by Jo Goodman
Dumbfounded, Katy listened to Logan's light tread as he retreated into the bathing room. His mistress! The scandal would lay waste to her career... to her life. Logan would not settle for the proper, circumspect relationship she enjoyed with Victor, and a public affair would make every role she earned by virtue of her talent subject to speculation that she had earned it on her back. Katy felt helpless to act, afraid of Logan's response if she went to the police. And what if he were only bluffing? She did not want to raise the alarm if Logan only wanted to torment her tonight. That she could stand. He would soon grow tired of poking at her the way a small boy grew bored with a caterpillar in a jar. By morning it could very well all be over... couldn't it?
Katy thought she would never sleep, but in truth she never heard Logan when he returned and stood over her, studying her face in a pale wash of moonshine. She never saw that his hands held a black lacquered box.
Logan knew there would be no music when he opened the lid. He ticked off the contents on mental fingers before looking. It was all there. She had saved everything: one kerchief, a spool of blue thread, two needles, a lice comb, chalk, six marbles, including four prized aggies, a watch fob, a deck of cards, and one spoon honed to a razor's edge.
* * *
The sweet aroma of hot chocolate teased Katy's senses. She wrinkled her nose, mouth watering as she caught the fragrances of bacon and cinnamon rolls. She wished she could command this sort of dream more often, for certainly it was the most vivid in recent memory. Stretching her legs, Katy rolled on her back, carrying her pillow with her. She hugged it and snuggled deeper under the covers.
"Wake up, Katy. I can see you licking your lips."
Katy's eyes opened abruptly. She saw Logan standing over her and groaned softly. "It's true," she said, her voice still husky with sleep.
"Apparently."
"Oh, God."
"I've set up a table for breakfast," he said, pointing to the foot of the bed. "Unless you'd prefer eating where you are?"
"No," she said firmly. As far as Katy was concerned, the sooner she was out of bed, the better. She sat up, pushing away the pillow and throwing back the covers. "Where's my robe?" she asked, noting for the first time that she was no longer wearing it.
"I took it off you after you were sleeping. You looked uncomfortable. It was twisted all around you." He grinned, sitting down at the table and snapping open a linen napkin. "Don't worry. I won't hold my breath waiting for you to thank me." Logan pointed to the wardrobe. "I put it in there."
Katy found it, slipped it on, and stalked into the bathing room. She counted to ten, washed her face, cleaned her teeth, brushed and braided her hair, and counted to ten again. "I want you out of here this morning, Logan," she said, standing in the doorway.
He did not look up from eating. "Your breakfast is getting cold."
"I mean it," she said.
"So do I. Your bacon is going to taste like month-old jerky if you don't eat it now." He bit off the end of one strip and chewed slowly, savoring it. "Be sensible, Katy. Do not deny yourself something to eat just because you don't like the company."
She sat down across from him. Believing a correction was in order, she said, "I despise the company."
Now he looked at her. His eyes were hard and a muscle worked in his cheek. "The feeling's mutual."
Katy was taken aback. She stared at Logan blankly for a moment before she ducked her head and applied herself to her meal. "Where did you get those clothes?" she asked when she could no longer stand the silence. Logan was not wearing his evening clothes any longer. His brown wool frock coat was loosely cut, and he wore it over a brown silk waistcoat, white shirt, and fawn trousers. They were his clothes; Katy had no doubt of that. The fit was exactly right, and Logan not only looked comfortable but pleased with himself as well.
"I sent someone from the hotel around to my house this morning. I imagine it raised quite a fuss with Mrs. Brandywine—she's the housekeeper—but she's been through worse with Christian. My peccadilloes must seem mild by comparison."
"Don't apply for sainthood yet."
One half of Logan's mouth lifted in an appreciative, though mocking, grin. "By the way, I repaired the bell pull. I mention it in the event you were wondering how I managed to order breakfast. I would not suggest using it in order to evict me, however. It's quite possible the hotel staff will think we've had a tiff."
"I don't care what they think. They've seen it all before, and they don't talk. That is what makes the Palace so popular with men like you and their mistresses. And since I am not your mistress, and I pay my own way, I can have you thrown out of here on your Yankee ass if I've a mind to."
"You used to pay your own way. I confess, that surprised me. I am afraid I assumed it was Victor or Michael who saw to all your needs."
The slight emphasis that Logan placed on the word 'all' did not go unnoticed. "You have a filthy mind," she said, "and it shouldn't... What do you mean I used to pay my own way? What have you done?"
Logan swallowed his bite of cinnamon roll and took a sip of chocolate. He made a face. It was too sweet. He should never have refused the coffee. Setting down his cup, he said, "I made a few inquiries. You were behind two weeks and I—"
"The management knows I will pay!" she said, jabbing her fork at him. "Manners is certain to have a lengthy—"
"As I was beginning to say, I wrote a draft for the two weeks you owe as well as for the next six months." He took a pocket watch out of his waistcoat, flipped it open, and glanced at the time. "Mr. Carstairs has already deposited the draft. It's quite official by this time. You are a kept woman, Katy Dakota."
Katy pushed her plate away and threw down her fork. "I don't have to stay here," she said. "You've bought yourself six months at the Chesterfield, Mr. Marshall. Alone!"
Logan did not comment, but he looked at Katy with new interest. Anger did not make Katy beautiful, but it did make her arresting. The air fairly hummed with the resonance of her outrage. Splinters of gold shimmered in her dark brown eyes, and the tips of her fingers were white where they were pressed to the tabletop. Her jaw was set firmly, her shoulders braced, and she looked quite capable of leaping across the table and clawing his face.
Logan wiped his mouth and then tossed the napkin on his plate. "If you will excuse me," he said politely, pushing away from the table. "I have to be at the paper this morning. I'm already late."
He ducked in time to miss the plate Katy flung at his head. In fact, he managed to dodge all the missiles she fired in his direction on his way out. In the hallway, he laughed, shaking his head as she fired another volley at the closed door. Walking away, past the wide-eyed stares of two maids polishing the hardwood floor, Logan credited himself with accomplishing everything he had set out to do. He had warned her away from Christian and Jenny, kissed her within an inch of her life, and begun the ruination of her career. All in all, it was a satisfactory exercise.
* * *
"You did what?" Christian was of a mind to make a mad leap across the room to Logan's desk. He was not angry, just stunned. Behind him he used the heel of his shoe to shut the office door. This conversation was not meant for the two dozen employees milling around their desks in the large outer room, pretending to work as they attempted to get an earful. Christian pulled the shade on the window in the door.
"I really don't have to repeat myself, do I?" asked Logan. He was leaning back in his heavy oak chair, his feet propped on the edge of his desk. He was the source of calm in a room of turmoil, the eye in the center of a hurricane. Correspondence and files littered his desk. Dozens of notes of varying priority were staked on a block of wood with a spike going through it. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases on opposite sides of Logan's desk were stuffed with books and more files. It was not unheard of to locate a file of important clippings inside a book. The volumes were arranged in no particular order that anyone could divine. The author's name wasn't a consideration, neither was title. Height of the book didn't matter sin
ce many of them ended up lying on their sides. Color of the binding did not seem important. But it was an undeniable truth at the Chronicle, that if Logan Marshall needed to find something for himself or anyone else, he could locate it in just under ten seconds.
Christian moved aside a stack of recent newspapers from the room's only other chair, dropped them in the corner beside Logan's photography equipment, and sat down. "Perhaps a better question is why you would do such a thing. If I really wanted to paint her, Logan, I would find a way around your scare-her-away-from-Christian strategy. I have a good idea that it's me you are protecting, not her, so the question is still why."
"I have my reasons."
"I can guess what they are. You're afraid that she's the woman who could put a wedge in my marriage."
Logan's brow rose fractionally, and he raked a hand through his dark hair. "Something like that." He dropped his feet off the desktop and tilted forward in his chair. Opening the bottom left hand drawer of his desk, he pulled out a flask of bourbon, a glass, and offered his brother a drink.
"None for me." Christian frowned as Logan dropped the smudged tumbler back in the drawer and drank directly from the flask. No doubt he was overly sensitive to his brother's drinking because of his own bout with the bottle. He let the lecture pass, recalling how little good words had done him. "You're assuming that I might be attracted to Miss Dakota," he said, returning to the subject at hand. "I have no idea what makes you think she is any different from the dozen or so women I've painted since my marriage, but I can tell you that she's not. There is not a woman alive that could come between Jenny and me."
"You don't know Katy Mc—excuse me, Katy Dakota"
"No, but it's clear that you do."
"We have a history," Logan said.
"You've never mentioned her."
Logan shrugged. He had mentioned her, many times in fact, but in conversation she was always Mary Catherine McCleary. "Trust me, Christian. Don't paint her. She will make your life hell. Jenny's, too."
"That's an interesting point. If you are so certain of that, why make it appear that she's your mistress? It is appear, isn't it? You don't intend to make her your mistress in fact."
"God, no!"
He said it so vehemently that Christian almost believed him. It was clear at least that Logan believed himself. "You're not going to tell me about her, are you?"
Logan shook his head. He capped the flask and dropped it back in the drawer.
"You know this isn't as it was in our father's time, don't you? It used to be accepted that actress and whore were practically synonymous. The public demands a little more moral prudence these days. Surely Miss Dakota is—"
"Do not trouble yourself working up a defense for her. She does not deserve one."
"I am not so sure. Last night after you sent for your clothes, Jenny got curious. She found the paper with the story about Miss Dakota in it and made me read it. It is hardly the lurid past or very public present that some of the actresses like to cultivate. Other than her relationship with Victor Donovan, the nature of which is a matter of speculation, she appears to be a private person. Prior to the leading role in Manners she played mostly ingénue roles and some character parts. It is only recently that she has become what the public refers to as a personality. An affair with you could stop her from getting the parts she covets or her talent deserves. Do you really want to ruin that for her?"
"Yes."
Christian was silent a moment, measuring his brother's resolve. There was no doubt that Logan was set on his path, but the direction alarmed Christian. "Your plan could come back to kick you in the head like an old mule," he said.
"You mean that her career could benefit from the notoriety?"
"No, I mean that you could fall in love."
* * *
Footsteps in the hallway alerted Katy to a visitor. She abandoned the chair she was huddled in. Her wine velvet dress whispered against her petticoats as she crossed to the door and waited. Although she was prepared for it, the pounding startled her. After a second's hesitation, she opened the door and ushered in Victor.
"What is it, Katy dear? Your message said it was urgent." He dropped his hat on a nearby table, then took her hands in his and held them out at her sides. He examined her critically, taking in everything from her disheveled honey hair to her wine kid slippers. Her features were drawn and anxious. "Your hands are so cold." He squeezed them gently, then brought them together and warmed them in the cup of his palms. "Come, let's sit down. I see you have hot tea waiting for me. Sure, and you've had none yourself, I'll wager."
Katy allowed herself to be led to the settee. Victor took the white shawl that was lying over one arm and drew it around her shoulders. He was such a dear, wonderful man, she thought. Where would she be in this city if he hadn't taken her under his wing? "It always seems as if I am taking advantage of you, Victor. Ever since that first night. Remember? I had the whole of my face pressed to Mrs. Harmer's bakery shop window."
Victor's smile was indulgent, tender. He was fond of the memory. He poured them both tea and handed Katy a cup. "I have a weakness for starving young women with their eye on Mrs. Harmer's best pastries. Even so, you never took advantage of my weakness. You never asked for anything."
"I didn't have to. You just kept giving." First it had been a meal, five courses in a restaurant that would have shown her the door if she had tried to walk in alone. Then he offered her employment behind the fabric counter at V. I. Donovan's. Victor made it possible for her to leave work for important auditions. He helped her rehearse for them in her tiny room on Jones Street in the Village, which he also helped her find. The day she won her first role at the Rialto, Victor took her to Mrs. Harmer's and bought everything behind the glass.
"I would like to keep giving," he said, uncomfortable with Katy's gratitude. "Tell me why you sent for me. Is it Michael? Has he been bothering you?"
"No, not Michael."
"My daughter-in-law, then. Michael's filled her head full of notions about us. She doesn't know the half of Michael's interests, but she thinks she knows all about mine."
Katy set her cup down. "No, Victor, you have it all wrong. I probably should not have bothered you. I don't know where to start."
Victor fingered his iron gray side-whiskers absently and then smoothed the ends of his thick mustache. "Anywhere," he said. "I'm listening."
She owed him a full explanation, she knew that. Her message had drawn him away in the middle of his work. He was still wearing the wire-rimmed spectacles he used for close work and was too vain to wear in public. He had cared enough about her welfare to forget vanity. "What can you tell me about Logan Marshall?"
The question startled and disturbed Victor, but he answered because he saw it was important to Katy. "I take it you mean in addition to what I told you last night."
"Yes, please."
Victor sat back against the curved arm of the sofa and reached in his vest pocket for a cigar. He held it up, asking Katy a question with his eyes, and when she did not object, he lit it. "I'm not certain what you want to know," he said, "but I can tell you that before the war there were four Marshall brothers. They all fought, but Christian and Logan were the only ones to survive. Their mother was also a casualty. She was struck down by a fever she contracted in one of the hospitals." Victor exhaled slowly. The pungent smoke wreathed his head. "God, but she was a fine woman. I don't think her husband ever recovered from her death. Harrison threw himself into his work with a vengeance and whatever bond existed between him and Christian was severed when Catherine died."
Trying not to appear overanxious, Katy asked, "What about Logan?"
"It's difficult to explain about that one. He wasn't around then. I believe the family had some knowledge that he had been captured by the Confederates, but when there was no news for such a long time, Christian and his father had little choice but to assume Logan was dead."
"Yes, but what about when Logan returned after the war? How
did he and his father get on then?"
Victor shook his head. "Logan did not return home until three years after the war was over. His father died almost a year before that. Who's to say how they would have got on?" Through a blue-gray haze of smoke Victor studied Katy thoughtfully. "Why is it a concern?"
Katy did not answer. It was a lifetime ago, she thought, but she clearly remembered telling Logan that nothing would change for him after the war. He would go back to New York, to his family and friends and the newspaper, and everything would be as it was. She had said it to hurt him, to show him that while he had been responsible for the suffering of others, he would manage to come through the war relatively unscathed. "Then he didn't know about his mother's death... or his father's," she said quietly.
"No, none of it. There was a brother who fell at Gettysburg with Christian. Logan did not know about that either."
"But why?" she asked. In her lap Katy's hands were clenched. "Why didn't he go home after the war? Why wait three years?" That was not her fault, she wanted to say. She had not made him stay away.
"In a manner of speaking, Logan was dead," Victor said. "At least to those who knew him."
"You're talking in riddles. I don't understand what you mean."
"I probably should not be telling you this because it's not common knowledge, but sometime during the war Logan lost his memory. It was not that his family had forgotten him, but the other way around."
"Lost his..." Her voice trailed away as her thoughts left her, and Katy closed her eyes briefly. The knot in her stomach tightened.
"How could that happen?" she whispered.
"Katy, I do not think we should be talking about Logan. It's obvious that this conversation is upsetting to you. Why don't you tell me what's—"
"No." Her hand unfolded as it sliced through the air, cutting Victor off. "I need to hear, Victor. Tell me what you know about it."
Victor put down his cigar long enough to pour Katy more tea. He forced the cup into her cold hands and lifted it toward her mouth until she voluntarily took over. "I really don't know very much. I certainly don't understand anything about Logan's memory loss. I believe it happened when he was in prison. You've heard of Andersonville, haven't you?"
