Chapter 10
Grace had never been inside the courthouse before. She’d had no reason to before now. But she’d decided while tossing in her bed restlessly late last night it was time to do what she’d put off all year.
Her shoes clicked on the tiled floor as she crossed the high-ceilinged spacious room to the information desk. A short man with curly hair and a serious face stood behind the counter busily sorting papers and stamping them with an ink stamp. She noticed three high-society women in a close huddle over by the courtroom doors, whispering among themselves. When they saw her, they stopped speaking. Grace felt their attention rest heavily on her. She kept her eyes forward and walked up to the desk, then waited patiently for the man to finish his stamping and attend to her.
Tildie had given her the afternoon off, for, after seeing Monty walk into the shop yesterday, Grace couldn’t concentrate on her work, and her head pounded mercilessly from crying. She had lain awake all night weeping, holding Ben close for comfort, and when the first streaks of dawn tickled the room, she rose and washed to get ready to go to work, exhausted and shaky. Her reflection in the mirror showed red swollen eyes and a wan complexion. It took every ounce of effort to brush out and pin up her hair and get dressed. She had no strength or courage to face the day, but neither did she want to cause any alarm or incite more gossip. Staying home would mean suffering Charity’s probing questions, and she couldn’t foster the thought of dodging such an interrogation. So she left Ben in her care with a cheerful smile and rushed out into the cold morning, a thin layer of ice crunching under her shoes as she walked, her mind numb and her heart aching.
The whole morning, Tildie had eyed her suspiciously but only shared the usual pleasantries. Grace feared the woman had seen the way she reacted when Monty came into the shop. No doubt she had. But what would she have thought? It was all Grace could do to pretend all was well with her world, when in reality it was shattered in a million pieces. With her employer’s keen eye on her, she could not focus and declared her head was pounding. Tildie sent her off to City Drug to fetch some powders, even gave her a coin to cover the cost. Grace mumbled her thanks and hurried out, feeling as though she were fleeing a jail cell.
The man finally looked up and stared at her through thick spectacles. His eyes widened, and he got a bit flustered.
“Good day, miss. I’m the court clerk—name’s Alan Patterson. How might I assist you?”
He smiled warmly at her and waited as she composed her thoughts. How much should she tell him? She laid her purse on the counter and said, “Thank you. I hope you can help me, but I’m not all that sure how to go about getting the papers I need.”
His eyes urged her to continue. She noticed he seemed a bit nervous, or perhaps shy. She said, “I’d like to get a copy of my marriage certificate, which was recorded at the Bloomington Illinois courthouse on September 23, 1874.”
His glance darted to her left hand, no doubt looking for a ring, but with her hands gloved, he might not be able to tell she wasn’t wearing one. “I see,” he said meekly. “Well, yes, I believe I can help you with that.” He reached under the counter and fussed for a moment, then straightened and slid a piece of paper and a lead pencil over to her. “If you would kindly fill this out for me . . .” He gestured to the row of benches along the wall by the courtroom, indicating for her to sit there. “It may take some time to get the copy sent here, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Cunningham. Grace Cunningham.”
The man’s brows furrowed in thought. “Cunningham . . . that name sounds familiar.” He paused. “What does your husband do for work, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He’s . . .” Her throat choked up. How should she answer? Had this man not heard the gossip about her?
“I’m sorry, I can tell I’ve upset you,” he said in a sincere tone. “I had no right to inquire. You don’t have to answer that. It’s not necessary for the paperwork.” He nervously played with his hair, twirling it around his fingers.
Something about this man’s kindness loosened her throat. “Please, don’t feel bad.” She breathed in deeply, then released a long shaky breath. “On our way to Fort Collins last May, we were overtaken by a storm, and while attempting to cross the Poudre, my husband was swept away in the river. I . . . I’ve apparently lost him.” And so she had. The river hadn’t killed him, but it had surely taken him from her just as cruelly, for he was still as far from her now as if dead.
“I’m so sorry,” the clerk said. He added hesitantly, “May I ask, then, why you want a copy of your marriage certificate? For . . . sentimental reasons? If you don’t mind my asking.”
His sincere inquiry was another kindness. First Clare, now this man, Alan Patterson. How much she longed to pour out her soul to someone who would give credence to her story. But who in their right mind would believe her husband was living here in Fort Collins, married to another woman, and showed no indication he’d ever known her? Such a claim would only confirm the gossip that she was lying, fabricating fantastic stories to inspire charity and pity. Yet, keeping the truth bottled up was another agony she could hardly bear.
Monty had been her close companion and confidante, the one she could confide in no matter what the issue. He would listen to her with full attention, never disbelieving or belittling her. Oh, how she longed to talk to him and tell him everything she felt. What horrid fate had befallen her. Loneliness sought to swallow her up.
When her aunt Eloisa had lain dying of pneumonia and pleurisy, Grace feared for her own future, having no other family left in the world. Her parents and younger brother had died in 1860 from a cholera epidemic—when she was only six—leaving her in the comforting arms of her aunt. But in the fall of ’74, Monty had walked through the front door to the boardinghouse—three years after she’d last seen him, that day he left to explore the wilds of the West. He found her frightened, alone, and lonely—and wasted no time telling her how all those months he’d thought only of her, anxious to get back to Bloomington, so he could marry the woman who had captured his heart. The spark of hope—for her future—had nearly been extinguished, but Monty rekindled it anew, promising her a secure future filled with love.
She hardly remembered her parents now. It had been her deepest wish and prayer that she and Monty would be blessed with many children, and would both live to see them grow up and become fine, upstanding adults. And now . . .
She realized the man was politely awaiting her answer. She said, “It’s for my son. He’s just a baby, but I want him to know who his father . . . was. So that he will know he was not illegitimate but the result of a marital union.”
Alan nodded. “I’ll do what I can to help, Mrs. Cunningham.” He stopped short and cocked his head. “Cunningham. That name . . . Was your husband coming here for work?”
“Why, yes. He’d been offered a job with the land office. He . . . was a surveyor.”
“Ah,” Alan said. “That’s where I saw his name. On some paper. The assessor is quite short-staffed. And you came from Bloomington, to settle here?”
“Yes,” Grace said, suddenly feeling so weary she could hardly stand. “I suppose the assessor wondered why my husband never showed up . . .”
Alan must have noticed her face pale, for he hurried around the counter and took her elbow in a light, tentative grip. “Here, Mrs. Cunningham, come sit and fill out your paper. I’ll go get you a glass of water.” His eyes searched hers, perhaps watching to see if she might swoon.
“Thank you for your kindness,” she said, taking the paper and pencil from his hand.
She did her best to fill out the certificate request through tear-filled eyes. It felt as though it had been only yesterday when she and Monty had exchanged vows at her aunt’s bedside.
In the quiet of the room, she heard women’s voices just around the corner. They drifted to her ears, and she caught snatches of conversation. She stiffened and stopped writing.
“. . . has the gall to claim a married man is actually her husband! Sakes alive! Why, Charity told me . . .”
Grace gasped. Charity. Grace did not understand how such a devout religious woman could spread such gossip. Grace knew from the first morning of being in that house that Mrs. Franklin didn’t believe her story. But she never imagined she would tell others.
Another woman’s voice sounded excited. “. . . and showed up at Tildie’s shop just yesterday. Tildie is sure that he’s the one the poor girl imagines . . . must have suffered so from that fever . . . and her poor baby . . . should have put it up for adoption . . .”
“. . . quite improper for her to raise the child without a father . . . has she no shame . . . ?”
“ . . . says she is taking advantage of their kindness . . . a pretty sob story if you ask me . . .”
Grace’s heart sputtered with indignation, listening to these woman deride her. She pressed her eyes closed, then startled at a touch to her shoulder.
Her eyes flew open, and she turned her head. Mr. Patterson was holding out a glass filled with dark liquid for her to take.
“I found some sweet tea. I thought, well, maybe, that would be better than water . . .” He shrugged and awaited her response, reminding Grace a little of a dog wanting to be petted with approval. He was awfully nice, and Grace smiled for him.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a long refreshing sip. She finished filling out the paper, putting in the pertinent details of her former address, names and dates, and where the certificate should be mailed to. She was about to write in the Franklins’ address, but then frowned. How could she continue to live with them, with Charity? She knew now that she must find another place to live—and a new sitter for Ben. Oh, how would she manage that? She hardly made enough money to help pay for her food. She was tired of Charity’s gossip and disapproving stares. Tired of taking charity from others. Perhaps Clare could help her—on both counts.
She hated to ask Clare’s help, for she didn’t want to appear to be asking yet another person for help. But she had a feeling Clare wouldn’t see it the same way as these insensitive women. If they only knew the truth! How would they act then? Would it shame them at all?
She turned to Alan. “May I just have the certificate delivered here? I’m not altogether sure where I’ll be living in the near future. How long do these things usually take?”
Alan shrugged again, and Grace thought the gesture innocent and a bit adorable. He did seem bashful, and it was endearing. “I’d guess about a month, maybe less.”
“Well, I’m not in any hurry,” she told him. “How much do I need to pay?”
“Oh, nothing, no charge,” he hurried to say. Grace wondered if there was a charge and he was just being kind to her because of her circumstances.
“Thank you, Mr. Patterson—”
“Please.” He faltered. “Call me Alan.”
Grace nodded and stood, then handed him the empty glass. “I’m grateful for your help . . . Alan. I’ll check back with you in a few weeks.”
She made to turn around, but he cleared his throat. She looked inquisitively at him.
“If . . . if you need any assistance . . . with anything, Mrs. Cunningham, I . . . I, well, I’m here, Monday through Friday, all day. I know you work at the dress shop down the street . . .” His cheeks suddenly turned a bright shade of pink. “I don’t mean . . . I mean . . .” He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. “I walk past the shop every day, from my house. I’ve seen you there, through the window. You . . . um . . . make dresses?”
“Yes, I’m a seamstress.”
“Well . . .”
He seemed to be at a loss as to what to say next, so Grace politely thanked him again and said good-bye. As she walked to the front doors of the courthouse, she caught a glimpse of the three elegantly dressed women who had been speaking about her. They glowered at her as she passed them. Grace gulped down her ire and stared straight ahead. She supposed they worked in the building somewhere, although at what, Grace had no idea. If gossips were paid for their efforts, these women would have a thriving business venture.
Holding her head up as high as she could, she headed toward her home, fighting the urge to pack a bag and leave with Ben on the next stage out of town. But more than a lack of money prevented her from leaving. Monty’s presence was an anchor, an iron chain, fastening her to this town, and until she was certain there was no hope at all—hope that he’d remember her, for Ben’s sake, so he could know his father—she was stuck here in Fort Collins.