“I’ll have a lovely dinner with my brother. Cook always makes my favorites. And I have many plans for Easter to pull together, so I’ll be quite busy.”
Matthew wondered if being born on Easter wasn’t really the blessing Stuart made it out to be. The feast moved every year, sliding in and out of the path of Georgia’s birthday, it was true. But to Matthew it seemed Easter was yet another force determined to overshadow this extraordinary woman. His own mother spent days elaborately celebrating her birthday—and demanding others do the same. Did everyone brush aside Georgia’s birthday because it fell too near to Easter? Did she do anything other than pause for a few slices of cake before resuming rolling bandages and seeing to her household? She deserved better.
He decided on a birthday present of another kind. “Bauers’s convinced me to come back Friday. I thought you’d like to know.”
She blinked at him for a moment before she registered his meaning. When she did, she put down the bandages and turned to face him fully. “For Good Friday services? Oh, yes, Matthew, I am delighted to know.”
She had called him Matthew without thinking about it. Her immediate blush told him so. Which meant that she had been using that name in her thoughts. Which meant she had been thinking about him. A jolt went through him.
“The service is beautiful here,” she said too quickly, as if to cover up the admission, “and quite different from what I imagine you’re used to. I always find it a very moving experience.” Her gaze dropped back to the bandages. “I’ve always wanted Stuart to come, but have never been able to convince him. I’m so glad Reverend Bauers has had more success with you.”
She was oblivious of her own strength. She saw Stuart’s refusal as a reflection on her, instead of his own stubborn nature. Was she unaware that the prospect of seeing her again was half the reason Matthew had consented to Reverend Bauers’s persuasion? Was she so blind to her qualities that these people at Grace House celebrated? Instead, focusing on the many who dismissed her? How was it she held such calm inner strength without even realizing it? How did she persevere in the face of a world that seemed to pay her so little attention?
He realized he was staring at her.
He realized he did not want to stop, nor to hide what he was certain showed in his eyes. It was doomed, what he felt for her at that moment, what he’d been feeling for days, if not from the first. It could come to no good end for either of them. And yet he could no more hold it back than he could halt the tide that would carry him back to England.
“Stuart is a fool to decline,” he said quietly. He wanted to hit himself immediately. Had she not asked from the first that they not spend time discussing her brother? Was Matthew such a coward that he could only couch his hints at affection in Stuart’s actions? “I’m too glad to come and see what you hold so dear,” he said with more strength. “I would consider it an honor to escort you to the service.”
She knew. He saw it in her eyes. No, she wasn’t unaware of her effect on him. She feared it, just as he did—perhaps far more than he did. But she knew. Even if he couldn’t be certain she’d known it before now, even if she’d only suspected it when he’d kissed her hand yesterday, here, now, she knew. It seemed as if a cannon went off in his chest. “Please…Georgia…allow me the honor.”
It was a daring assumption, to use her first name without her permission, but he seemed unable to stop himself. She startled just a little bit at his boldness, but there was much more than surprise in her eyes. There was a tiny, fragile joy, a careful pleasure, that fastened itself around his heart.
“We’ll…we’ll see,” she stammered quietly.
It was enough for now.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Georgia was finishing up some sewing that evening when she heard Stuart’s tenor ringing through the halls.
“Oh, men of dark and dismal fate,
Forgo your cruel employ,
Have pity of my lonely state,
I am an orphan boy.”
She put down her work and sighed. Of course. Well, it was her own fault. She’d thought she’d penned a poignant episode of the Bandit’s adventures for the Good Friday edition. She hadn’t for a moment considered that she’d now employed one of the most famous running jokes of The Pirates of Penzance when she’d made the Bandit an orphan. She’d given the story to Stuart when they met for her birthday lunch. An episode in which readers discover the Bandit’s parents are dead, which, by definition, made him an orphan. Stuart’s beloved Gilbert and Sullivan pirates never harm any orphan, and are hilariously astounded when all their victims instantly “claim” to be orphans. “An orphan boy”—how had she not seen it? She was astounded he’d waited this long to come home and tease her.
It would be a long evening, even with a fine birthday meal. From now until the episode’s appearance on Friday—and perhaps for weeks thereafter—the chorus would be endlessly sung to her, Georgia had no doubt.
She heard her brother’s steps coming into the parlor, accompanied by a rousing chorus, “‘For he is an orphan boy, hurrah for the orphan boy!’” Stuart’s blond head popped into the room from around the corner. “And it sometimes is a useful thing to be an orphan boy!’”
Georgia looked up from the mound of cloth in her lap. “Most amusing, Stuart.”
“And how are you, my dear orphan sister?”
It had not struck her that she and Stuart were orphans, as well. Not that she didn’t know it—especially today, her birthday. But she always thought of it in terms of Stuart’s phrase “we’re all we have in the world.” The term “orphan” seemed so much colder, despite the fun Gilbert and Sullivan had with it.
“Did you have a nice afternoon at the Grace House after our lunch?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” She smiled at the memory of the ominously green cake. Reverend Bauers had said the most beautiful prayer over it. It had tasted more like medicine than confection, but she’d made a spectacle of herself complimenting the children for their efforts. She was only outdone by Matthew Covington, whose outlandish string of superlatives reduced everyone to laughter by the end. It was truly a delightful, if not delicious, celebration.
Her brother looked puzzled. “I still say it’s an odd way to celebrate your birthday. Ripping bandages.”
How wrong he could be about some things, for so smart a man! Her work at Grace House was so much more than ripping bandages. These people were as much her family as Stuart. She could think of no finer way to celebrate her life than to do the things that gave her joy. And Grace House always gave her joy. The fact that Matthew had been there had given her great joy, as well—even though it felt dangerous to admit it.
She had tried not to be disappointed when he did not appear at the Palace as she and Stuart had lunch—and more lemon cake. Instead, she had attempted to reassure herself that it was just as well not to nurture that friendship. To remind herself how foolish her growing affection was.
He felt something for her. She knew it, could feel it in how he’d looked at her when he said he was coming to Grace House on Friday.
He was coming to the church service.
He wanted to come with her. With her. Did he realize what that meant to her?
The lilies he had given her, now standing in a crystal vase on the parlor table, had not left her side all afternoon.
She shared none of this with Stuart.
“I enjoyed my afternoon immensely, Stuart. And so did you, from the look on your face.”
Stuart swept the needlework off of her lap and pulled her to her feet. “My look has nothing to do with me. It has to do with you. With your birthday present. I’ve come up with the most marvelous gift for you, Peach.”
Georgia often felt a mild sense of alarm when Stuart got that expression on his face. “And what is that?”
“I’m going to throw you a ball.”
“A ball? For my birthday?” Georgia felt the room shift a little under her feet. It was not a pleasant sensation.
> “Well, not exactly a birthday ball. It’s a little late to pull something like that off on a grand enough scale.”
A grand enough scale? She furrowed her brow.
“A great big ball. Isn’t it a fine idea?” He didn’t wait for her answer before adding, “But it’s not just any ball, Peach.”
“What do you mean?”
He dropped her hands and crossed his arms across his chest like a conquering major general. “I’m going to throw a Bandit Ball. I’m going to throw you a ball in a few weeks and we’re going to invite the Black Bandit to show his face. You’re going to meet the man who’s been bringing your fantasy to life, Peach. He’ll never know it’s you, but you’ll get to know it’s him. You’ll meet your Bandit. Are you pleased?”
Georgia gulped in a breath. “I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what to say.”
Stuart pulled her into a waltz. “Say the only thing you ought to say—yes!”
“I cannot imagine where he got this wild idea to throw a Bandit Ball.” Georgia pushed a cart full of reading primers as she and Sister Charlotte walked through the convent school a few days later. The convent was donating some educational materials to Grace House, and Georgia was only too glad to have another opportunity to visit Sister Charlotte. “It’s a dreadful idea, don’t you think?”
Charlotte selected another book from the shelf behind her and added it to the cart. “Why, not at all. I think it’s a grand idea. For any number of reasons.”
Georgia’s spirits deflated. Was she the only person who thought this a poor idea? Did anyone care what she thought of a ball proposed as her birthday present? “And those grand reasons are?”
Charlotte pushed open a supply closet door. “First of all, you’ll get to meet your Bandit under the most advantageous conditions. He has no idea of your affections for him, but because of your status as Stuart’s sister he’ll be bound to pay attention to you.”
Charlotte still had no idea that Georgia penned the Bandit’s adventures. No one knew the truth, and it was going to stay that way. If Charlotte—or anyone—merely thought her interest in the Bandit was because of Stuart, or if they persisted in their belief that Stuart was really George Towers, then that was fine with Georgia. It made things infinitely easier. “True.”
“You’ll get to see the man up close,” she continued, selecting three more books from a narrow wooden shelf, then adding some small slates and a ceramic container of stubby pencils, “not hiding behind the costume and the legend. You have no idea how illuminating it can be to see a legendary man up close. Some of them grow more compelling the nearer they get. Others, well—” she erupted into a chuckle “—let us just say they pale under scrutiny.”
Georgia took the supplies and stacked them on the cart with a dubiously raised eyebrow.
“Oh, I know of what I speak. You may find the fastest antidote to your infatuation might be spending ten minutes in close proximity to the man.” Charlotte handed over the last of the books and dusted off the front of her habit. “The stories I could tell! The heroes I could bring down.”
As outlandish as it sounded, it made Georgia wonder about Charlotte’s late husband, Robert Brownstone. What kind of man had finally won Charlotte’s heart? What had he done? How had he risen victorious over so many heroic characters?
Georgia was drawn out of her thoughts by the waving of a pencil in front of her face. “Really, dear, you must stop drifting off like that. It hides your intellect.” The nun waved to a young priest coming down the hallway. “Father David, would you please see to it that these supplies are delivered to Grace House?”
“Yes, Sister.” Off went priest and cart.
“Now,” continued Charlotte, “back to the business at hand. You’re going to invite your other man—the real-life man—to the ball, are you not?”
“Goodness. I hadn’t thought about that. I don’t even know if he’ll still be in San Francisco.” Distant shouts heralded the letting out of girls from class elsewhere in the building.
“This will give him reason to extend his visit,” said Charlotte. “Have you seen him since our last conversation? Have you revised your opinion of him in any way?”
Georgia felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “As a matter of fact, I have.” Carefully, without mentioning any names, places or other identifying details, she told Charlotte the story of the tea and cake and her birthday flowers.
“Matthew Covington? The man is Matthew Covington?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Georgia nearly gasped. She’d taken the greatest of care not to reveal his identity. “How did you…?” She could not even finish the sentence.
“My dear girl, this is a convent, not a deserted island. We still do get asked to events and we still do meet people. Especially visiting dignitaries. And I must say Reverend Bauers has been rather vocal about Covington’s dramatic scrape over at Grace House. And then there is Stuart. He likes to make sure everyone knows he knows everyone important.” One hand flew to her chest. “Really. I do wonder how you put up with that brother of yours.”
It wasn’t as if Georgia hadn’t heard that sentiment expressed many times before. She heard that remark, or something like it, frequently. But she usually fended it off with a comment about how Stuart had a big heart, or how he loved her dearly even if he did have an odd way of showing it, or how it took a big spirit to run a big paper. Today, though, she found such responses hollow and false. “I suppose I wonder myself,” she said, surprised at her own open admission.
“You’re not him, you know. You’re not alike at all. You’re the furthest thing from each other that could be.”
It was as if Charlotte had given voice to a fear Georgia had never allowed herself to recognize. A thought she’d never articulated, never even dared to name. She was afraid that people thought her like Stuart. That people mistook her tolerance for approval. That people never saw her behind the glare of Stuart’s high-energy personality. Seemingly out of nowhere, Georgia felt a lump rise in her throat. She swallowed hard, thinking it a very foolish thing indeed to grow teary in a school hallway.
Charlotte, however, was far too keen a soul not to notice the effect her words had on her companion. She grasped Georgia’s arm and squeezed it affectionately. “That’s part of it, isn’t it, dear? To spend your life alongside someone like Stuart. You fear yourself invisible.”
Invisible. It was as if Charlotte had chosen the very word Georgia couldn’t bring herself to use. Is this what nuns did? Bring people to the point where words evaded them, and they could only nod?
“My dear Georgia, none of us is invisible to God. He sees all that we do. All that we bear. All we yearn for. Surely you know that in your heart?”
“I do,” Georgia replied, her voice a bit shaky. “But…”
“But knowing something and feeling it are two different things, aren’t they?”
Georgia nodded.
“Mr. Covington. Does he make you feel invisible?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Georgia replied, with more enthusiasm that was perhaps wise. “Quite the contrary.”
“There is much to be said for that.” Together they walked through a sea of girls toward the convent garden.
“There is also much to be said for the huge distance between London and San Francisco,” Georgia murmured. “And for a heart of faith and a heart without faith.”
Charlotte patted her hand. “Ah, now, that’s a real issue. Oceans can be crossed. Households can be moved. A man’s faith is not so easy a challenge. I daresay you are right to hesitate.” She opened the garden gate. “Does he know of your faith?”
“I’m sure he does. We’ve spoken of it directly.”
“Well, that’s certainly promising. What did you discuss?”
Georgia’s heart gave an unsettling flip as she remembered the scene in the park. “He asked me to read him my favorite scripture. I’m quite sure it affected him to hear it. I mean, I suppose I’m sure. You can never be sure about someth
ing like that, can you?”
“Nonsense,” countered Charlotte. “I believe you can be.”
“Still, admiration of faith, and faith of one’s own, are very different.” Georgia fingered a broad green leaf on a plant to her left.
“An excellent point. How would you describe Mr. Covington’s faith?”
Georgia thought about it for a moment. Matthew had tried not to be affected by the scripture she had read, but she knew it had had an impact upon him. It was in his eyes even if he hadn’t said so. And somehow, without their even discussing it, she knew he was struggling with whether to delve into the Bible Reverend Bauers had given him. Was God, in fact, “on his heels,” as the reverend was so fond of saying? Was that why God had brought Matthew into her life? The thought seemed far-fetched, yet appealing. She felt a grin sneak across her face. “Ready to pounce?”
Charlotte sat down. “God has certainly been pouncing on unlikely men since the time of Moses.” She spread her hands wide. “Why not your Mr. Covington?”
Matthew looked up from cleaning his sword when the clock chimed eleven. After a dreary dinner at the Oakmans’, during which the couple seemed intent on securing themselves in his good graces by way of endless compliments, he’d retired to his room. As the son of a powerful businessman, he’d been the recipient of such attention enough times to recognize it. Still, he never could stomach it the way his father and brother could. They saw it as the necessary lubrication of the gears of commerce. To him it rang insincere.
It made him think of Georgia. How opposite they were. Here he was, under the glare of so much unwanted attention. Eyed by dozens of people who were watching to make sure he did his duty. She, on the other hand, went about duties far beyond and in many ways beneath her station without the slightest bit of recognition or notice. How could she endure the disparity, when it chafed at him so?
Masked by Moonlight Page 13
