The Dark Heart

Copper rays extended beyond the reach of the open window pane, weaving their way passed the swaying emerald curtains and across the hardwood floor. Catherine sat on the edge of her neatly made bed, her arms crossed tightly against her cotton clad bosom. Her dark irises were fixated upon the cherry wood planks that rested beneath her bare feet, and her creamy blonde locks, long and wavy, spilled messily over her slumped shoulders. Her eyes were glossed over and weary, evidence of a sleepless night etched onto her face. At thirty-three, she still retained her youthfulness. Her petite, rounded nose, perfectly arched brow, and flawless, porcelain skin had turned more than a few heads in her day, but there was only one man who occupied her thoughts.
“Madame?” her servant woman called from the hallway, following up her query with a subtle knock.
Catherine’s head snapped up, and she found her voice. “Come in,” she beckoned.
The door flung open and in came two women, an older woman in her mid-sixties, named Martha, and the other a thirteen year old girl named Abigail.
“Good morning, Madame,” Martha said, passing through the steady stream of light and over to the trunk that sat in the corner of the room. She began to wade through Catherine’s fine silk dresses, searching for the perfect one.
“Madame, may I brush you hair?” Abigail, asked, shyly, from where she stood, perched beside Catherine’s dressing table.
Catherine forced a smile and found her footing, her fingers lightly grazing the edge of her quilt as she stood. She began towards the girl, the hem of her nightgown teasing her ankles as she walked. She sat down in front of her neatly polished mirror, taking in her appearance, the last time she’d seen it being the previous morn...

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...nd young Joseph bombarded him with hugs, and Samuel patted his father on the back. Catherine, though, just couldn’t seem to find the strength to move. She just stood there, glued in the parlor entryway, her eyes locked on him.
“Catherine,” he finally said, and he noticed the tears that began to well in her eyes. “Samuel, take your brother and sisters to the dining table,” he commanded.
In the absence of their children, he stepped forward, locking his arms around her waist. “Do not fret, my love. Everything is fine.”
Hot tears began to pour from her eyes. “Oh, Thomas,” she cried, burying her head into his neatly pressed uniform. He held her tighter, and kissed the top of her head. The man they called a monster, the one with the dark heart, was embracing her, refusing to let her go. Thomas Colton wasn’t a monster; he was merely a man, the only man she’d ever loved.