering his hands with hers, she met his gaze
straightforwardly. “I’d have loved you even more, Royce,” she said softly.
Dear Jarrod,
I have a rather urgent request to make of you. Since you
had Royce investigated—yes, we both know and understand—you will know how to
get this next bit of information: where
his first wife Catherine is buried. Let me explain.
Her family blamed him for her death. When he went to New
York after the war, they refused to receive him or to return their mutual
possessions except for her wedding ring and photograph—which they said they
hoped would remind him of his responsibility for her violent end.
Victoria paused and looked up. She would not tell Jarrod
what Royce had shared with her about the five years following the war. She
would never violate his confidence, even if she felt Jarrod would
understand—which he might—but it wasn’t anything he needed to know.
He never knew where she was buried—therefore, though he
has done his grieving for her, he has never said a final goodbye. It is
something he needs to do.
On the last afternoon before I came to New Orleans, I
stood beside your father’s grave and told him that I was in love with Royce and
was going to be with him. I thanked him for the years we had together—for my
four wonderful children—and for Heath, my unexpected blessing. Then I said
goodbye. As I walked back to the house, I realized that my whole being was lighter—for
though I’d done with my grieving, I, too, had never said goodbye.
Loving Royce as I do, I want that catharsis, that freedom
for him, too. He’s such a good man, Jarrod—so kind and gentle, unfailingly
thoughtful of me, always generous with his attention and affection. Our life
together is one of joy and contentment.
Yet this one thing remains undone— to say goodbye to
Catherine, to feel (as I did when I stood beside your father’s grave) that she
sleeps more peacefully because the man she loved has a second chance at
happiness.
So I am asking you to use your contacts in New York to
locate her resting place. If I can give this gift of closure to Royce, my
happiness will be truly complete.
With love,
Mother
On the one hand, she wondered if she’d stepped outside the
bounds of marital loyalty—but on the other, she felt strongly that only at
Catherine’s grave could Royce find self-forgiveness and an end to the gnawing
guilt.
Since he’d spoken to her of his feelings—and realized that
she accepted them without reservation—he’d been more like his old self. They’d
drawn even closer, and their passion for each other was as intense as ever.
Still, from her own experience, she knew what he had to do—and he would, if
given the opportunity, accept that, too.
There was a chill in the air every morning by the time
Jarrod’s letter reached her. It was brief and to the point—and filled with his
own mark of infinite love and understanding.
Dear Mother,
My contact in New York has written to me with the
information that the Wrights have a summer home in ________, a small town in
upstate New York, and that there is a family cemetery on the estate. He spoke
with the groundskeeper, who lives there year-round, and learned that there is
indeed a Catherine buried there. I am enclosing the hand-drawn map he
sent me and wishing your both Godspeed.
You have earned every moment of your newfound joy, Mother.
You were a good wife to Father—not to mention your devotion to your children.
We look forward to seeing you and Royce whenever you are able to make the trip
to California—perhaps at Christmas?
Much love to you both,
Jarrod
As she waited for Royce to come home that evening,
Victoria chided herself for the nervousness that refused to let her concentrate
either on reading or her latest needlework endeavor. She’d given Isabel the
night off and finished dinner herself. It was Royce’s favorite—chicken
smothered in rich cream sauce with sautéed mushrooms and wild rice on the side.
For the dozenth time she laid aside her book and went to
the window. Would Royce feel she had betrayed his confidence by writing to
Jarrod? Would he consider her suggestion that he visit Catherine’s grave? And,
if he did, would he find the peace she craved for him? The sight of him
striding up the walk shook her from her jittery reverie and sent her to the
foyer.
“Good evening, my love,” he said, bending to meet her lips
before shedding his coat and hat. “I’m sorry I’m late—a matter of business that
couldn’t wait until morning came up at the last minute.” He took her in his
arms. “And I do look forward to getting home to you, you know.”
“Do you?” she parried. “Or could it be the chicken with
cream sauce and wild rice I promised you tonight?”
He laughed and caught her in his arms again. “Any meal is
delightful as long as it’s shared with you—and followed by dessert.” He let his
hands wander a bit.
“You’re incorrigible,” she said. “Go freshen up, and I’ll
serve dinner.”
He was talkative during dinner—the day had been a good
one, and he’d signed a new contract to ship for a prosperous firm in Mobile.
Rand Vandemeer had engineered the whole thing. “He’s got a good head for
business,” Royce finished with satisfaction, “and he’s honest—that’s an
unbeatable combination.”
They took their coffee upstairs to their sitting room
where Royce had lit a fire before he came down for dinner. Victoria gathered
her courage as they sat together on the small settee near the hearth. “I had a
letter from Jarrod today.”
“Ah, yes?”
“He suggested that we might spend Christmas in
California.”
“I was thinking of that today. I see no reason why we
can’t get away.”
“That would be nice.”
She decided to ease into the rest of the letter. “Royce,
do you remember the night you asked me to marry you? You asked me first if I’d
done with my grieving, and I said I had. But it wasn’t until the day before I
came to New Orleans that I actually said goodbye, you see. I visited Tom’s
grave—and then I came back to the house and took off my wedding ring and put it
away for Audra.” She took a deep breath. “You said you’d done your grieving,
too, but—but I know now that you never said goodbye.”
He set his cup down carefully before he replied. “I’m not
sure I understand what you’re getting at, Victoria.”
“Just this—after you were so honest with me—when you told
me—oh, Royce, I felt so sad that you’d been cheated of your memories—of your
right to say goodbye to Catherine! Please don’t be angry with me, but I wrote
to Jarrod and asked him to have a detective he knows in New York locate her
grave—and he did.”
The room fell silent except for the crackling of the fire.
Victoria watched Royce’s face pale. He swallowed twice with obvious difficulty
and turned away slightly. She ached to
touch him, to comfort him, but instead she sat very still and waited.
Finally, without looking at her, he said, “Why? Why did
you feel it necessary, Victoria? Have I been less a husband to you because of
what I shared?”
“No! Oh, no, Royce, no! Please try to understand—I love
you so much that I can’t bear your pain—it’s mine, too, don’t you see?”
He reached for her hand. “Yes. Yes, that’s like you.” He
fell silent again, but he continued to grasp her hand warmly. “So what is it
you want me to do? Go to New York?”
“For your sake, Royce. For your peace of mind.”
He nodded. “All right. Will you come with me?”
“If you want me.”
Turning slowly toward her, he fixed her with a look of
utter trust. “I want you,” he said
softly. “More than that—I need you.”
* * * * * * * *
They rented a small surrey in town and, following the map,
drove to the Wright family’s summer home that was located some five miles out.
Stopping at the ornate iron gate at the end of the drive leading up to the
house, Royce got out and rang the bell, and a middle-aged man appeared from the
brick gatehouse.
“I wonder if I might trouble you to let us in to visit the
cemetery?”
The man put his face against the palings. “Why?”
“My—my first wife is buried there, and I’d like to visit
her grave.”
“Nobody told me anythin’ ‘bout you comin’.”
Victoria leaned out of the surrey and smiled pleasantly.
“There was no time. We weren’t sure we’d be able to get up this way, but Mr.
Wright said that you’d let us in.”
Royce spun around and stared at her.
“You know th’ Wrights?”
“Oh, yes,” Victoria said glibly, “for many years.”
The man hesitated. “Wal—guess it’s all right then.” He
unfastened the lock and swung both gates backward. “Cemetery’s just behind the
house and down a little.”
Out of earshot of the groundskeeper, Royce turned to his
wife. “I didn’t know I’d married a con artist.”
She smiled grimly. “There’s a little larceny in my soul,
I’ll admit, but it was justified in this case.”
Royce chuckled. “I believe I shall watch my back around
you from now on.”
She tucked her hand through his arm. “No need, my darling.
That’s not the part of you I’m the least interested in.”
He sucked in his breath, then laughed aloud.
They drove in silence past the elegant three-story mansion
with a veranda that wrapped completely around it. It was shuttered and seemed
cold and uninviting to Victoria.
“I was never here.” Royce answered her unspoken question.
“Only the cream of society was invited here.”
“Cream spoils,” she replied tersely. “And too much of it
can make one ill.”
The small, well-manicured cemetery was surrounded with a
low white wrought-iron fence. Royce could have stepped over it, but the gate
was unlocked.
“You go in alone,” Victoria said softly. “I’ll be here if
you need me.”
She watched him open the gate and step inside almost
hesitantly. There were perhaps twenty graves, all marked with tall white
markers, some of them elaborately carved, and all appearing freshly washed and
polished. Her eyes never left him as he followed the stone path that ran
through the middle. His bearing was still so militarily erect, yet not haughty
or overbearing. It was what she had noticed first about him as he’d crossed the
floor of the town hall that night and asked her to dance.
She glanced down briefly at the small bouquet of flowers
they’d purchased in town. Royce had mentioned that Catherine liked violets
best, but there were none to be had in November, so they’d settled on what was
available. A chilly breeze stirred the bare limbs of the maple trees planted in
a semi-circle behind the cemetery. She frowned as Royce made his way from
tombstone to tombstone, pausing to read each inscription. Jarrod had assured
her that Catherine was here. What if…
Then she saw her husband stop beside the last marker. He
stepped forward, bent slightly to read it, then drew back as if an invisible
hand had pushed him—pushed him so roughly that he staggered slightly. She
tensed. His arm rose mechanically—his fist clinched tightly. “My god!” Even at
that distance, she heard his words clearly.
It wasn’t the reaction that she’d expected. Something was
terribly wrong. It took all her strength of will not to rush to him, but she’d
promised to wait until he needed her—and she didn’t think he did—not yet.
“My god!” He staggered forward again and bent over,
resting his hands against the broad side of the tall, pointed tombstone. “What
did they do?”
Victoria could stand it no longer. In seconds she’d
reached his side and placed her hand on his back. “Royce, what. . .”
And then she saw.
Engraved below the carving of the angel of death were the words Sacred to
the memory of our beloved daughter and sister who died violently and too soon
at the hands of traitors and infidels.
And
below that
1829-1864
The tragedy was complete.
The gentle Catherine had lost not only her life but her identity as well, and
Royce had lost her the second time—and forever.
Victoria’s eyes filled with
tears. “Oh, Royce,” she murmured. “Oh, my darling.”
A lone bird twittered
annoyingly from a low-hanging branch. From somewhere in the near vicinity came
the sound of rushing water. The mare pulling the surrey whinnied nervously.
Victoria felt an icy chill
of fear. She had done this terrible thing to the husband she loved—dared to
believe that she knew what would cure the pain she couldn’t fathom—boldly
intruded herself into his private hell—and now it had become hers. She had
opened old wounds which would now fester and even become putrid. And for what?
For what?
Royce’s bent body shuddered
once—and again—and then he straightened. “I didn’t kill her,” he said, his
voice strong and full of the old confidence. “But they did. Her own
flesh and blood destroyed who she was—punished her even in death for straying
from their archaic conventions, for following her heart—for being herself.” He
drew a deep breath. “I was avenging a ghost. Thank God—thank God, I didn’t
succeed!”
He turned to face Victoria.
“And thank you, my love.”
She stared at him
uncomprehendingly.
“The two of you were very
different, but you’d have been friends—good friends—I think. I hope she knows
about you. Whether or not I always deserved her efforts, they were directed
toward my happiness. And so are yours.”
“Then it’s all right?”
Victoria asked, her voice breaking.
“Yes. Oh, yes, my love,
it’s all right.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a thin gold ring.
“It was all I could afford when we married,” he said, cradling it in his palm
for Victoria to see. “I wasn’t sure why I brought it with me—until now.”
Stooping down, he worked
the ring into a crack at the base of the marker. “Now I’ve given her back her
identity—the only one she wanted. It wasn’t vengeance that she needed—it was
restoration.” With one more push, the ring disappeared into the stone, and
Royce stood up again. “Ah, Victoria—I am blessed.”
Reverently, she laid the
bouquet on the dead, brown grass that covered the grave and took her husband’s
arm, and together they walked away without looking back.
EPILOGUE
December 1, 18-
My dear Jarrod,
Royce asks me to extend his
thanks with mine for your efforts—and your good wishes. We returned from New
York two days ago with quiet spirits and a profound feeling of gratitude for
our individual pasts and our mutual present.
I have shared with him about Beth, and we both hope and
pray that you will embrace a second chance at happiness with Sarah. Though you
have not mentioned her in your letters, your sister—as you might guess—keeps me
informed about every detail of her brothers’ lives—though perhaps not so much
about her own. Is there anything I should know?
Victoria paused and laughed softly. Audra loved being the
Belle of Stockton, but she was maturing into a lovely young woman who would
become, in time, a wonderful wife and mother.
We shall certainly be at the ranch for Christmas. Royce
looks forward to his first real Christmas since before the war, and I am
anxious to have all of my children around me once again.
I know that Nick still disapproves of my remarriage, but
I’d hoped that time would mellow his feelings. Perhaps it hasn’t been enough
time. Perhaps the Christmas season may foster “peace and goodwill” in his
large, stubborn, loving heart.
Once again, Jarrod, I want to thank you for your
consistent support—not just in this instance but in everything since your
father died, and you found yourself thrust into a position as head of the
family which you did not covet and for which you felt you were unready. But you
have filled it magnificently, my darling.
You—my firstborn—have never disappointed me, have always
made me proud. You have endured so much undeserved pain and sorrow in your
life, and yet it has made you strong. The words “my son” take on a life of
their own whenever I speak of you.
With much, much love,
Mother
* * * * * * * *
“Mother and Royce
are coming home for Christmas,” Jarrod Barkley announced at dinner that night.
He let his glance fall briefly on each of his siblings—and a little longer on
Nick. “Home. You all know what that word encompasses, don’t you? Acceptance.
Loyalty. Love. Do I need to remind you that we were taught all those things
from our cradles?”
Later, Nick caught Jarrod at the front door. “Where’re you
goin’ so late, Pappy?”
Jarrod smiled and patted his pocket. “I have a delivery to
make in town.”
“To whom, brother Nick, and it’s none of your
business.”
“Well, pardon me!” Nick turned and stomped off
toward the library.
Outside, Jarrod drew a velvet jeweler’s box from his
pocket and flipped it open. The tasteful—albeit very expensive—diamond sparkled
in the moonlight.
Looking upward, he smiled. “Thank you, lovely lady, for
once again giving me the courage to get on with my life—by getting on with
yours.”