Writing this made me realize how much I have missed writing. It's been too long, my friends.

Notes:

1. 'The Penrose Backroom' is not abandoned. The grand finale is in progress!

2. History is my playground here. There are true, loose, and warped facts scattered throughout, including the published novels. If you want the known reality of Doc's life & this tale, I'm happy to share what I learned during my research.

3. But ultimately, shamelessly, this was born from Val Kilmer's handsome and roguish Doc Holliday, and his very talented hands. There might even be a touch of Iceman in here somewhere.

Memories of Summer

Part I: Martha Ann "Mattie" Holliday, Summer of 1868

Elegant auburn curls fall gracefully on pale shoulders, disturbed ever so gently the by occasional breeze. Bright green eyes take in word after word from the book in her hands. She's so pleased it's a lovely afternoon to read on the porch. The heat inside had just been too stifling and muggy, but the breeze that sweeps the porch in rolling waves is the perfect reprieve. It's the best place to retire for an afternoon of leisurely reading.

As a steady income family, her father saw it a point of pride that his eldest daughter was well-versed in the latest, tasteful, literature. That's probably why the presence of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina surprised her so. Her friends were all atwitter about the adulterous relationship, swearing off such an act regardless of the man, and Mattie couldn't agree more wholeheartedly. The motive seemed so foreign to her, she just has to read the novel to try to understand.

Admittedly, the porch is distracting. The occasional band of children giggle past chasing their hoops, while comfortably situated men trot past on horseback, tending to matters of home and business. Father Lewis' family even happens by in their wagon, heading into town.

"Miss Mattie! Hello!" The youngest, Ellen, has little concern for social niceties at such a tender age, but her mother isn't thrilled by the sudden outburst. Mattie doesn't return the call, but drops her book for a friendly wave. Ellen has always been her favorite on the priest's children.

She leans forward for her cup of tea, noting the dampness along her back. It's only early June but this week has been unseasonably hot. The tepid tea is refreshing against the breeze as she enjoys the cool slide down her throat.

With lazy movements, she settles back against the rocking chair and lifts her book. But before she resumes, she can't help but notice him coming down the street.

Cousin John Henry's arrival from Valdosta had been very sudden last week. Father had only formally said John Henry would be staying the summer to assist at the rail station. But Mattie had overheard more than that. One night, before announcing her presence in the parlor, she could overhear her parent's whispers. A violent scandal, they had said. It seemed impossible to believe, looking at him now – lean, smartly suited and smiling amicably at those he passed. Did he really have a capacity for such violence?

A bead of sweat runs down her neck, itching and soaking into the collar of her dress as she watches him open the gate to the front yard, crossing to the porch.

"A pleasant afternoon, to you, Cousin Mattie. You are a rare site on this particularly warm afternoon." She smiles, feeling an unbidden flush that has nothing to do with the heat rise in her cheeks.

"Why, whatever do you mean?" His answering smile is so endearing. Cousin John's always been a handsome one.

"You look as cool and serene as an azalea caught in the breeze up here on this porch. I feel refreshed from my walk, already."

"Always the charmer, John Henry. I pray you don't get too close or you'll shatter your delusions. Please, do sit for a spell. I'm afraid you'll find no relief from the heat in yonder."

"A generous offer, I'm honored. Thank you." His hat falls to his hands revealing his slightly dampened hair, the deep green of his eyes. She earmarks the page in her novel, laying it on the table in order to make polite conversation. He settles into the rocker next to her, the breeze merciful against their sweat-sticky skin. "Now, do tell, what an innocent soul like yours is doing by reading such an indecent novel."

"A sinful story, perhaps, but anything indecent is a product of your own mind."

"That may be, but what prompted your decision to read into such a world of sin?"

"How are we to know temptation if we cannot recognize it? What happened to that woman to cause her to fall so far from grace? I'll be honest—well, have you read it?"

"Indeed, I have." His answer is pleasantly surprising.

"Then, surely you know her actions are born of pure, selfish desire. Forsaking the wedding vows she made in the eyes of God, her place in society, her child; and all for the supposed love of a moral-less young man who allows her to live in sin with him. It goes against everything sensible." His mouth hardens into a tight line, his eyes all at once haunted and frustrated.

"Matters of the heart are seldom sensible, Mattie." She knows he's thinking of his father and step-mother. It was a crushing blow when Major Holliday remarried after only three months of mourning for Aunt Alice Jane.

"May I inquire after your father's health? Last I heard, there was rumor he was poorly." She tries to keep her voice pleasant, but there's an air of stiff formality she can't remove.

"You shouldn't waste your worry on him." John's voice is tight with coiled emotion. "Major continues to do as he will with little recourse to anything else."

"I trust you must know how he still cares for you. His only son and heir." She smiles meekly against his deepening frown. "That's not something he'll easily cast asunder."

"I envy your simplistic hope."

"No call to be unkind, cousin. If things seem bleak now, stay strong. The good lord rewards those who don't despair and remain true to him." A wry, even cynical edge curls his lips, his eyes softening with warm fondness.

"I had forgotten how strong you are in your faith. It's comforting to know you still hold true."

"It's only by holding true that strength remains." She tilts her head with a curious, hopeful air. "You should join us for mass on Sunday. Maybe it will lift your spirits."

"In my experience, protestant heathens are generally unwelcome in the Catholic houses."

"I still want you to know the invitation is open. I won't let those stodgy parishioners run off my dearest cousin." His face brightens with affection and something mischievous.

"I'm beginning to think you understand Anna Karenina more than you let on. You're willing to shun the whispers of fellow parishioners for the sake of your wayward cousin, all because you want to." She starts, feeling the blush rise higher on her cheeks at the near silky tone to his words. Was he purposefully trying to turn something innocent into something more…suggestive?

"Unlike Anna, my motive is born of the desire to help."

"I would contend that is still a selfish desire, for you will feel satisfied once you have completed the endeavor. So, in practice, you understand the concept?"

"I…yes, I suppose I do." He leans in over the arm of his rocker, his gaze smart and sure.

"Then, may I suggest tempering your desire to pass judgement too soon, darlin'. You might just be surprised." Her eyes widen, affronted by his implication. She wants to tell him he's wrong, to defend herself. But the truth in his eyes stills her tongue. He may be nineteen months younger than her 19 years of age but he seems significantly wiser in this moment.

It's the first of many moments with John Henry that will come to surprise her, but it's the moment she decides to make afternoon porch meetings a regular occurrence.

xxx

They fall into an easy rhythm. She's always waiting for him in the rocking chair, book in hand. And sure enough, she's always rewarded with his smile and rousing conversation.

"John Henry, I declare! That's an outrageous claim against Mr. Carroll."

"I ask you, does Alice's Adventures in Wonderland really not read like the crazed ramblings of a laudanum fiend?"

"I think it's marvelously creative."

"Respectfully, my dear, I think you're marvelously delirious."

"Respectfully, dear cousin, I think you're marvelously unimaginative."

Not two weeks later, he gifts her a small, hay-stuffed rabbit doll made of white canvas. Her words don't do the gratitude and affection in her heart justice. But in no time, she's made a vest for her rabbit and a small pocket-watch chain from an old necklace. She names him John.

"Personally, Mattie, I consider it a tragedy."

"Tragedy? A horror, more appropriately. That would be beyond terrifying to find myself suddenly living under the ocean with a deranged captain. I don't even understand how a ship, like the Nautilus, can even sail fully under the water, much less exist."

"Perhaps she's out there now. It's unclear if Captain Nemo survived at the end."

"You'll give me nightmares, John Henry, please. To think of all the underwater horrors and a man unhinged by grief at the helm of such a powerful vessel out there right now…it makes me shiver. No man should be allowed to live as such."

"Where's your Christian charity? I do wonder, what do you do with a life after you lose everything you have ever wanted?"

She's at the market the next day and purchases a sand dollar shell, thinking of him. She's embarrassed when she presents it to him – it's not directly related to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, but it reminded her of him. He ends her ramblings with a one simple gesture.

His hand encloses hers and neither draws back. Their shared gaze betrays words already known by the heart that neither knows how to voice.

xxx

The heat is stifling on this Sunday afternoon and her fan is doing little to cool her flushed skin. The open windows serve to let the paltry breeze ruffle the sheet music and do little to ease the heat.

But she can't bring herself to care about the sweat soaking her underarms while listening to John Henry play. The bass notes of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' are so soulful under his slender fingers. He's masterful at the classics and has several pieces locked away in his memory.

His posture is straight and rigid but his fingers dance so fluidly over the keys. It's almost hypnotic to watch. She nods her head in time to the lulling melody, eyeing the pearl of moisture that drips from his hairline down his neck to disappear under his shirt collar. His suit jacket has been a victim of the heat, but his shirt sleeves still fully cover his arms and every button on his waistcoat is done up properly.

She smiles as the sonata draws to a close and he segues into one of Chopin's nocturnes. They have always been his favorite, he once told her. The lyrical treble clef notes singing over the rhythmic broken chords of the bass clef had suited his temperament during his formative years and still held true today.

And there was no denying the graceful beauty with which he made the piano sing Chopin's song. She wondered if he was thinking of his mother, who had taught him to play. This nocturne was particularly melancholy and drew to a subdued close.

"Those were lovely. I could listen to you play all day." His smile is modest as he rises, straightening his waistcoat.

"Such a flatterer, my dear. I thank you. But I do believe, it is now your turn."

"How can I possibly hope to entertain after such a performance?"

"You always manage." He offers a hand, gently helping her rise from the settee. Her dress is heavy with perspiration, her corset sticky and itchy as she moves. But she folds her fan, considers offering it to him to use and steps over to the piano.

She can't possibly hope to compete with his moody Beethoven and flashy Chopin, so she reaches for the hymnal. The music is tried'n true, and her fingers move through it with practiced swiftness and easy grace. Unlike his pieces, hers carry a lighter tone of reassurance and peace. It always bring her such joy to play such tunes.

Several hymns pour forth before she settles easily into the opening bars of 'Amazing Grace'. It's by far'n away her favorite and one that she committed to memory many years ago. The melody pours forth from within, her faith singing in every note, every phrase. Distantly, she registers shuffling movements behind her, casting a quick glance up to see him walking to the window, the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. Concern stills her fingers over the keys.

"John Henry…? Please, are you well?" He stands stock still, his jaw clenched tight. His lack of response is worrying enough that she rises and walks over to him. He's lost to some internal struggle that plays in his eyes when his hand falls away. It makes her willing to do anything to keep that look from ever returning to his face.

"Forgive me. Your playing was lovely. I just…just haven't heard that hymn…." He stops, forcing a hard swallow as his eyes blink in quick succession. And suddenly she remembers Aunt Alice Jane's funeral.

"Oh, please – I'm sorry, I didn't think. I didn't mean to."

"Please, Mattie." His voice is a broken plea, his eyes raw with loss. "There's nothing to forgive." She doubts him but manages a weak smile in response.

She can't say why she does it. She just steps forward, wrapping her arms around him. She holds him to her, wishing him healing and saying silent prayers. His shirt and waistcoat are damp to the touch, but it's of little concern. Her heart warms to feel him return her hold, pulling her in tight against him. She wants him to know she's there for him, for the young man who misses his mother.

Her fingers rise to stroke the damp hair on the nape of his neck, just letting him hold her close. So close, it would surely create a scene should Mother or Father enter. But not even the threat of discovery is enough to make her draw away from him now. Her cheek presses against his, smiling and resisting the urge to giggle as his breath tickles her ear. It strikes her how close this is to a lover's embrace and she holds him tighter.

"Miss Mattie! That piano music better start up or I'm'a send for your mamma!" With wide eyes, startled by Ol' Nanna's call, they separate, afraid she'll actually push the parlor door fully open.

"Yes, Ol' Nanna. John Henry was just searching for a piece of music." She means the response to be reassuring, and she hopes she was convincing enough.

Neither dares to speak but he steps back, adjusting his sticky waistcoat. His eyes are sad and resigned when they meet hers. But without a word, he turns for the piano, his movements stiff and forced. She'd much rather still have him in her arms. The look on his face tells her he wants the same.

He starts another of Chopin's nocturnes, something slow and woeful. She settles back on the settee, raising her fan and hopes the music brings him some measure of peace.

xxx

She devoured The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. And what an adventure it was! Such a lovely tale of children doing what children do best. As a recommendation from him, it only endeared him further to her. But this afternoon would be fun. Now that she finally finished the novel, they could speak plainly about everything he'd been trying to tiptoe around for the past few days.

It's cloudy today, and the air is heavy with moisture. Ol' Nanna's been swearing by the ache in her bones that a wicked storm is brewing. Mattie hopes it's not true, but Ol' Nanna is seldom wrong. At the very least, she hopes it holds off long enough for her and John Henry to have their afternoon chat. She pulls the front door open, her smile unguarded as she recalls the exciting details of the final chapters – the cave chase, the discovery of gold. It reads like every boy's dream. She wonders at John Henry's dreams and reminds herself to ask.

But her smile falters at the prim form of her mother already seated in a rocking chair.

"Welcome, Mattie, dear. I was starting to wonder if Ol' Nanna's omens about the clouds would keep you and John Henry apart this afternoon."

"That's a bit much, mother. I don't doubt Ol' Nanna's right – she always is – but so long as we've a roof over our heads, I see no reason to alter our plans." Mother sighs, a pitying, worrying sound.

"The neighbors are all whispering. About you and John Henry. They see y'all out here every afternoon, laughin' and carryin' on. Father Lewis' wife has also been expressing concerns of inappropriate conduct regarding your association with the young man who doesn't attend mass."

"I've invited him to attend on several occasions. I've no intentions to press him if he's not of a mind to attend, and neither should you."

"That's for your uncle to address, dear. But it is my responsibility to ensure that you have your priorities in line, and frankly, these afternoons with John Henry are only hurting your stature. It's been a good while since a young gentleman came callin' on you. But Elliot Monroe has approached your father after mass on multiple occasions."

"Yes, I have spoken with Mr. Monroe myself on the matter." The brawny and brash young man enjoyed flashing his family's wealth around too much for Mattie's liking. She hadn't rebuked Mr. Monroe in full, but she was not receptive to his initial advances. It irked her when he'd just laughed her off and promised he'd win her over eventually. It was nearly as irksome as the proud smile on her mother's face right now.

"Well, now, that's exactly why Mr. Monroe is going to come calling on you tomorrow afternoon. It will do you good to get away from this porch and be seen with someone more befitting your status. You needn't spend all your time with John Henry – a nice young man, though he is, and it is heartwarming to see two cousins gettin' on so – but you need to be more concerned with settling your place in society. Marrying a suitable young man and starting a family."

Startling images of John Henry leap to her mind.

At the front of a church as she wears a white dress. Over her in bed with endless kisses. Teaching an auburn haired, green-eyed child to play piano.

Her heart clinches at the realization.

She wants her afternoons talking over novels, her afternoons of music. She wants…John Henry.

The thought is frightening. She doesn't even know how it happened. How had she fallen in love with him? Their time together was spent so innocently – she hadn't even been thinking of courting him. But it happened. Love – real, honest, exciting love found her. But with a man the church expressly forbid. A protestant and her first cousin.

Her chest is so tight, she nearly struggles to breathe. Her mother is staring at her expectantly. Perhaps she recognizes the torrent of realization crashing down around her daughter. Or maybe, she's just waiting for a response.

"Yes, you're right, I…. Very well." Mattie's voice is a mere shade of what it was. Gone is the blissfully ignorant happiness, replaced by stark reality. "I'll receive Mr. Monroe tomorrow afternoon. Thank you." Even in the wake of her uncertainty, her southern graces are unfailing.

"You should thank Mr. Monroe, dear. Without his steady patience, you wouldn't be fortunate to have the opportunity." She nods mutely, unsure what else to say. It is so much to understand all at once.

I love John Henry Holliday.

The rocking chair squeaks as her mother rises with a satisfied air, sniffing the air in disgust.

"It's getting damper out here. Do be careful not to catch a chill. It wouldn't do to make the young Mr. Monroe fall ill." The door closes behind her mother, leaving her alone to her realization.

A low rumble of thunder doesn't keep the peace for long and it's quickly followed by another.

She abandons the porch, returning to the house and retreating to her room. Only a few tears are shed before she falls into prayer. She asks for wisdom, for forgiveness, for strength.

Hours pass and silence reigns.

She begs off dinner with a headache and falls asleep, resigned to her new course of action.

They never do discuss the adventures of precocious Tom and scrappy Huckleberry.

xxx

The piano is silent over the next few weeks. The porch rockers are untouched.

Mr. Monroe comes calling four times and her parents couldn't be more pleased.

She still smiles and she still laughs. For all the world, she tries to appear as unchanged as any day. But John Henry's eyes always cut right through her.

She's refused to be alone with him under any circumstances, so they have not spoken more than a few pleasantries to each other. If the rest of the family notices, they maintain proper decorum by not speaking of it. His tone is always civil, but his eyes are angry, hurt, judging. She hates how they make her feel. It smacks of cowardice, but more than that she understands feeding her budding feelings will only lead to more heartache.

As if the constant tightness in her chest isn't enough these days, but there is no outcome for any sort of future she could hope to have with him. If her feelings are even mutual. Somehow that thought is more painful than not being around him, even though he's so close.

The chicken, though deliciously cooked, is not agreeing with her tonight. Her father's on his pedestal about the Yankees in town and John Henry is seated directly across from her. She can't escape his gaze even though she pointedly does not look at him. She reaches for her wine, hoping it will help. The lack of relief is disappointing. She can only hope she's eaten enough to be excused.

"—And the lazy mayor won't lift a finger to stop it. Mark my words, this town'll go the way of the devil if the Yankees have their way."

"Lord, protect us." Mother crosses herself in a swift prayer.

"Please, pardon me –I don't meant to interrupt. I'm afraid I'm feeling poorly this evening and should like to retire early." Mattie offers an apologetic smile to both her parents.

"Heavens, Mattie, I'm worried to hear, child. May I bring you some tea? Or soup?" Mother looks to rise, to start gathering a tray, but Mattie stills her with a shake of her head.

"No, thank you, mother. Rest is all I need." Rest and escape from the young man across the table who can't stop staring at her with such concern in his eyes. "I expect I'll feel fit as a fiddle in the morning."

"Very well," Father's only mildly interested, "remember your prayers." He looks abruptly to the other side of the table as she rises. "John Henry, do tell us of the Yankees in Valdosta."

She tries not to listen to his voice as she moves from the room, pulling the door closed behind her. It only serves as a continual reminder how much she misses him. The hallway is only lit with a single lamp but the moon is brilliant out tonight and the curtains have been left open.

The moon shining on the veneer of piano catches her eye in the parlor. It's been so long since she played. She offered to play for Elliot last week, but he had no interest. If she marries him, would he even let her have a piano?

Absently, she strolls into the parlor, closing the door behind her. The family won't find her in here at this hour. She runs her fingers along the cool wood as the memories of warm Sunday afternoons and music and a tender embrace overwhelm her. The accompanying shame is something she's learned over the last few weeks. It's a suitable punishment for such sinful thoughts.

She abandons the piano, dropping to her knees in front of the window bench, folding her hands and bowing her head. She prays for merciful forgiveness and peace from her turmoil. She doesn't know how much time passes but the soft click of the door handle nearly stops her heart. Her silent words are forgotten as she turns, afraid of being caught. Her stomach drops to see him standing there with an equally surprised look on his face.

"I…I was just leaving." She stammers the words out, blood pounding in her ears with the need to retreat.

"I'd appreciate it greatly if you didn't lie to me, Mattie." His words have every right to carry the anger he conceals in his eyes, but his words are achingly despondent. The more she stares at him in the moonlight, the more she supposes he deserves to hear the truth.

"You're right. Please accept my apology – I'm sorry." Her hands fall to her lap from where she kneels on the floor, her head dropping. "I am sorry for so much." His footsteps are soft against the heavy carpet, and he knows where to step to avoid the creaky floorboards.

"What's happened, Mattie?" She feels him come to stand beside her, not kneeling or reaching out to her. "Why are you here?" She breathes a deep breath, looking up to meet his downward gaze.

"I realized I was….that we were spending too much time together. You're only going to leave in three weeks and I didn't…" The words just aren't there for her to continue. She won't lie to him, but she doesn't trust herself to voice the truth.

"Please, darlin'," he coaxes gently, sidestepping her form to sit on the window bench, "you don't need to stay kneeling." He extends a slender hand and she easily accepts it, rising to sit next to him. It's the closest they've been in as many weeks and her body warms at the contact of his hand. His thumb sweeps in light gentle strokes over her knuckles. She can't help but smile at the flutter it stirs in her heart. "Please, won't you tell me?" His voice is a low rumble that turn her bones to honey. "I miss you more than I've missed anyone." Tears threaten her composure and she focuses on their conjoined hands to distract her.

"I know. Please, believe me, I know how you feel. It is with me every day. And I wish….dear lord, how I wish…." She turns her gaze from their hands up to the windows behind them, her eyes closing in a brief, desperate plea. The moon is shining brightly though the panes with the occasional star visible around its luminous glow. "Have you read the nursery rhymes? 'Starlight, star bright; first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might; have this wish I make tonight'." The rest of her words form a silent prayer around her closed-lip smile.

I wish we could be together – if we weren't cousins, if the church allowed it – always and forever.

"You didn't finish." The warm amusement on his voice harkens back to the forgotten afternoons on the breezy porch.

"No, I…I just don't want to spoil it." She can't help but tease in response. It comes so naturally and easily around him.

"You sprite, taunting me like this." He seems impossibly close, the moonlight alight in his green eyes. "If it were my wish, I'd share it with you. I don't want any secrets, ever again."

She can't bring herself to say anything. Somehow, words don't seem appropriate. Her heart is pounding so loudly, she wonders if he can hear it. Slowly, torturously, they share a breath and another, the intimacy of it so shocking and perfect.

He's so close now, his breath, the scent of whiskey caramel on her cheek and the first press of his lips is unsure, clumsy. It makes her heart full to bursting. The second touch is longer, more fulfilling. She presses back, every nerve-ending alight in recognition of him. The glide of his lips on hers is decadent and heady, and it's all too easy for her lips to part, to taste his tongue on hers. A moan wrenches from deep within her as primal heat sparks in her core. She never imagined it would feel like this.

His hold shifts until they slot together, her chest firmly against his waistcoat and wool jacket. The answering groan that rumbles his chest sets off an ache that makes her press closer into him. She's so desperate for more, to chase these feelings with him.

It's only when she realizes she can't breathe that they part their lips, gasping for air as if drowning. It's an exhilarating feeling to have every part of her calling out for this man. It frightens her how much she wants to give herself to him, in spite of everything moral and religious she was raised to believe. And perhaps, if his kisses returned, she could lose herself and draw him down to let nature run its course.

"Oh, John…," she breathes the words at length, "what were we about to do?" Was he as willing to succumb as she? The answer is in the smile on his face, the light in his eyes.

"Love each other." He makes it sound so simple.

"I already do – I love you." Her confession lifts a weight from her shoulders. Denying the truth for so long has only made them both miserable. Why should they suffer so? Surely if God was against such a relationship, he wouldn't have given her these feelings for John.

"Oh, Mattie…," his smile widens out, the heaviness of the last weeks vanishing, "that's all I've wanted to hear you say. I loved you in that first afternoon – you were so perfect sitting there. I want to come home to that site every day for the rest of my life." The thought wells tears in her eyes. It fits with everything she wants – a life with him, forever. She lets herself fall into his embrace, each just holding the other. In this moment, the world is theirs to conquer. But just outside the parlor doors lies everything to tear them apart.

"What do we do now?" She has to ask, her voice soft against his jacket. He never answers her, but as his fingers stroke through her curls and she listens to the steady beat of his heart, the drowsier she becomes and the less she worries.

xxx

When she finally lays down to sleep that night, she dreams of him. Feverish and full of want, the images stay with her long after she wakes midmorning. She knows she should be ashamed and disgusted, but she can't stop wondering at the touch of his fingers, his mouth trailing the curves of her breasts, the slide of his body inside her. Last night's kiss had brought such relief after denying herself his closeness. And yes, she was far from satisfied, but her thirst has been tempered.

Part of her can't help but wonder if God sent him to her on purpose, her own personal angel of mercy and serpent of temptation in one.

Her breakfast tray came and went as all the while she mulls over what the day would yield. Neither one could go to her parents and ask for a blessing or permission. Could they elope far enough away under assumed names where no one would know their blood relation? Could she honestly let herself live that lie to God and her follow man? None of the options were uplifting, and none compared to how she felt with him, in his arms.

Whatever the outcome, she knows it won't be solved this morning in her bedroom. With a final sip of tea after Ol' Nanna's departure, she descends the stairs for the parlor.

It's simply been too long. She lifts the lid and the ivory keys greet her like old friends. At first, her fingers stumble over a few errant notes in her scales. But before long they remember and familiar hymns pour forth. She even starts on one of his Chopin nocturnes. She can't help but smile, recalling the last time she played it and the proud approval on his face.

"How dare you, child?" The voice is low, tight with anger and utterly disapproving over the piano notes. Mattie's hands fall from the keys, turning in surprise to see Mother, stern and imposing, at her side.

"How dare I? I'm afraid I don't—." The sharp slap across her cheek stops her words with a shocked gasp.

"That's the second time you've lied to me since dinner yester evenin', and God only knows what other sins you committed in between." Mattie's eyes widen to saucers as cold shivers race down her spine.

"Lies? No, I…I left the dining room. I came in here to my say my prayers."

"Blasphemy, child. Covering up your sins with John Henry by making false claims of spiritual devotion…I know you were raised better than that." Mother's face turns sad, heartbroken. "Of all my children, I was so sure you were the strongest, the most pious. If I had known it would take your younger cousin from Valdosta to send you down the path of a harlot, I would have refused him in my home."

"Mother, please." She's desperate to explain.

"No, Martha Ann. I saw your empty beds last night. I'm not blind – young love is easy to recognize but you can't let yourself be swept away by it. It will forever ruin your life. You may have already done irreparable damage to your soul, but I won't let you bring scandal upon this house."

"How else can I plainly say it?" She looks pleadingly to Mother, trying to figure how to reach her. "There's no scandal."

"Your lies are only compounding your sin. Do you deny that you were out of bed late?"

"No." She dreads the next question.

"Do you deny that you were with John Henry, unchaperoned, at that late hour?"

"No." The look of utter dejection on her mother's face silences after further protests. All at once, she knows there's nothing she can say to redeem herself. Her mother's already condemned her and somehow, the condemnation isn't a complete surprise. What else could she expect in response to tasting forbidden fruit?

"Arrangements have already been made. Mrs. Lewis will see you safely relocated to support charity efforts for the unfortunate victims of the war. A noble charge for a young, saintly woman. No one need know of your late night indiscretion." Mother takes a step closer, her eyes narrowing. "And God help you should your belly swell with evidence of your sin." She can't stop the tears that roll down her cheeks.

Being sent to live in the country is the ultimate dismissal. She knows her mother will never receive or embrace her properly again. Everyone will whisper as to the real reason for her departure. Young women are only removed from family homes before marriage to hide indiscretions, regardless of the formally and publicly stated reasons. Even her word of innocence isn't enough to save her. Maybe that's why it stings so. But that's not the worst of it – this is the ultimate end for her love that yearns to have John Henry always in her life.

"Mrs. Lewis will be here presently," Mother steps away, moving for the door as a dismissal. "Pack modestly. And remember, if you show true Christian charity, the Almighty Father may see to your forgiveness. Now, I expect you up those stairs after I leave."

It's with numb detachment that her feet carry her from the parlor upstairs to gather belongings.

She wonders as she sniffles through silent tears if it's better this way. Maybe this is her path to salvation and atonement. But the ache that takes root in her chest tells her it won't be that easy.

She leaves in the Lewis' carriage without another word to her family.

Four months later, she summons the courage to write him at his father's house in Valdosta when she knows he's back at school. She tells him of her plans as Sister Mary Melanie at the Sisters of Mercy Convent.

She doesn't see the lone tear stain his cheek, nor feel the heat from the fire that turns her written words to ash. But she understands the heartbreak that consumes him.

Stay tuned for Part II: Grace Willis, Summer of 1880. Unfortunately, it may be a short wait. But I am excited to finish!