Come Be My Love

by Patricia Watters

  Esther climbed into the coach, but Sarah remained outside where she could peruse her new surroundings. She scanned the buildings lining the waterfront. A small brick building—the kind she envisioned as housing her clothing business—caught her eye. It appeared unoccupied. Curious, she wandered over to where a nicely dressed man stood just outside the front door. Smiling politely, she said, "Is this building by any chance for let?"

  The man's gaze meandered down the full length of her and wandered back up. "For you, little lady, it could be arranged."

  Sarah wasn't certain how to take the man's comment. "Then it is available?"

  The man stepped closer. "Yes. Come inside and we'll talk about it."

  "Inside?"

  The man gave her a furtive smile. "I never discuss business on the street. If you're interested in leasing my building, you'll have to step inside." He reached out and took her arm.

  At first Sarah started to walk with the man, then she became frightened. She knew nothing about him, other than he owned a building for let. "No, not now,” she said. "I have to go." She tugged against the man’s grip, and to her relief, he released her.

  As she walked away, the man called after her, "I look forward to seeing you, soon."

  She didn't respond, but when she looked up, she found Governor Cromwell's eyes fixed intently on her. The dark look they held, and the hard line of his mouth, left no question as to how he’d interpreted what he'd just seen. She gave him an uncertain smile, then scurried past him and climbed into the coach, sitting beside Esther

  The coach dipped as Governor Cromwell swung inside and sat opposite the women, his broad-shouldered frame and long muscular legs seeming to fill every available space in the coach. He rapped on the window behind him, and the coachman cracked his whip, giving the command. The coach moved forward, the high wheels clattering and rumbling over the cobblestones.

  Unsettled by the man's nearness, Sarah uncrossed her ankles to draw her legs closer, but when her foot by chance rubbed against his calf, his slow smile left no question that he’d been aware of the casual contact. Then the smile faded, his face became sober, and he said in a cool, impassive tone, "You mentioned that Victoria offers many opportunities. Does that mean San Francisco does not?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose ," Sarah said, and offered nothing more. The man set her on edge. Not only was he opposed to Americans encroaching on his domain, but he had eyes like a raptor.

  His gaze still fixed on her, he said, "I’m surprised you expect to find something in Victoria that a thriving city like San Francisco lacks. What, may I ask, would that be?"

  "It's not that I expect to find anything... exactly," Sarah said, her thoughts disorganized.

  "If you don't expect to find anything here," Governor Cromwell said, "then I assume you hoped to leave something behind."

  Sarah looked at him with a start. She had no idea where this conversation was leading, but she did not like the tone of it. Nor did she want to reveal the reason behind her hasty departure. While holding his steady gaze, she said, "What exactly are you implying, Governor?"

  "I'm only curious as to why a beautiful woman would leave home and family and travel alone to a town that's barely more than an outpost, unless perhaps, she was... running from something."

  "For heaven's sake, Jon!" Esther snapped. "Why are you interrogating Miss Ashley as if she left San Francisco under a cloud?"

  For a long moment, Governor Cromwell looked at Sarah I silence. Then he raised one dark brow and said, "I apologize, Miss Ashley. I didn't mean to imply that."

  But Sarah knew from the intent look on his face that that was precisely what he'd meant. It was also the bitter, unspoken truth. She had left San Francisco under a cloud. Was she so easy to read? Or was Governor Cromwell unusually adept at proceeding directly to the core of things?

  Ignoring his last comment, she turned away from his assessing gaze and the unsettling effect his presence seemed to have on her. Staring out the window, she studied the row of false-front brick and wooden buildings lining walks of fresh-cut cedar planks. Everywhere, stores displayed American names: San Francisco Baths, American Bakery, California Saloon. The colony seemed far more American than British. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm as she took in the bustling town. It resembled San Francisco in the days of the gold rush. And she too would build a successful business, just as her father had.

  No, not father, stepfather. Stepfather!

  It was so easy to forget, to slip back to a time before her mother died, when she hadn't known the truth, but struggled to comprehend the enigma of her father...

  But that was behind her now.

  Glancing at Esther, she said, "I don't believe I've seen a women's apparel store here."

  Esther shrugged. "Most of the women fashion their own garments or buy ready-made wear from the Hudson's Bay Company store."

  A little trill of hope rippled through Sarah. It was as she had anticipated. Women would be flocking to her store for bloomers and shirtwaisters, eager to shed their corsets and petticoats.

  Esther looked at her brother. "Have any more women been abducted since we left?"

  He nodded. "Two. Both prostitutes," he replied. "But it's assumed they left of their own accord for the goldfields."

  "Assumed?" Sarah glared at the governor, annoyed with his callous attitude. "Does that mean the authorities are not searching for them?"

  Jon Cromwell looked visibly annoyed, as if she were accusing him of something. "It hardly warrants a search," he said. "The women will practice their trade whether here or in the Goldfields.”

  Sarah felt her temper rise. "The women are after all human beings, Governor, many of whom have no doubt been cast into their demeaning profession by ruthless, uncaring men," she said in a cool dry tone.

  "That may be so," Jon conceded, "but right now we're more concerned with stopping the smuggling of contraband rum and whiskey to the gold fields and arresting Americans trying to avoid the purchase of mining licenses." He turned to look out the side window, seeming to be dismissing the discussion.

  Sarah eyed his firm profile and the unruly black curls on his neck that had escaped the barber's shears, if in fact he ever went to a barber. It looked more like he'd been to a horse clipper. "I wasn't aware that the provincial government levied a discriminatory tax on Americans," she said, drawing his attention back to her.

  His eyes locked on hers, as he replied, "I assure you, Miss Ashley, the license is required for all who seek gold. Americans are no exception, although they frequently forget that."

  Miffed at his rebuttal, Sarah said, "Perhaps you should consider what the American prospectors did for California. Because of them, land values escalated, thousands of new buildings were built, and the railroads went in. The British could certainly do worse."

  "Right now our concern is with the avoidance of the mining tax and the recapture of revenue lost through smuggling," the governor said, then planted his mouth in a firm line.

  Regarding him with vexation, Sarah said, "Yes, I suppose you would find that more important than the welfare of a few women of questionable character." Although initially she'd found the man disarmingly handsome, his petty attitude reminded her how deceiving looks could be. Clamping her mouth shut, she intended to say nothing more. After all, she was to be a guest in the man's home.

  As the coach turned off the main street, the grating racket of wheels on cobblestones ceased, and they followed a hard-packed dirt road that skirted the bay. Several minutes later the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the governor's home—an impressive two-story white house shaded by several old oaks and surrounded by a modest stretch of park and lawn. When they entered the house, Sarah noted the elegant interior and lovely carved furnishings. Jon immediately excused himself, and Esther gave Ida instructions as to where Sarah should stay.

  Gathering her skirt, Sarah followed Ida up a wide bank of stairs, down a long hallway, and into a room with a window facing the bay. After Ida left, Sarah took in
her surroundings. It was obviously a woman's room—a striped floral bedcover of soft pinks and dusty blues covered a turned-wood bed, with a grouping of needlework pillows against the headboard, and a dressing table with an ornate silver brush, a matching comb, and a hand mirror graced one wall of the room, along with a ladies desk with all the usual desk accessories. Sarah lifted a scrap-work screen from the desk and examined the cutouts of rosy-faced cherubs, and snippets of delicate lace with satin ribbon, and accents of forget-me-nots and snow drops and other miniature pressed flowers. A meticulous person had planned it, and a steady hand had tediously pieced it together.

  Her eyes were drawn to a large oil painting above the fireplace. In the scene, a woman of exceptional beauty, with skin as pale as a lily, sat on a sofa, her golden-brown hair caught in a coronet of braids and flowers about her head, her glacial blue eyes staring out at the world. In her hands she held a piece of embroidery, and beside her, two young girls looked on. The younger of the girls—a child with blue eyes and golden-brown hair—bore a striking likeness to Louella. The older child, a comely young girl with large brown eyes and dark hair, resembled Josephine. Peering into the icy eyes of Jonathan Cromwell's deceased wife, Sarah had an almost overwhelming urge to withdraw from the room. Those eyes were so like the eyes of her stepfather. Distant. Austere. With no trace of warmth or affection. With no trace of love.

  Even when his health began to fail, he didn't look to her to run his business, but turned it over to Hollis and Tyler, and by the time he died, Hollis and Tyler had depleted the capital, running up large debts from gaming. And on learning about her account, Hollis set into motion his plan to obtain her money. The scandal that followed was intended to sway the judge in Hollis's favor in his lawsuit against her. But before Hollis's could served papers, she liquidated the account and fled. She prayed he wouldn't come looking for her in Victoria and press the lawsuit. She needed the money to start her business so she'd never be dependent on a man again. Only then could she set aside the tug of jaded emotions that always seemed to drag her down—the hopeless inability to come to terms with the fact that her entire life had been a lie. She was a love child, conceived in lust. The only truth was that her real father had not wanted her, the man she believed was her father had not wanted her, and her stepbrothers despised her. Men were an abject, contemptible lot, she decided, and determined to give them no further thought.

  Within the hour, Sarah's trunks arrived. While she was unpacking, a light rapping on the open door of the room startled her. Turning, she saw sixteen-year old Josephine standing in the doorway. Josephine's dark eyes gleamed with anticipation as she sallied into the room. Closing the door behind her, she said in a hushed voice, "Miss Ashley, may I see the bloomers?"

  "You certainly may," Sarah said. On the ship, Sarah described her shirtwaisters and bloomer costumes to Esther and the girls, and Josephine had shown particular interest.

  Josephine eyed the crinoline collapsed on the bed. Fingering one of the wide steel hoops, she said, "Louella wants one of these, but I think crinolines are the absolute height of absurdity, props for yards of unnecessary material, sweeps for gathering dirt and dragging it into the home."

  Curious, Sarah looked at Josephine. Her words seemed far too opinionated for such a young woman. "Louella may have that crinoline if she wants it," she said. "I intended to leave it in San Francisco, but it found its way among my things when my maid packed."

  Josephine shook her head. "Papa wouldn't allow Louella to have it. He says when they swing back and forth they show the limbs, and that's not good. And Grandmother agrees... insists Louella and I wear layers of petticoats instead. But Aunt Esther's not as strict as Papa and Grandmother," she added. "She would have bought Louella a crinoline when we were in San Francisco, but she won't go against Papa or Grandmother's wishes.”

  Sarah removed a gown of emerald-green duchesse from her steamer trunk and clipped the hangar on a hook on the door of the armoire next to a gown of plum and fuchsia foulard. She pressed her hand along the skirt of her green gown to smooth away the wrinkles, then looked askance at Josephine. "Does your grandmother always agree with your father?" she asked, curious about the older woman, wondering if she could find an advocate there.

  "No, not always," Josephine replied. "At least not in our schooling. Grandmother thinks we should go to St. Ann's Academy where we would have the benefit of a virtuous upbringing. But Papa insists we go to Madame Pettibeau's Seminary for Young Ladies so we can learn to be poised and proper, like Mama was."

  Seeing the melancholy on Josephine's face, Sarah promptly distracted her by whisking out a pair of black bloomers. "Well, here they are." She offered the bloomers to Josephine. "This pair should fit you, and you may have them if you'd like. You wear them over your pantalettes and under a short skirt or tunic."

  Josephine draped the bloomers from her waist. Peering into the mirror, she said, "They seem very practical."

  "They are," Sarah replied. "But you mustn't wear them unless your father approves."

  Josephine gave a vague nod of agreement. Walking over to the armoire, she touched the sleeve of Sarah's plum and fuchsia gown and trailed a finger down the skirt of the green duchesse. "These are surely pretty," she said. "I've never seen such bright colors."

  "Those are the new aniline dyes,” Sarah said. "Vivid colors are all the rage in Paris."

  Josephine traced a finger along the scooping neckline. "The front is surely low."

  "It's the latest fashion," Sarah said. "In the boxes at the San Francisco opera, the woman whose dress is not décolleté is presumably a maid or a theater attendant."

  "It sure is pretty," Josephine said in a wistful voice, "but Papa would never let us wear anything so bright in color, and with the front so low. He'd say we were trying to tempt the devil, yielding to base sin. Papa's a God-fearing man."

  "Then you'd best listen to your papa," Sarah said, finding Josephine's comment somewhat incongruous with what she'd seen of the man thus far. Jonathan Cromwell seemed anything but a God-fearing man.

  After Josephine left, Sarah fetched her journal from the trunk, sat at the lady’s desk, and made an entry dated September 3, 1864: Dear Diary, Victoria is everything I dreamed it would be. Every woman we passed on the ride through town wore yards of skirt, and I am here to change that. In fact, tonight will be my overture. I shall wear a brightly-colored gown to dinner, and without the layers of petticoats. No doubt Governor Cromwell will regard it as offensive, when, in fact, it is really quite in vogue. But, I shall not let the man dictate my fashion. In fact, I rather look forward to seeing his reaction.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jon poured a brandy and walked over to the parlor window. While slowly swirling the spirits in the snifter, he watched as the sun crept low on the horizon, the coppery-gold sky reminding him of the color of Sarah Ashley's hair. He couldn't deny it. The American woman with her jade green eyes, and delicate features, and unblemished skin possessed uncommon beauty.

  He tossed the brandy and set the sniffer down with a noticeable clunk. Her kind could also lead a man straight to hell. He knew only too well. Snatch a man's heart, suck out his life blood and toss him away. He also suspected she'd left San Francisco under a cloud of notoriety, no doubt a sexual scandal. Her startled look when he'd implied as much all but told him so. And he had good reason to imply. Five minutes off the ship and she'd arranged a tete-a-tete with a merchant. And other facts supported his conjecture.

  Travelling as a single woman, she’d arrived in a town where she admittedly knew no one and had no relatives, and she’d come without a letter of introduction. She obviously had money because her clothes were of good quality, and she had a personal maid. And although she observed proper etiquette, she was not a product of an old aristocratic family, but someone who'd recently acquired wealth. Her protocol wasn't natural, she seemed more a comrade to her maid than a mistress. And she'd been in awe of the coach. Definitely questionable circumstances.

  Admittedl
y, he was a cynic now. But he hadn't always been. Before Caroline, he'd simply been a guileless fool replete with utopian notions. And then he saw her at the cotillion. Dressed in a gossamer gown, she was an exquisite fairy creature with eyes of crystal blue that sparkled with gaiety, and hair of spun gold that glittered with diamonds. And as he stared, absorbing her dazzling beauty, he fell in love. Passionately. Desperately. Irrevocably. The blood-heat of possession began to pump in his veins until he burned with the desire to make love to her, to possess her body and soul. Then came the realization that the elusive, intangible something he'd been waiting for was love—abiding, eternal love. And she, and only she, was the woman who could give him this love and make his life whole. So theirs had been a fairy-tale wedding...

  What a blind fool he'd been, so susceptible to her whims that her every request became his promise, her every notion his impetus to action. He'd been ambitious because he'd wanted to be everything she wanted him to be—something of each of the suitors he'd bested. He'd have the esprit de corps of one, the grit of another, the enterprise of yet another, until he wasn't sure who he was. And then came the fire... And the truth. And he awoke to the realization that the elusive, intangible thing he'd waited for during his romantic youth did not exist. Love happened in fairy tales, not in real life, and he accepted that. Now he didn't hate women because of Caroline, nor did he avoid them. He romanced them, dallied with them, used their soft willing bodies for his pleasure. But he'd never again indulge in impossible dreams or search for the myopic love of his youth, never again give his heart and sell his soul, or find himself caught up in the futile emotional labyrinth in which he'd been trapped with Caroline. He would not be that fool again...