Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  “Is that your opinion or Mr. Barnes’s?” the judge asked.

  “It’s all mine, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Eh, I believe you mean overruled,” Grant said.

  The judge narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “Whatever I mean, the witness must answer the question.”

  Grant turned back to Lockwood and repeated the question for the third time.

  Lockwood pulled out his watch and flipped the case open with his thumb. Another delaying tactic. Like father, like daughter.

  Grant frowned. “Are we keeping you from an appointment, Mr. Lockwood?”

  Lockwood snapped the case shut and returned the watch to his vest pocket. “Not at all. I just noticed that the clock on the wall is fifteen minutes slow.”

  Judge Lynch frowned. “What’s about to blow?”

  “He said the clock was slow,” Grant explained.

  The judge glanced at his hourglasses and motioned Grant to continue.

  Lockwood cleared his throat. “I didn’t want that scalawag anywhere near my daughter.” He quickly added in a more subdued voice, “But of course, it was my daughter’s choice, and I had to respect her wishes.”

  “Like you respected her wishes not to go through with this lawsuit,” Grant said beneath his breath.

  “Speak up, I can’t hear you,” the judge said.

  Grant stepped back. “I have no further questions.” He waited for Lockwood to vacate the seat before calling his next witness.

  “I call to the stand Miss Meg Lockwood.”

  *

  A hushed silence filled the courtroom as all spectators watched Miss Lockwood take the stand.

  Never had Grant dreaded questioning a witness more. He had to be tough with her. His oath of office required it. His duty toward his client demanded it.

  Meg laid her hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth. Head held high, she spoke in a strong, clear voice. If he hadn’t noticed the slight tremble of her lower lip, Grant would never have guessed the lady was nervous.

  She took the witness stand, and he stood directly in front of her, blocking her view of her father. Holding herself rigid, she looked ready to fight him, and their gazes clashed.

  Grant needed her to drop her guard, so he tried to look friendly, relaxed. “Could you please tell the court how long you and Mr. Farrell have known each other?” he asked in a conversational tone.

  “I’ve known him almost all my life.” She glanced at the defense table. “We grew up together.”

  “Can we also assume the two of you were good friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in all that time, did you ever have occasion to doubt his word?”

  “No. Never.”

  Grant paused. Witnesses often filled in silences with additional information, much to their detriment, but when Miss Lockwood failed to accommodate him, he continued, “So when he indicated he wanted to marry you, there was no reason for you to doubt his sincerity.”

  “No, none.”

  He dropped his casual tone and got down to business. “Miss Lockwood, is it true that you were against this lawsuit from the beginning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you please speak up,” the judge said.

  “Yes.”

  “If Mr. Farrell reneged on his promise to marry you—”

  “You know he did.”

  Something flared in her eyes, and Grant stepped back. “If the defendant broke his promise to wed, why were you against this lawsuit?”

  “I—” She glanced at her father. “I just wanted to forget the whole thing.”

  “Forget the whole thing?” Grant let her statement hang for a moment. “Are you saying that you wanted to forget you ever wanted to marry Mr. Farrell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean you forgive him for leaving you at the altar?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Is it also safe to assume that you were anxious to get on with your life?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved closer, so close he caught a whiff of her lavender perfume. It suddenly became necessary and indeed crucial to toughen his stance.

  “Excuse me for saying this, Miss Lockwood. That hardly seems like the sentiments of a heartbroken bride.”

  She stared at him with bold regard, earning his begrudging admiration. “How would you know, Mr. Garrison?”

  The judge’s gavel hit the bench. “Will the witness please refrain from making unsolicited remarks?”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” she said.

  Grant leaned forward. “Hold on, I’m almost done,” he whispered. Pulling back, he lifted his voice. “Did you love him?”

  She blinked. “I—”

  Barnes rose and made a god-awful sound—something between a foghorn and a wounded bear.

  “I take it you are objecting,” the judge said.

  Barnes nodded and popped another hard candy into his mouth.

  Grant addressed his comments to the judge. “If we don’t know Miss Lockwood’s true feelings, how can we determine if the charges against my client have merit?”

  “Overruled.” The judge turned to the witness. “Answer the question.”

  Meg bit her lower lip, and the look on her face felt like a knife to Grant’s heart. He averted his gaze to gather his thoughts. Sometimes he hated his job.

  “I’ll repeat the question. Did you love Mr. Thomas Farrell?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I…loved him.”

  Grant narrowed his eyes. She sounded sincere enough, but why the hesitation? “Do you expect us to believe that, Miss Lockwood?”

  This time the judge objected on behalf of the plaintiff. “Badgering the witness.” He then added, “Sustained.”

  “I’ll restate the question.” Hands pressed together steeple-like, Grant tapped his chin. “You said you were heartbroken, Miss Lockwood. Could you tell the court exactly what that means?”

  Her gaze dropped to her lap, and her lush lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Ah, then allow me to assist you. Were you too heartbroken to, say, go shopping?”

  She lifted her gaze. “A woman can shop under almost any circumstance,” she said, giving him a triumphant look.

  “A simple yes or no will do, Miss Lockwood. Did you or did you not go shopping in San Antonio?”

  “Yes, I went shopping.” She turned to the judge. “To buy Christmas gifts for my family.”

  “What about dancing?” Grant asked quickly in an effort to minimize her last statement.

  The question was meant to get her off-balance. Instead, it had the disconcerting effect of making him remember how she’d looked twirling in the street, head thrown back in laughter. Another, more disturbing thought followed. He’d wanted to be her partner that day. To be the one who made her eyes shine. The one holding her in his arms…

  “Were you too heartbroken to dance?” he snapped in an effort to erase the memory.

  Judging by her look of dismay, his carefully planned strategy to disprove mental anguish was working. Still, it cost him plenty—a piece of his soul.

  The spectators stilled, and the room grew so quiet a fly could be heard buzzing in the window.

  Meg gave him a withering look, her eyes two turquoise pools of appeal. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You were spying on me.”

  “All’s fair in love and law as long as it’s legal,” he whispered back. Louder he said, “I’ll repeat the question. Isn’t it true that despite being heartbroken, you were seen dancing in the street?”

  Barnes jumped to his feet and made a gurgling sound.

  “I take it you are objecting,” the judge said with a roll of his eyes.

  Barnes gave a vigorous nod and reached for a glass of water.

  The judge continued. “Let me see if I have this straight. What Miss Lockwood does with her spare time has no bearing on the case. Is that your objection?”

&
nbsp; “I think it does,” Grant argued, not waiting for Barnes to agree or disagree with the judge’s assumption. “You claimed Miss Lockwood suffered emotional devastation. Her public celebrations seemed to show otherwise.”

  “Overruled.”

  Grant turned back to his witness, and his breath caught in his chest. Tears swam in her eyes, and she looked every bit as devastated as her lawyer had described. Grant didn’t want to feel sorry for her, but she was making it difficult for him not to.

  “I said no tears,” the judge declared with a bang of his gavel.

  Grant handed her a clean handkerchief and gave her a moment to compose herself. “Would you like me to repeat the question?”

  She shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She lifted her chin and flashed him a look of disdain. “I danced because I didn’t want anyone to know how much I hurt.”

  It wasn’t the answer he’d expected, and it sure in Hades wasn’t the answer he wanted. Now he had no choice but to repair the damage. “Dancing, laughing, and flirting?” Oh yes, she had definitely been flirting with her dance partner. “Is that how you soothe your hurt, Miss Lockwood?”

  Her mouth fell open, and he quickly switched tactics. He had made his point.

  “Isn’t it true that you told Mr. Farrell that you would rather die a spinster than marry him?”

  “I—”

  “Isn’t it also true that you thought Mr. Farrell leaving you at the altar was the best thing that ever happened to you?”

  “I never thought that.”

  He arched a dark brow. “Really, Miss Lockwood?”

  Her face suddenly seemed to crumble, and her eyes filled with horror. She then jumped to her feet and cried, “Papa!”

  Grant whirled about just in time to see Lockwood grab his chest and slip sideways. It was only fast action on Barnes’s part that kept Meg’s father from falling to the floor.

  Twenty

  Chaos followed Meg’s outcry. The judge banged his gavel and called a recess. Spectators jumped to their feet and crowded around her father like cows around a feeding trough, forcing Meg to elbow her way to his side.

  “Water, we need water.” Her cry brought the bailiff running with a glass in hand. Water sloshed over the rim and splashed to the floor.

  “Someone fetch the doctor,” Garrison ordered, his voice loud enough to be heard over the murmurings of the crowd.

  Tommy raised his hand. He looked shaken and pale as a winter moon. “I’ll go,” he said and raced to the back doors.

  Slipping her hand under her father’s neck, Meg lifted his head and raised the glass to his lips.

  He pushed the glass away. “No doctor—” he murmured.

  “Papa, please,” Meg pleaded. After handing the glass to Josie, she pressed her hand against his forehead. He didn’t feel hot or clammy. Not like last time. She moved her hand. He tried to say something, and she leaned closer.

  “What, Papa? Tell me again.”

  Instead of answering, he winked and then quickly closed his eyes.

  She drew back with a gasp. Papa was faking!

  She looked up. Fortunately, no one seemed to have detected anything amiss. Not even Mr. Garrison, who was deep in conversation with the judge, his back turned. That man didn’t miss much and would have probably noticed, had he been looking their way.

  Fortunately, although Sallie-May and her friends were standing a short distance away, they were whispering among themselves and probably hadn’t noticed either.

  Neither had Mama. She was too busy unbuttoning Papa’s collar and trying to make him comfortable.

  “Henry,” Mama said, shaking him gently, face etched with worry. “Talk to me.”

  Josie wrapped an arm around Mama. “The doctor will be here shortly.”

  Mama’s lips trembled. “Do…do you think he’ll be all right?”

  Mr. Garrison finished his conversation and turned. Meg met his gaze. “That’s up to Tommy’s lawyer,” she said.

  *

  By the time the doctor arrived, her father had “recovered,” though he still clutched at his chest and managed a hacking cough. No Shakespearean death scene was as dramatic as her father’s performance. Even Mama was fooled.

  Dr. Stybeck checked Papa’s pulse and thumped on his chest. “I told you to remain calm,” he scolded.

  Her father lifted his head from the floor to glare at opposing counsel. “Calm? How can I remain calm while my daughter is being hammered to death?”

  Barnes shook his head and croaked.

  “What did you say?” Papa asked.

  “I think he said you knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Meg replied.

  “You didn’t tell me it would be this hard.” Papa struggled to sit up. As if recalling he was on death’s doorstep, he clutched at his throat and made a gasping sound.

  Alarmed, Mama patted his back. “Now, Henry. You’re getting yourself all worked up again.”

  “And for good reason.” Cough, cough. Groan. Gasp.

  “Maybe you should take him home, Mama,” Meg said. Papa’s theatrics were bound to rouse suspicion sooner or later.

  Her father wagged his head from side to side. “I’m staying,” he said in a strained deathbed voice that would make any martyr proud.

  Barnes and the doctor lifted him off the floor and helped him to a chair, where he sat limp as a rag doll.

  The judge gave the bench several sound raps with his gavel. “In light of Mr. Lockwood’s health, I suggest we bring this hearing to a close as soon as possible.” He turned to Mr. Garrison. “Do you have any other witnesses?”

  Mr. Garrison rose and Meg held her breath. “Just one, Your Honor. My client. Tommy Farrell.”

  “And do you have any more questions of this witness?”

  Garrison locked her in his gaze. “No, Your Honor,” he said.

  Meg sagged in her chair. The worst was over.

  Tommy took the stand but didn’t really have much to say in his own defense. He did admit he’d felt pressured into marrying Meg by a town eager to put an end to the feud.

  After Barnes cross-examined him, Tommy was excused.

  Judge Lynch addressed both lawyers. “You may present your closing arguments. Court will then be in recess until after the first of the year.” He glared at her father. “I’ll announce my decision then.”

  Meg’s heart sank. Papa was well meaning, but she had a terrible feeling that he’d earned them no favors with the judge.

  Twenty-one

  On the day after Christmas, Meg sat in the parlor reading the morning newspaper.

  She had never paid any attention to the Miss Lonely Hearts column until Josie took it over. Now she read it religiously. It was the first thing she turned to each morning after breakfast. Today was no different.

  The letters were entertaining. Some were downright hilarious, others more serious and even sad. Still, why anyone would write a stranger for advice was a puzzle. Today the first letter read:

  Dear Miss Lonely Hearts,

  I am a twenty-year-old man with a respectable job and small savings. My problem is this: I’ve been in love with a certain girl for as long as I can remember, but she doesn’t even know I’m alive. How can I get her to notice me?

  The letter was signed The Invisible Man.

  She read Josie’s answer with great interest.

  Dear Invisible,

  The fairer sex has a disadvantage in affairs of the heart, as each woman must wait for the male to make the first move lest she be thought forward or brazen. It’s possible your maiden of choice is waiting for you to make your intentions known so that at long last she can reveal the true longings of her heart. So don’t keep the lady waiting. Present yourself at once on her doorstep with a bouquet of flowers in your hand and words of love flowing from your lips.

  Meg laughed at Josie’s answer. Who knew that Josie had a previously hidden flair for drama? It seemed that even calm, composed Josie wasn’t immune to Papa’s influence.

  Si
ghing, Meg tossed the newspaper aside. She certainly would notice a man standing on her doorstep, flowers or no flowers. Not that such a thing was likely to happen now that her name was mud. What man in his right mind would take a chance on a woman known to sue for promises not kept? Her father had made her every man’s nightmare.

  As she faced the harsh realities of a bleak, lonely future, Meg’s spirits sank even lower.

  The grandfather clock in the corner groaned, and the wall clocks sighed. Seconds later, the cacophony of alarms struck the hour of eight. Only today, bongs, gongs, cuckoos, and chimes weren’t what bombarded her ears. It was mocking laughter.

  Jilted bride, jilted bride, jilted bride…

  She covered her ears, and when that failed to bring relief, she ran around the room, turning each clock in such a way as to disrupt its delicate balance. She knocked against the Christmas tree, and a glass ball fell to the floor and shattered.

  Giving it no heed, she continued to dislodge pendulums, push birds into little wooden houses, and force minute hands to move until a strange and unaccustomed silence blanketed the wall.

  This abrupt silence brought her father racing down the stairs, watch in hand, suspenders flapping at his sides. He stopped when he reached the parlor and stared at the tilted clocks.

  Expecting him to scold her, Meg stood with arms crossed and waited. It wasn’t like her to be so defiant or out of sorts, but Papa and this dumb lawsuit had pushed her to the limit.

  Papa surprised her by not saying a word. Instead, he calmly walked from clock to clock. Like a doctor breathing life into his patients, he straightened wood casings, adjusted pendulums, and reset minute hands. Only after the last clock had been adjusted did he speak, his voice oddly quiet and controlled.

  “When we soldiers came back to town after the war, there were no bells to greet us,” he said. “They had all been melted for the war effort, even the church bells. Without bells, there was no way to announce the birth of a child or death of a loved one.” He stopped to straighten one last clock.

  “We had no way of calling people to worship, warning of a fire, or summoning a doctor. The citizens lived in total isolation, and I vowed to change all that. And so I melted down every piece of metal I could find, even watches. That’s how I made the bell that now hangs over the shop.”