Come Be My Love

by Patricia Watters

  "Yes, I can see that," Jon replied, "but then, I should not expect you, being a woman, to concern yourself with affairs of state."

  "On the contrary," Sarah said, "if one defenseless woman can stand between independence and unification, think of the power an entire cabinet composed of women could bring to bear. Perhaps you should consider appointing such a body."

  "You feel pretty cocksure, don't you?"

  Sarah gave a noncommittal shrug. "I must admit, things have taken a different turn. Just a few days ago I was considering returning to San Francisco while I still had funds to reestablish myself there. Now... well, I'm encouraged to continue my crusade here."

  Jon eyed her dubiously. He doubted that she had contemplated returning to San Francisco. Still, the thought of her leaving troubled him. It appeared that he had, through his own creative doing, acquired an adroit but beautiful and enticing political enemy. He was damned if she stayed, and damned if she left. And the realization that one woman could have that hold on him didn't sit well. He also wondered what her next move would be. "Then should I assume you're making progress toward the completion of your papers?"

  Sarah stood. "That, Governor, you will learn in due course. Now that Mr. De Cosmos has been so kind as to distribute news of my endeavor, and include copies of my handbill, you shall have to wait and ponder how my presence may affect your constituency."

  Jon folded his arms to keep from reaching for her, although he was uncertain whether his intent would be to pull her to him or to shake her senseless. She was intent on badgering him. Deciding to cut the issue for now, he said, "Meanwhile, Peterson's not at all happy with the added burden to his work load, so for the remainder of your visit try to stay out of trouble. Of course, given your penchant for mischief, that might be difficult."

  "I assure you, I will remain unobtrusive," Sarah said. "As a matter of fact, I'll be leaving early tomorrow to call on someone about a matter of great importance for my cause."

  "De Cosmos?" Jon asked, before he could check himself.

  Sarah's eyes shone bright beneath their fringe of coppery lashes. "Are you worried?"

  "Should I be?" Jon caught the flicker of wry amusement in her eyes, and knew his concern had not escaped her.

  "Worrying would be in order, perhaps, if I were going to see Mr. De Cosmos," Sarah said, "but you can rest easy, at least about that. My plans do not include a visit to The Colonist."

  "May I ask where you are going?" Jon immediately castigated himself for sounding overly curious, giving fodder for Sarah's already too confident state of mind.

  Sarah smiled provocatively. "That is really none of your business. After all, a soldier doesn't let the enemy know his strategy, unless, of course, the enemy is ready to join the other side."

  "Is the enemy ready to join the other side?" Jon asked, "give up the crusade?"

  "You're the enemy, Jon, not I. So perhaps I should ask you that question." Sarah placed her hand on his chest, and her eyes twinkled with mirth, as she said, "Have I found a chink in your armor? Are you ready to concede?"

  Jon whipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "This game has rules," he said, "and I intend to play by them. Complete your papers and you'll get your license." Tangling his fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back, lifting her chin and raising her lips to meet his. At first, he felt steadfast resistance, then her lips softened, surrendered, grew supple and willing, and her hands slid around his neck. Her fingers toyed with the hairs at his nape, their feathery-light touch making his pulse throb. She was all woman—soft, fragrant, inviting, her quickened breath warm and heavy against his lips...

  She drew back and looked up at him, eyes dewy and bright, and said, "You may be an autocratic, overbearing provincialist, but I do like the way you kiss. What a pity we're on opposite sides."

  "We don't have to be," Jon said, kissing her brow and the curve of her cheek. Pushing her hair aside, he nibbled her earlobe and whispered into her ear, "You could give up this foolish notion and still be the elegant, desirable lady you are."

  Sarah tipped her head, allowing him to send a trail of kisses down the side of her neck. "It's not a foolish notion,” she said, “and I have no wish to be an elegant, desirable lady...”

  "You already are," Jon replied. "Even when wearing those bloody bloomers you send my blood pumping." He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat.

  "Umm... but the fact remains," Sarah said in a breathy voice, "we are on opposite sides—" she pressed against his chest and looked at him "—and you are distracting me."

  Jon peered into the glistening green depths of her eyes and saw in them the unmistakable flicker of passion. "That was my intention."

  "Well, it doesn't coincide with mine, which at the moment is launching my business. Meanwhile, I must get prepared for tomorrow. After all, a still bee gathers no honey." Turning out of his arms, Sarah sashayed out the room, leaving Jon thoroughly frustrated, and more determined than ever to seduce her into eager submission.

  CHAPTER TEN

  During the night the rain stopped, and morning brought sun streaming through the windows. If the weather held for one more day, Sarah felt certain that she and Mandi could get the wagon through to the cottage. Anxious to leave for Mrs. Dewig-Gertz's as soon as possible, she sent Jon's courier to the livery to request a covered two-seater be sent out, and a short time later, a small phaeton arrived. At Mrs. Dewig-Gertz's house, Mandi remained in the buggy while Sarah went to the door and presented her calling card. The maid ushered Sarah up a flight of stairs, down a long hallway, and up another much narrower stairway. As Sarah ascended, the air grew warm and musty. On a small landing at the head of the stairs, the maid swept open the door to an attic with a lofty ceiling, poked her head into the room, announced Sarah's arrival, and left Sarah standing in the doorway.

  "Miss Ashley, I'm delighted you've come to call." The voice rose from behind a large artist's canvas resting on an easel. A patch of blue-gray light sifted through the hazy panes of the window and shone on the top of the woman's breakfast cap. "The governor's daughter has said so many fine things about you. Please, do come over here where we can chat a bit."

  Sarah made her way among canvases propped against boxes, crates, trunks, and footlockers, noting that most of the paintings depicted rather slipshod portraits of men. She couldn't discern if it was the same man—each face seemed somehow different--but every man had a black mustache and a full set of black whiskers. Having surmised that they were, in fact, the same man, she said, "I didn't realize you were an artist."

  "Yes," Mrs. Dewig-Gertz replied. "Mr. Moore, my former husband, passed away several years ago, and I'm trying to capture his likeness before it fades from memory. Sometimes I feel I have come very close, very close indeed, such as now, which is why I mustn't stop. I hope you'll forgive me for not receiving you in the parlor." She peeked around the canvas.

  "That's perfectly all right," Sarah said, picking her way toward the woman. She looked around, and finding a stool, lowered herself to it. She studied the woman's rapt profile. Were it not for her unplucked brows, now pinched in concentration, and her slightly receding chin, she would be almost pretty. Appearing to be in her late forties, she wore a morning wrapper of blue cretonne and a plain cotton apron with deep pockets from which several brushes splayed.

  Mrs. Degig-Gertz stepped back and raised her spectacles to study her work. Her eyes shone with glee. "Yes," she said, half breathless with excitement. "I've almost got him." After a moment, she gave Sarah a long look, as if seeing her for the first time, and said, "I must say, I'm disappointed you didn't wear your bloomer costume."

  "Under the circumstances," Sarah replied, "I felt it best to wait until things settled down."

  "With your handbill circulating about, I truly doubt if things ever will again," Mrs. Dewig-Gertz said. "That was a terribly clever idea." She leaned forward and touched the tip of the brush to the canvas, dragging it slowly.

  "Well, actually it wasn't my id
ea," Sarah said. "Mr. De Cosmos took it upon himself to introduce my garments that way."

  Mrs. Dewig-Gertz slanted Sarah a sideways glance. "Some feel the man lives on the narrow edge between genius and madness. Until now, I chose to believe him quite mad. But I must say, his idea was most ingenious. What are your plans now?"

  "That's why I've come," Sarah said. "According to Mayor Harris, some of the women who have seen the handbill are interested in my garments, but since the merchants won't lease a building to me unless I have a license, which I am yet unable to obtain, I have no place to display them. All I need is a corner of a shop where I can install a table and exhibit some bloomer costumes and perhaps a shirtwaister or two. I thought you might be able to direct me to a merchant who could be swayed to my cause."

  "Our cause," Mrs. Dewig-Gertz corrected, peeking around the canvas to give Sarah a supportive smile. "And I think the most likely person for you to call upon would be Mr. Wellington Brown."

  Sarah looked at her with a start. "Wellington Brown?" The man who had so thoroughly captured Mandi's heart?

  "A very respectable colored man who moved here to escape oppression in America," Mrs. Dewig-Gertz said. "If anyone would understand your plight, it would be Mr. Brown."

  Sarah smiled, elated. "Maybe he'll sign the document issued to me by the city council. I need the signatures of six merchants and two bankers in order to get my license. It's been an almost impossible task. So far I have no merchants and only one banker."

  Mrs. Dewig-Gertz dabbed at the palette with her brush, then leaning close to the canvas and peering through the thick lenses of her glasses, she touched the paint-laden bristles to the picture, applying what appeared to be a series of short lines. Satisfied, she stepped back and smiled. Her eyes flickered with admiration. "Yes... it's him. This time I have truly captured Mr. Moore. If only he were here to share this moment." She dipped her brush into a glass with spirits of turpentine then stepped back to admire her work. "Would you care to meet Mr. Moore?"

  Her curiosity piqued, Sarah rose and walked over to stand before the painting. Her lips parted, and she stared at the portrait, speechless. Two wide round eyes that were not quite on the same level were fixed straight ahead in a blank blue stare, every hair of Mr. Dewig's eyebrows, mustache and whiskers had been tediously scrawled, and his face was a network of purplish-red character lines—tracks crossing his forehead, crow's feet splaying from the corners of his eyes, crevices tapering from his nostrils and around his mouth. "You certainly have captured all the details of his face," she said, then bit her lip to keep from smiling.

  "Yes," agreed Mrs. Dewig-Gertz. "I hope my present husband, Mr. Gertz, will not object to my hanging Mr. Moore in my chambers." She brushed her hands together, took Sarah's arm, and led her toward the door. "Now, you were saying something about needing signatures. Have you brought the papers with you?"

  "Well, yes."

  "I will see that Mr. Gertz signs them at once. He's just in his chambers, resting."

  Sarah’s brows gathered in a frown. "But why would he sign when every other merchant in Victoria has refused?" she asked.

  Mrs. Dewig-Gertz reached behind herself, untied her apron and draped it over a chair, and said, "I have my ways of handling my husband."

  "Well, if you don't mind." Sarah withdrew the papers from her carpetbag, and said, "Have him sign on the bottom line."

  "Just give me a few minutes..."

  Mrs. Dewig-Gertz directed Sarah into the parlor, ordered the maid bring tea and biscuits, and left Sarah sitting alone. After what seemed like a half-hour or longer, Mrs. Dewig-Gertz returned, a rosy flush to her cheeks, a grouping of red blotches on her neck, and the row of buttons on her wrapper misaligned. "He signed," she said, breathless. She returned the papers.

  Rising to leave, and noting the tiny beads of perspiration above Mrs. Dewig-Gertz upper lip, Sarah said, "I do appreciate it, and I hope we didn't disturb your husband too terribly much."

  "Oh, no. He was pleased to do it," Mrs. Dewig-Gertz said, blushing deeply. Flipping her fan open, she began waving it briskly as she walked with Sarah to the door. "I suppose you've heard about the women disappearing?" she said.

  "Oh yes, several times," Sarah replied.

  "Well, be careful wandering around. A woman's not safe anymore. Most go out in threes or fours. It's terrible how things have changed since the prospectors arrived. It never used to be like this. A woman could leave her home without any worry. But now... Well, just be careful."

  "I will. And thank you."

  In the buggy, Sarah told Mandi about the painting, and that Mr. Gertz had signed the paper, but said nothing about where they were going next, and ten minutes later, they pulled to a halt in front of BROWN'S DOMESTIC DRY GOODS.

  "Why are we stoppin' here?" Mandi asked, eyes wide.

  Sarah smiled, ruefully. "To see Mr. Brown, of course."

  "Oh… lawdy sakes alive!" Mandi snapped open her parasol. "Mr. Brown, here Ah come."

  A bell on the door announced their arrival. A tall, handsome colored man, holding a bolt of fabric, saw Mandi and smiled broadly. Mandi nudged Sarah and giggled.

  "Shush, now," Sarah whispered, "or you'll make a fool of yourself." She glanced around, surprised to find such a wide array of fabrics and laces. Bolts of linens, flannels, muslins and wools in several shades lined the long shelves behind the counter, and rolls of cottons in stripes, checks, and plaids stood propped on two long tables.

  Wellington Brown walked over and smiled, his eyes on Mandi. "Ladies," he said, nodding. "May I help you?"

  Sarah placed her carpetbag on the counter. "My name is Miss Sarah Ashley," she said, opening the bag, "and this is my... associate, Miss Amanda Jackson." Mandi giggled, and Sarah stepped on her foot. Sarah explained their needs, even pulled a pair of bloomers out of her carpetbag and displayed them on the counter, concluding with, "...and women who want them will also need fabric to make waists to wear under their tunics. And, of course, the garments alone will draw women into your store, out of curiosity."

  Mandi sashayed around, fingering bolts of material while stealing glances at Wellington Brown, and Sarah noted that Mr. Brown's eyes kept shifting to Mandi as he listened. Finally, Sarah handed him a handbill. "I need just a small spot where I can set up a table for handbills like this one, and I’ll want to display a bloomer costume and a shirtwaister. Of course, Miss Jackson will be helping me," she added.

  "Miss Jackson?" Wellington Brown's gaze shifted to Mandi again. His face brightened, and his lips spread in a wide grin.

  Sarah's eyes shifted between Mr. Brown and Mandi, who stood batting her eyelashes. "Yes," Sarah said, "as my assistant, Miss Jackson will be passing out handbills while I tend the table…"

  By the time they left the store, Sarah was about to burst with excitement. Not only had Wellington Brown agreed to give them space for a table, but he'd also signed the paper and set up garment racks for displaying a bloomer costume and a shirtwaister.

  ***

  The following afternoon while Jon was at work, Lady Cromwell was calling on friends, and Esther was shopping with her nieces, Peterson reloaded Sarah's wagon, and he and Tooley drove Sarah and Mandi to the cottage and helped them move in. That afternoon and half the next day, Mandi scrubbed the kitchen and outhouse, beat the rag rugs and shook out the gingham curtains while Sarah swept and mopped the floors and made up both bedrooms with linens and quilts that she'd brought from San Francisco. Once the job was complete, Sarah and Mandi agreed it was charming. The floral wallpaper, though somewhat faded, was not in the least worn, the floors shone a deep golden brown, and the kitchen housed a large tin-lined sink, a nickel-trimmed cook stove with two towel rods, a high closet with a reservoir for heating water, and a hardwood refrigerator with a porcelain-lined water cooler.

  Mandi's bedroom faced the tall, stately evergreens behind the cottage, but Sarah's looked across the road toward the bay, where silvery waves rolled upon the sandy shore and the breeze brought the fragranc
e of late summer roses mingled with the damp saltiness of the sea. As she gazed out the window at jewel-like islands rising against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains, she at last felt a sense of belonging...

  "Miz Sarah!" Mandi called from the parlor, "it's the guv'nor. Looks like he's comin' a-courtin'. Umm... umm. He sho' looks like he's comin' a-courtin', all right. He's bringin' flowers."

  Sarah pulled Mandi back from the window. "Don't stand there gawking," she said. But she peeked out the window herself to see Jon walking in long strides toward the cottage. He looked utterly masculine with his shirt open at the collar and his snug trousers emphasizing narrow hips and muscular thighs. He also looked somewhat silly carrying a bouquet of yellow roses. She swept open the door and looked at the bouquet, and said, "Have you come bearing a peace offering?"

  Jon's smile was rueful. "You might call it a peace offering. I call it a bribe."

  "For what?"

  "To entice you into strolling on the beach with me."

  Sarah regarded at him, dubiously. "Why?"

  "Because I want to take a walk with you."

  "I mean, why now, at this particular moment?"

  "Good God, woman. Why not?" Jon looked past Sarah at Mandi and waved the flowers. "Here, pretty lady. Put these in water while your mistress decides whether or not I plan to seduce her on the beach." Mandi giggled and took the flowers, then disappeared behind the kitchen door. Jon raised his palms in feigned submission. "Do I look like a man who intends to ravish your beautiful body? All I plan to do is stroll on the beach and enjoy this nice warm weather."

  Sarah almost laughed at his attempt at wide-eyed innocence. Of course, she should refuse. It was obvious Jon planned to take at least a few liberties. But she did want to spend some time with him, and she'd be safer on an open beach than in the cottage, which Mandi would no doubt vacate at the first opportunity, in order to leave them alone. "Well, I suppose we could go for a short walk," she said, "but only for a few minutes."