“You have to come, now. Reverend says so.” The boy looked pressed for time, but not upset. What could bring him here this early in the morning?
“Is everything all right? Is the reverend ill?”
“No, ma’am. He’s jumping around like it’s Christmas.” Quinn stared past her to the breakfast table visible through the dining room doors. “He sent me to get you right away. You have to come now, Miss Georgia.” The boy looked past her skirts again, licking his lips. “I think he’ll explode if you don’t.”
Georgia watched the lad’s sense of urgency war with the scent of bacon wafting out from behind her. “Quinn, has no one offered you a bit of breakfast for your efforts?” she inquired, trying hard to keep the laughter from her voice.
“No, ma’am!” His eyes widened in hungry hope.
“Well, I’m all for rushing to Reverend Bauers’s aid, but I have a few things to attend to that will only take a moment. Why don’t you busy yourself with a plate in the kitchen while you wait. I won’t be but a…”
Before she had even finished, Quinn was bounding down the hallway.
A small crowd circled Grace House, when Georgia and Quinn arrived in her coach. Several families stood in the courtyard with Reverend Bauers, chattering excitedly. Some great news had obviously reached the mission. If he already knew, Quinn’s mouth was sealed; he claimed he’d been told to be silent.
It took a few moments to find it. After all, one would have expected something far larger, given the commotion. Eventually, after a question or two, she was directed to something small on the Grace House doorpost.
At which point Georgia nearly stumbled.
Money.
A good deal of money, from the looks of it.
Nailed to the doorpost with a white ribbon.
The world grew still for a moment, as if startled into silence by the sight. Her gaze swayed to Reverend Bauers, who met her eyes with an expression of astonishment that surely matched her own.
Nailed to the door with a white ribbon.
Then, suddenly, she caught sight of more white ribbons. Dozens of people clutched a white ribbon and an actual dollar bill. It may have been the first time any of them saw or held, much less possessed, paper money. A dollar was no small amount, but a paper dollar—that was a double surprise. God, in His infinite wisdom and humor, had taken Stuart’s ugly twist and turned it into something splendid.
“See?” spouted Quinn. “The Bandit!” Georgia marveled that the child had been able to keep quiet at all, given the sparkle in his eyes as he pulled her forward.
“Can you believe it?” Reverend Bauers was beet-red from the excitement. “Have you ever in all your years…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Georgia could only shake her head. She was afraid to speak, sure she would give herself away if she uttered even one syllable.
The money had been nailed to the top of the archway, about nine feet off the ground. The white ribbon fluttered in the breeze, and hands from the crowd reached up to touch it, as though it would bless them on contact. When she’d read Stuart’s passage, Georgia had envisioned a frilly white ribbon—something off a hat or dress. This was a simple strip of white cloth—not fussy, but noble and absolutely perfect.
“Come, lad,” Reverend Bauers called, pointing to Quinn. “What do you say we get this down and put it to good use?”
The boy sprinted toward the reverend, who hoisted him up to reach the nail. It did not come free easily, and in the end three men had to hold Quinn up while he wiggled it loose. When he finally succeeded, and was lowered into the crowd clutching the money and the ribbon, a cheer rose up. Georgia absorbed every detail so that she could tell Stuart. Even he couldn’t remain unaffected by the scene unfolding before her.
Hope had come South of the Slot.
God had brought it. Invited by the persona of her Black Bandit.
Her satisfaction was so deep, so complete, that if the world never knew of her role, it would be more than fine.
Thank You, Lord, Georgia prayed as she watched Reverend Bauers lock the money up in the mission safe a few minutes later. Fifty dollars would go a very long way in his resourceful hands. Thank You so very much for giving me such a laughable idea and turning it into this. I’m blessed beyond words.
The reverend dusted off his hands and turned to her, grinning from ear to ear. “I never thought I’d have occasion to say this, child, but God bless Stuart Waterhouse.”
“Stuart?”
“Come now,” said the clergyman, pulling her a bit closer while he lowered his voice. “Do you think I don’t know? It’s obvious the Bandit is Stuart’s doing, so don’t try to hide it.” He narrowed one eye playfully. “Although I’d mind what you say around him from now on. After this hits his presses, he’s liable to pounce on any story you tell him. It’s a good thing Mr. Covington seems sporting about the whole matter, I’ll tell you that.”
So they all thought Stuart wrote the Bandit stories.
Well, of course they did—it would be the natural conclusion of anyone who really sat down to think about it. And surely now the reverend and Mr. Covington had every reason to think Stuart was George Towers. They’d naturally assume she’d told Stuart the story of the Bible, and he’d used it. Such behavior was expected of him.
But Stuart hadn’t done it, had he? No, she had. She had done something so “Stuartlike” that everyone immediately attributed it to him. Not a compliment to her character.
Still, look what God had accomplished with it. Did that mean she had done the right thing? Or that God had made good come from her poor choice? The fact that there was no clear answer was disturbing indeed.
“Why yes, of course, that’s quite right,” she said, trying to hide her tangle of emotions. The few minutes she’d had were simply not enough to digest today’s wild turn of events. Georgia felt as if her head and heart were turning somersaults in twelve directions.
“It’s a fine, fine day.” Reverend Bauers beamed. “Just last night I was beseeching our Lord to send help for the back staircase. I was hoping we’d get another year out of the floorboards, but…” He shook his head, the tops of his ears turning pink as he chuckled yet again. “Fifty dollars. Glory be to God! Fifty dollars.”
“It is an amazing thing,” Georgia said, meaning every word.
“And long overdue in coming, my child.” Reverend Bauers fiddled with the white ribbon someone had tucked into his coat pocket. He looked up, a thoughtful expression on his chubby features. “You must tell Mr. Covington at once. He will be delighted, I think, after having seen the worst of our little flock.”
Georgia smiled, thinking how grand it would be to watch news of this fly through the city. “Stuart has invited him to dinner tomorrow, so I shall make sure he hears of our little wonder. It is a good day, Reverend,” she said. “Go and enjoy it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Georgia found Stuart standing over the printing presses. There on the stairway above the rows of black, greasy machines, he was king of all he surveyed. The day’s edition had been rerun with a detailed account of what Stuart called “The Generosity at Grace House.”
“Look at them, Peach.” He spread his hands, gesturing to the roaring machines. “Whirring away. It’s just ink and paper, but it’s so much more than ink and paper.” He burst into a chorus from The Gondoliers. “Did I not say it would be spectacular? I’ve even ordered white ribbons for the floral arrangements at dinner tonight.” He stopped swaggering and crossed his arms in thought for a moment. “I may even have them string up the trees on the front walkway. Ribbons everywhere. What do you think of that?”
That was Stuart—excessive in every detail. “I think it rather much,” she replied. Then again, “rather much” was what people expected of her brother. “There will be no white ribbons in my hair tonight, so don’t even think of asking.”
The look on his face told her she’d accurately predicted the limits—or lack of limits—of his excess. He was, obviously, planning to ask h
er just that. She shook her head, but couldn’t help smiling at his rampant happiness. His pleasure meant something to her, because he was the only person who knew the Bandit’s true source. Even if he had twisted it beyond her liking, the partnership had been fruitful beyond her bravest dreams.
At that moment, despite his faults—and the faults he seemed to drive her to—she loved her brother.
Matthew made the coachman go around the block again when he pulled up to the Waterhouse mansion. The sight ruffled him so much he needed several minutes to summon his composure.
Not that the Waterhouse mansion wasn’t an impressive sight on its own, having the unmistakable appearance of an owner who didn’t know when enough was enough. But tonight, it looked like a frosted cake. The ornate house and grounds were literally covered with white ribbons.
I suppose I deserve this, Matthew chided himself as they rounded the corner to see the ribbon-bedecked house for the second time. His stomach seemed to sink to the soles of his boots as they started up the inclined drive. It always ends up in something like this, and you never learn. Never. Matthew slumped down in his seat, wishing he could somehow render himself invisible.
But wait, you are. No one knows you were the one. Surely, if people knew, they’d have been on you like bees on honey by now. You’re safe. He pulled in a breath and straightened his collar.
Just don’t ruin it.
Had the invitation come from anyone but the Waterhouses, Matthew would have made his excuses and kept to his room. Even if it meant an entire evening of ignoring Thompson’s suspicious glare. And the valet did suspect something. After a lifetime of Matthew’s antics, the man had frighteningly good instincts about what Matthew did or didn’t do out of his sight. But even Thompson, for all he might suspect, would never reveal anything.
It was worth any discomfort, Matthew decided, to see Miss Waterhouse’s reaction to his little stunt. The whole time he’d been darting in and out of shadows, shredding his bandage and inventing ways to hammer silently, his mind had played with the image of her face. How she would react. How those porcelain cheeks would flush with joy at the sight of those ribbons fluttering in the breeze.
He’d done it for her. He told himself over and over that he hadn’t, but the truth refused to subside. Her high expectations for mankind had tugged something out of him. So he’d done it. He’d gone out and made that fictional hero display some of the philanthropy she so valued.
It felt marvelous, reckless, and he’d never slept better.
Good thing, too, Matthew thought as he pulled himself out of the coach and cringed at the cascade of white ribbons dripping all over the house. You’ll need every wit you have about you tonight.
Stuart Waterhouse looked as though he’d been crowned king of California. Within ten seconds of saying hello, Matthew was dead certain Stuart was the pen behind the Black Bandit. He was strutting like a peacock, cleverly dodging the constant questions about the Bandit’s white-ribboned generosity. For a man who loved intrigue and sensation, today must have felt like a thousand Christmases wrapped into one.
Even with all the other secrets abounding that night, Matthew was keenly aware of the one secret he shared with Georgia Waterhouse: that he owned the Bible of Black Bandit fame. Bauers knew, and probably Stuart knew, as well, but that didn’t alter Matthew’s feelings.
She knew. It played across her face whenever her gaze flickered his way, driving him daft for most of the evening until sometime after coffees were poured, when Matthew managed a word with her in a corner of the library.
“My dear Miss Waterhouse,” he said, astounded at his sudden craving to say her first name despite the social outrage it would have caused. “What an astounding pair of days.”
Her smile ignited something in his chest. “So you’ve heard about our little wonder? The reverend said that you had seen the worst of our community, and now he was pleased that you were able to see us at our best.”
“It is a fine thing.”
“I’m so delighted for Grace House,” she said.
Matthew let caution slip through his fingers. “I have a certain now-famous volume with me.” He spoke the words quietly, his hand casually resting on his coat breast pocket. He knew exactly what he was doing, and it had the intended effect.
For a moment she seemed to hold her breath, and he felt it in the skip of his heartbeat. “Is that wise?” she nearly whispered.
“I have the feeling it’s best kept on my person for the time being. Imagine the spectacle should someone discover it.”
Her eyes asked the question: Will you reveal it? What a strange thing it was to find himself in one of San Francisco’s most enviable positions: knowing one of Stuart Waterhouse’s secrets.
Chapter Fifteen
Surely, the Bible all but proved Stuart Waterhouse wrote the Bandit.
Ah, but Stuart still didn’t know that Matthew was the one to bring the Bandit to life. Even if he never stooped to use them, holding such trump cards over Waterhouse was a rare moment indeed.
He’d rather have spent this moment in more private company with Georgia, but polite society had other plans. Instead, he found himself reduced to engaging Miss Waterhouse in a series of bland pleasantries as the other guests persisted in drifting in and out of their conversation. Stuart soared in for a moment, waving a white ribbon and pecking his sister on the cheek before a pair of his business associates whisked him away to meet someone “most important.” After three more such distractions, Matthew finally secured a moment of privacy with her, and dived into the subjects he had wondered about for days.
“Why has Stuart never married?”
Miss Waterhouse put down the punch cup she was holding. “A bold question, Mr. Covington.”
He tucked his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Stuart is a bold man, Miss Waterhouse. And one of substantial wealth. Even with his…distinct character, he could have his choice of San Francisco’s eligible young ladies.”
Georgia turned her attention to an overlarge portrait of Stuart that hung beside the fireplace mantel. Posed in a thronelike chair beside a roaring fire, her brother looked so regal that the painting could have been hung on an ancient castle wall in Britain. The artist had also, however, captured the rebellious glint of Stuart’s eyes. The sly turn of his mouth that let one know the man held a thousand secrets and wouldn’t hesitate to use them.
“Stuart was almost married once,” she said, her voice faraway as she touched the bottom corner of the frame. Matthew found the gesture surprisingly tender.
He liked that about her. Despite her brother’s appetite for scandal, despite the fact that the floor beneath her feet and the clothes on her back and perhaps even the pearls at her neck had been very likely purchased with scandal, she wouldn’t stoop to it.
Matthew held her eyes for a long moment, wanting to say so much more than was possible in the circumstances. “Still,” he finally offered, “I believe marriage to be a fine and worthy institution.”
“I agree.” She gave a small smile and clasped her hands together. “I have seen the characters of many men highly improved by a fine marriage. I persist in my hope for Stuart.”
He simply could not resist. Dropping his voice, he inquired, “And of your own hope? If I were a less honorable man, I would not resist the temptation to ask you why it is that you haven’t married.”
Her smile became warm and broad. She laid her hands across her throat in a mock swoon. “Oh, then it is a good thing you are an honorable man, Mr. Covington. Your resistance is most appreciated.”
It was the flash in her eyes that banished the last of his restraint. “Why is it you never married, Miss Covington?”
“What of your resistance?”
“It seems to have wandered off. I shall fetch it back…eventually.”
“As well you should.”
He waited for her to reply.
She didn’t. She simply looked at him with a sly smile. Again he saw a hint of the
very complex woman lurking under all that propriety. “Then I shall answer you…eventually,” she murmured.
“But not now.”
“No, Mr. Covington. Not now.”
Somehow, her refusal to comply was even better than any answer she could have offered. Which was a daft thought. Georgia Waterhouse drove him to sheer lunacy. His previous night’s work was proof of that.
Georgia fell back on her pillows, exhausted yet wide awake. Such a day this has been, Lord.
One of the two dogs that lived in the Waterhouse mansion home laid its head across the foot of the bed. More than a dozen years ago a San Francisco man had been crazed enough to declare himself emperor of the United States. He’d had two dogs, one named Lazarus, the other named Bummer. When the “Emperor” died in 1880, Stuart had gone out and purchased two dogs and given them the same names. Georgia pitied the beasts, which were caught up in her brother’s endless plays for power, just as she was. “Lazarus, can you imagine such a thing? Money, nailed to trees with white ribbons? How do you suppose it was done?” She flipped herself around on the bed to face the dog, scratching the thin-faced hound between the ears. “How is it that no one saw it?”
Lazarus only moaned, then turned in circles to settle himself on the thick rug. Georgia flopped back, her arms spread across the plush covers. How had it been done? The scene unfolded in her imagination, materializing out of a gray fog in tiny details. He must be tall—of course he would be tall—and athletic. Nimble but very strong. He must have dressed in dark clothes to have moved about unnoticed, she imagined. Black? Brown? No, gray. A misty gray.
Where had the money come from? Locals always used gold coin—only Easterners had paper money. What did that mean? When had he decided to adopt Stuart’s white strips?
She saw him in her mind’s eye—a faceless, noble silhouette sliding in and out of the shadows. Broad-shouldered, dark-eyed. A brooding personality, perhaps. A man who had known some of life’s pain, she decided, although she couldn’t exactly say why. A man who knew the burden of command and the power of mercy.
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