The Measure of a Lady

by Deeanne Gist

  She searched the room for Lissa and found her across the room laughing at the antics of a would-be sheriff as he whirled the girl about the parlor floor. Lissa’s flushed face radiated with pleasure and delight.

  Rachel endured two more waltzes and a mazurka before managing to break away with an excuse of exhaustion. Heading to the beverage table, she passed a knot of men making fools over themselves in front of the new girl.

  Her unladylike high-pitched trilling laugh chafed Rachel’s ears. She glanced over at her and ground to a halt.

  It couldn’t be. Oh, surely not. Lord, please, let it not be so.

  But it was. There was no mistaking it. The ‘‘sister from the East’’ was none other than Michael Van Buren, having a grand laugh at the expense of every man in the room.

  The memory of his being introduced by a bevy of fallen women, Lissa at his side, made her stomach roll. How in all that was holy had the two of them made the acquaintance of these women?

  Michael’s glance touched her for the briefest of moments before ricocheting back. His eyes widened, face paled.

  A hand touched her elbow.

  ‘‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.’’

  Rachel turned to the sultry voice and confronted a handsome woman dressed like Queen Elizabeth, complete with a high Elizabethan collar and a cinched bodice, less the chemise. The superfluous overflow of her décolletage so overpowered all else that Rachel could not but gawk. It was then that she noticed the soft white cuddly poodle the woman clutched to her bosom.

  With long fingernails, the woman scratched the dog between its ears. ‘‘I am the countess. And you are?’’

  Rachel snapped her attention to the owner’s face. ‘‘I am the elder sister of Lissa and Michael Van Buren, and I want to know what they are doing here.’’

  The countess made a brief motion with her hand, as if she were indeed a queen summoning a servant. ‘‘This is an invitation-only affair. I must confess, I don’t recall extending one to you.’’

  The sultan appeared at the woman’s right hand, a scowl on his face.

  ‘‘I don’t care whether you are a countess, a queen, or the first lady of our esteemed president,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘I’m taking my sister and brother out of this house. Now.’’

  The woman’s smile bespoke of smug satisfaction. ‘‘Oh, I hate to disappoint you, kitten, but I believe that you are in no position to make demands of any kind.’’ She turned to the sultan and in the mildest of voices said, ‘‘Get rid of her.’’

  ‘‘Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’’ Johnnie, dressed in a plaid tartan, white shirt, red vest, and black tie, stepped between Rachel and the sultan. If looks could kill, she’d be with the Lord at this very moment.

  Grasping her elbow, Johnnie turned his attention to the countess. ‘‘I see you have met my companion. I do apologize for not introducing you earlier, but the men, of course, have kept her on the dance floor all evening.’’

  The countess gave Johnnie a long, penetrating look. ‘‘I believe she looks a bit peaked. Perhaps she needs to go home.’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  Hoisting up her poodle, she moved around the two of them, motioning for the sultan to follow.

  Johnnie propelled Rachel toward the door.

  She wrenched her elbow from his grasp. ‘‘I have to get Michael and Lissa first.’’

  He made to grab her again. She jumped out of reach and into the Viking behind her. The man, all too happy to accommodate her, wrapped his arms about her waist, pulling her flush against him.

  Rachel gasped and stomped on his boot.

  Johnnie bodily removed the man’s hands from her waist. ‘‘She’s mine,’’ he growled.

  The Viking puffed out his chest. ‘‘Says who?’’

  Rachel stepped close to Johnnie. ‘‘Says I.’’ She kept her voice soft and unthreatening.

  Johnnie rested a possessive hand at the small of her back.

  The Viking looked between the two of them, huffed, and strode away.

  The music shifted to a waltz. Keeping his hand at her back, Johnnie moved her onto the parlor floor. ‘‘What the devil’s the matter with you? And what the blue blazes were you thinking to come over here?’’ He pulled her into waltz position. ‘‘And dressed in that, that . . . where did you get that?’’

  He glided her across the room keeping perfect rhythm to the one-two-three beat.

  ‘‘I came to retrieve my siblings,’’ she said. ‘‘What did you come here for?’’

  He negotiated their way around the other dancers. ‘‘Well, it certainly wasn’t to look after you.’’

  Before she had a chance to relieve him of any misplaced responsibility, they stopped where Michael was holding court.

  He took one look at her, excused himself from his adoring fans, and moved to where she and Johnnie stood. ‘‘Rachel, I—’’

  ‘‘We’ll discuss it at home. Go. Now.’’

  Grabbing both her hands in his, he took on an affected expression. ‘‘Oh, come on, Rache. I was just having some fun with the fellas.

  I’m not hurting anybody.’’

  She leaned close. ‘‘Do you have any idea what this place is?’’

  He set his jaw. ‘‘Do you?’’

  She squeezed his hands with as much strength as she could manage. ‘‘Do you have on a crinoline?’’

  The utter disbelief and distress in her tone sobered his expression instantly. ‘‘I . . . it . . .’’ He sighed. ‘‘I didn’t mean nothing by it, Rachel.’’

  ‘‘You didn’t mean anything by it?’’ She threw down his hands. ‘‘You didn’t mean anything by it? How could you even think to do such a thing?’’

  He wrinkled his brows. ‘‘I didn’t think. I’m sorry. I said I didn’t mean nothing and I didn’t.’’

  She tapped her finger against his chest. ‘‘Well, you will take yourself home and you will do so this instant.’’

  Sighing, he nodded and with his boyish gait strode across the floor straight-arming the men who tried to intercept him.

  She scanned the crowd for Lissa.

  ‘‘You were a little tough on him concerning the crinoline, don’t you think? He was just having a bit of sport.’’

  ‘‘You know nothing about it. There she is.’’ Pointing with her head, she assumed waltz position. ‘‘Let’s go get her.’’

  Johnnie stepped into her waiting arms, but Lissa was not so easy to chase down. The Robin Hood who spun the girl around the room moved quickly and held her much too close. He leaned in and whispered something into her ear.

  Lissa giggled, swatting his shoulder and giving him a wicked look.

  ‘‘Who is she dancing with?’’ Rachel asked.

  ‘‘Merle Sumner.’’

  She tightened her lips. ‘‘What do you know of him?’’

  ‘‘Not much. He’s a river gambler from Mississippi.’’

  It took the conclusion of the dance and half of another one before Johnnie pulled up beside them. ‘‘Shall we switch?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Not on your life,’’ Sumner answered.

  But Johnnie had already released Rachel and captured Lissa and was moving to the edge of the floor before Sumner had time to finish his refusal.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ Sumner yelled.

  Fortunately, the front door lay straight ahead. Rachel trod on Johnnie’s heels. Sumner on hers. The four of them were outside in less than a minute.

  ‘‘What are you doing, Mr. Parker?’’ Lissa asked.

  ‘‘Thank you, Johnnie. Lissa, say good-night. It’s time to go home.’’

  ‘‘What is going on here?’’ Sumner shouted.

  Lissa pulled out of Johnnie’s grip. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ she asked her sister.

  ‘‘Going to a great deal of trouble to fetch you home.’’

  ‘‘Well, you’ve wasted your time.’’

  Sumner stepped beside Lissa.

&n
bsp; She threaded her hand through his arm. ‘‘I’m not going anywhere.’’

  Rachel narrowed her eyes. ‘‘Oh, yes you are.’’ She turned to the man next to Lissa. ‘‘Mr. Sumner, is it? Are you aware that my sister is only ten and five?’’

  He took Lissa’s hand up to his lips. ‘‘And a very beautiful ten and five she is.’’

  His lips lingered, nipping the side of Lissa’s palm.

  Rachel sucked in a quick breath. ‘‘Release her, sir. Lissa, come. This instant.’’

  Lissa leaned more heavily into Mr. Sumner. ‘‘I’m not a dog, Rachel. I don’t come on command. If you want to go home, then you just run along. I’m staying.’’

  ‘‘You cannot. I won’t allow it.’’

  Lissa smirked.

  Mr. Sumner wrapped an arm around her waist. ‘‘Good night, Miss Van Buren.’’

  The two of them, cozier than ham and cheese, proceeded back into the brightly lit house.

  Rachel sputtered then charged after them.

  Johnnie grabbed her arm. ‘‘Whoa, girl. I think you’ve been officially thrown out of the party by the countess herself. Besides, that gown you are wearing is indecent, and it won’t be long before somebody either recognizes you or, worse, thinks you’re one of the girls.’’

  ‘‘I don’t care. I can’t leave her in there.’’

  She broke free and came face-to-face with the sultan.

  ‘‘I told you my sister was in there. Now, step aside.’’

  He looked at Johnnie. ‘‘Either you get rid of her or I will.’’

  Rachel propped her hands on her hips. ‘‘I thought you said no sunbonnets were allowed at this soiree.’’

  ‘‘They aren’t,’’ the sultan answered.

  ‘‘Well, my sister is a sunbonnet. So throw her out.’’

  ‘‘Your sister is an invited guest. You aren’t.’’

  Rachel frowned. ‘‘You are mistaken, sir. She could not possibly have been invited.’’

  He said nothing.

  ‘‘Step aside.’’

  He looked at Johnnie.

  ‘‘Rachel.’’ He touched her elbow.

  She jerked away. ‘‘I won’t leave her in there, Johnnie. I won’t.’’

  Her eyes filled. ‘‘Don’t you see? I can’t.’’

  Heaving a great sigh, he ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. ‘‘I’ll watch her.’’

  She bit her cheek, helplessness encompassing her. ‘‘Perhaps you could go tell her I am waiting for her?’’

  ‘‘She already knows that, and she made it quite clear she wasn’t leaving. Not yet, anyway.’’

  Rachel hugged her stomach.

  ‘‘I won’t let her out of my sight.’’

  She perused the house’s facade. ‘‘You tell her I’m going to stand right here until she leaves.’’

  The sultan growled.

  Johnnie leaned close to her ear. ‘‘If you loiter at the door of this house dressed like you are, the men will mistake you for something you are not. And they are not so easy to handle after an evening of revelry. I’m taking you home.’’

  Grabbing her elbow, he steered her toward the hotel.

  ‘‘Fine. I’ll go home, change into my calico and then come back to wait for her.’’

  He tightened his grip. ‘‘So help me, Rachel, I will leave Lissa to her own devices if you do not stay where I put you.’’

  ‘‘Why? The men would not dare mistreat a lady.’’

  ‘‘Not normally. But they are unpredictable when they are intoxicated. It is simply too dangerous.’’

  She tried to stop.

  He increased the pressure. ‘‘I will drag you if I must.’’

  ‘‘But, Lissa.’’

  ‘‘I will bring her home as soon as I can do so without endangering her.’’

  She looked up, tears spilling onto her cheeks. ‘‘You will?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ She couldn’t quite catch the expression in his eyes.

  ‘‘I have no idea,’’ he sighed.

  chapter 11

  Rachel was waiting the moment Lissa walked through the door. Michael had retreated to his pallet by the fireplace after receiving the dressing down of his life.

  Helping him remove all of the feminine paraphernalia he wore had been embarrassing for them both—particularly when wads of handkerchiefs fell out of his bodice. She used his discomfort to her full advantage, shaming him at every turn.

  Removing the crinoline had been the worst, of course. Their beloved mother had died when her crinoline became entangled in the steps of a carriage from which she was alighting. The commotion had spooked the horses, and with her mother’s head and shoulders dragging upon the ground, the animals had run quite a distance before anyone could stop them.

  To this day Rachel refused to wear a crinoline and wasn’t much for carriages, either. She certainly hadn’t allowed Lissa to wear the loathsome undergarment, though clearly the girl wore one tonight.

  Lissa threw her reticule onto the table and began to remove the white gloves that ran all the way up her arms. She said not a word, but the look in her eyes as she glared at her sister said it all.

  Rachel could not care less. ‘‘Do you have any idea what kind of place that was?’’

  Lissa laid one glove over the back of a chair and started on the other. ‘‘I believe they call it a parlor house. And only the cream of the crop are allowed to work there.’’

  ‘‘Cream of the crop? Cream of the crop! There is no such thing for women of their kind. They are at the very bottom of the rung. The scourge of society. A woman can go no lower than that.’’

  Lissa paused, studying her sister. ‘‘You know, Rachel, I don’t think it’s as bad a life as we’ve been led to believe.’’

  Where before Rachel’s blood had been pumping through her like a river busting through a dam, it now crashed to an abrupt halt, leaving a backwash of panic. ‘‘Oh, Lissa. I don’t know what kind of tales those women have been feeding you, but their lives are nothing short of pathetic.’’

  ‘‘And just what, exactly, do you know of their lives?’’

  ‘‘I know they are morally weak. I know they are everything a proper woman is not. They are not pure, virtuous, tender, delicate, or fragile.’’

  ‘‘Good heavens, Rachel. And you believe we are?’’

  ‘‘I believe we strive to be.’’

  Sighing, Lissa removed the pins holding her tiara in place. ‘‘Well, I’m not so sure being a proper woman is the be-all and end-all.’’

  Rachel grabbed onto the back of a chair. ‘‘How can you even say such a thing?’’

  Lissa set her crown on the table and proceeded to remove the rest of the pins from her loosely twisted blond hair. ‘‘Well, think about it. We live in a shack. We never have time for the finer things. We work ourselves to the bone. And for what? So we can marry some man who will run off chasing after gold that may or may not be there? Only to then come home, get us with child, and gamble away all of our treasure, forcing him to go back and do it all over again?’’

  Rachel didn’t know which issue to address first. Or even how to respond. Her face warmed at such casual mention of procreation, though what Lissa said was certainly true.

  She sighed. Never had the two of them needed a mother more than this night. Help me, Lord. ‘‘Everything will change when we return home.’’

  Scooping her hair to one side, Lissa presented her back to her sister in a silent request for help.

  Rachel automatically began to unfasten the girl’s gown.

  ‘‘Yet the women over at the parlor house,’’ Lissa continued, ‘‘don’t have to cook, clean, wash their clothes—nothing. They dress in the height of fashion. They are as close to each other as any group of women I’ve ever known. And no one shuns them on the street except you. The men treat them as if they were royalty. Did you see who was there tonight?’’

  She didn’t answer. For she had re
cognized a few of them. And, truthfully, had been sorely distressed at her realization that the town’s businessmen frequented such places.

  Lissa lifted up her fist, ticking her fingers one-by-one. ‘‘Why, Mr. Schermerhorn from the mercantile was there. Mr. Beekman from the newspaper. Mr. Wingate from the surveyor’s office. Mr. Kirk from the customhouse and even Mr. Livingston. Do you know who he is?’’

  Rachel shook her head.

  ‘‘He’s a farmer from Kansas here in California with his wife and eight children. He leaves them up in the mining camp and comes to San Francisco under the pretense of picking up supplies.’’

  Lissa stepped out of her gown. The two of them carefully folded it seam-to-seam. ‘‘He visits the girls that work for the countess every time he comes to town. Every time. And him married. With his wife waiting. And all those children.’’

  Rachel had read about such appetites in married men. But there was a world of difference between reading it and seeing it with her own eyes. Still, perhaps she should try to explain what she had learned to her sister.

  She said nothing about the crinoline as Lissa untied it and allowed it to collapse onto the floor.

  After shooting a quick glance across the room at Michael to ensure his back was still to them while he huddled on his pallet, Rachel lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘‘Perhaps you’re not aware, dear, but I happen to have learned that a proper wife only submits to her husband out of duty. So men like Mr. Livingston, not wanting to cause their wives any unhappiness, evidently seek relief at the kinds of places the countess runs.’’

  Lissa froze. ‘‘Are you justifying him?’’

  ‘‘No! No, of course not. He’s clearly of a weak nature.’’

  The girl propped a hand against her waist, but its impact was a bit lost when she stood in nothing but drawers and corset. ‘‘Seems every man in town is of a weak nature.’’

  Rachel shook out her sister’s flannel nightdress and slipped it over Lissa’s head. ‘‘It’s because they have nothing else to occupy themselves with. There are no churches to speak of, no lending libraries, no ice parlors, no theatres, no parks, no nothing. And perhaps it is time to do something about it. What would you think about opening a restaurant?’’