He turned away and ducked through the bushes.
Reverend Bauers had said the world made more sense to a man of faith. Matthew found he could not agree.
For the next few days, Matthew buried himself in the part of his life that ought to make sense. He tried to lose himself in the orderly procession of numbers, in the sheer volume of ledgers at Covington Enterprises.
The ledgers refused him any solace. Subtle discrepancies kept peeking out at him. Strange transactions. Odd numbers that seemed to fit entirely too easily into gaps created by other commerce. Produce bought too far out of season. Ships that returned to docks slightly before their voyages should have been over. Payrolls that seemed a tad too large for one ship, too small for another. Yet everything still added up—if one didn’t look too closely. It was as if someone was poring through the books ahead of him, shifting figures, covering tracks, smoothing over clues.
“Mr. Covington, a moment?”
“Oakman.” Matthew pulled his head up and rubbed his eyes.
“Everything in order, sir?”
“Yes.” That wasn’t a lie. Everything was in order. It was just in the wrong order, or too perfect an order…Matthew couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something in the books did not feel right to him at all. They felt tampered with, although by whom and to what end he could not yet say.
“Mrs. Oakman and I were wondering if you wouldn’t care to join us for dinner tonight. Caroline says she is sure you must be tiring of hotel fare.”
Matthew had planned to spend the evening going over more documents, but he did have to admit his eyes were bleary. And sleep? Sleep had become a luxury. Some nights he hadn’t slept at all. On the one hand, such wakefulness offered him great chances to pore through the tattered little Bible, and he’d learned much. On the other hand, he was becoming a bit unsteady during the day. He couldn’t be entirely sure that the dark doubts his mind produced were more the product of too little sleep than of suspicious bookkeeping. Matthew was long past weary. Perhaps a good sound meal was just what he needed. Besides, conversation with Oakman could only help to shed light on things—provided he asked the correct discreet questions.
“Mrs. Oakman is quite right. I should be delighted to attend. Do thank her for me.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
She was there.
It was both a wonderful and an awful turn of events to find Georgia Waterhouse and Sister Charlotte waiting with Mrs. Oakman in the parlor when Matthew and Dexter arrived at the house. Without Stuart. At first glance, Matthew thought it best to plead fatigue and end the evening as quickly as courtesy would allow. With his wits fraying, it would be the wisest thing to do.
Propriety told him he couldn’t, but he knew the real reason.
The Oakmans’ daughter also played the harp, and Mr. and Mrs. Oakman had invited them all into the library after dinner to hear her play. As they walked down the hall, Matthew inquired how things were going at Grace House.
“Quinn has asked Reverend Bauers for fencing lessons,” Georgia reported.
“Fencing lessons?” Matthew nearly stumbled as he entered the room.
“Evidently the combination of your victory over Ian and Michael, combined with a fascination for Black Bandit stories, has sparked an interest in swordplay. The reverend is understandably concerned.”
“Ian and Michael?”
“Oh, you know them.” She smiled and touched his once-injured arm. It was a light touch, yet his entire body felt the contact. “You owe your new scar to Ian.”
Matthew frowned. “In my opinion, I owe my new scar to Reverend Bauers’s medical skills.”
“He has a good heart,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper as Amelia Oakman took her place behind the harp.
“Would that his hand were as steady,” Matthew couldn’t help adding, even though he had to lean close to her to do it. She smelled of lavender and something creamy that made his head swim. He saw the momentary reaction in her shoulders, the start she gave at his nearness, the smile that lingered at the corner of her mouth when she turned her attention to the music.
He, however, could not turn his attention to the music. He faced in that direction, gave the appearance of attending to the performance, but it was all pretense. Matthew watched Georgia instead.
“I’ve not yet heard you play, Miss Waterhouse,” Matthew said when the girl had finished. “Stuart tells me you are quite accomplished.”
“Georgia is exquisite at the harp, Mr. Covington,” Sister Charlotte declared. “A gifted musician, believe me.”
“As is Amelia,” Georgia added. “I see great talent in you, my dear.”
“Thank you.” Amelia dipped into a curtsy. “Would you like to play my harp?” Amelia asked. “I should love to hear you.”
“As would I,” agreed Sister Charlotte.
“And I,” said Matthew.
She resisted once, but finally agreed to play, and settled herself behind the instrument. Matthew was not prepared for what he saw.
Georgia was an altogether different woman when she played. Passionate. Dramatic. Matthew watched her shoulders press into the falling notes, pull others out of the velvety depth. That spark that always hid within her eyes burst into flame when she played the harp. Everything he had suspected of Georgia, everything that made her capable of writing the Bandit, emerged. She caught his eye once and he thought his heart would stop.
As they entered the carriage to ride home, Georgia wondered if inviting Sister Charlotte had been wise. She’d appeared as if she were enjoying herself earlier in the evening, but as the night wore on the nun began to look more and more agitated. Once inside the carriage, Sister Charlotte planted herself across from Georgia and crossed her arms sharply.
“Georgia Waterhouse,” she said the moment the carriage lurched into motion, “I never thought I’d have cause to say this, but you are a fool.” Those violet eyes gave her a look that likely stopped any misbehaving student dead in her tracks.
“A fool?”
Her slim fingers drummed against the black sleeves of her habit. “Do not think I’ve missed it. I have seen you back off from our young Mr. Covington because of this…this…character. The Bandit is not real. Covington is, and he is more than taken with you.”
Georgia pushed out a breath. She did not wish to get into this just now. Her brain was atumble enough as it was. “Charlotte, you know he visited me. The Bandit is real. Mr. Covington and I can have no future, however pleasing he may be.”
Charlotte untangled her arms. “I believe there is a man portraying your Bandit. He may be real. The Bandit is not. I wonder, Georgia, if you know the difference.”
“Of course I do,” she retorted.
Now it was Charlotte’s turn to look exasperated. “Are you sure? Forget the Bandit mess for a moment. Covington. Can you not see how he looks at you? Has he not given you any encouragement in the matter?”
Georgia sighed. “Yes and no. It is a jumble in my head.” She let her head fall against the carriage window. “Yes, he has been kind. Attentive, even.” She looked at her friend. “But Charlotte, what does any of that matter if he is going back to England?”
Charlotte rose off her seat and came to sit on the cushion next to Georgia. “What does any of England matter if there is a chance for love?” She looked intently into her eyes. “Tell me. Is there a chance you can love this man?”
Georgia thought of the lemon cake, and the flowers, and the way he’d looked at her tonight. She thought of what she’d seen in the mission garden, and how he made her laugh so many times. Yes, of course she could love this man. Part of her already did. She just refused to admit it. “I cannot go to England,” she said, in an almost whimpering tone.
Charlotte’s voice grew tender. “And why not? What is it that you think is keeping you here? Certainly not Stuart. Bauers will be sorry to lose you, but far more eager to see you happy.” She reached out and clasped Georgia’s arm. “You think you cannot be happy anywhere
but here, but I think you haven’t even begun to know what your own life is. How happy you could be.”
Her expression darkened. “Or perhaps it is something deeper. It is far safer to love a man who does not exist, isn’t it? One who cannot hurt you because he isn’t real? After all, I did say how much some real men pale under scrutiny, didn’t I? Oh, Georgia, don’t listen to my foolish words.”
The carriage pulled to a stop outside of the convent. “I cannot tell you what to do,” Charlotte continued. “That job belongs to God. But I can tell you to heed your heart. God has your own life prepared for you, Georgia. Don’t miss it by staring at dreams and surrendering to obstacles.”
Later that night, Matthew reread the open letter “George” had written to the Bandit. The intensity of the plea, the need he saw in it for Georgia to meet her Bandit, took down the last of his resistance.
She had to know. He wouldn’t lie any longer, even if it cost him everything to reveal himself to her. She deserved no less.
She deserved so much more.
He would have to trust God with the consequences of that truth if he were to trust God at all. Even if all they would have would be the time before England called him home, who was he to say that would not be enough for her?
But how? Where? Part of him wanted to climb up her balustrade like Romeo and profess his identity tonight. An hour from now suddenly seemed too long. Then again, that moment of revelation might be all they would have. After all his cowardice, he owed her a dramatic, romantic, Bandit-worthy revelation. Perhaps it was time for Matthew Covington to write a Bandit episode of his own. And the upcoming Bandit Ball seemed ideal. Providential, even.
He found himself staring at the newspaper as if it could link him to her. I love you, his mind shouted into the night as he pulled on his coat. I am the Bandit, and I love you. And at the ball, you will know.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Matthew banged on the Grace House door until someone let him in. He demanded to see Reverend Bauers and, no, he didn’t care about the hour.
Bauers eased himself down into one of the chairs after letting Matthew into his study. “I’d offer you some coffee—” he yawned “—but you don’t look as if you’d care to wait that long.” He ran his hands down his face and squinted at Matthew. “What is it, son?”
“I love her. She needs to know everything. I see that now.”
The reverend’s smile was warm despite his chiding tone. “Could you not have come to this life-altering conclusion at a more decent hour?”
Matthew simply sighed.
“Of course not. Such things seem always to hit us in the middle of the night. And you, we know, are at your best by moonlight. I have gotten far less sleep since meeting you, my friend. And I didn’t get much sleep before.”
“You were right. It is as much as lying to her. She deserves the truth, and she deserves to know how I feel about her, no matter where it leads.” Matthew shook his head. “I sound like an idiot. Talking in valentines. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“Love and faith in a single fortnight? It’s a wonder you’re still standing. A little high-minded speech can only be expected.” The clergyman settled back in his chair. “How did you come to realize this? No, wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want the details—there’s enough of it on your face. I wish love and our Lord kept more sensible hours.” He yawned again, but grinned all the same. “You’re going to tell her.”
“At the ball.”
Bauers cocked an eyebrow. “You couldn’t think of someplace more private?”
“Don’t you see? It will be private. I’ll be hiding among a sea of Bandits. It won’t have to be a rushed meeting in the middle of the night. I can be both men at once.”
“May I remind you that you always have been both men at once? It is only you who’ve chosen to hide one side or the other.” He gave Matthew a long stare. “She shares your feelings?”
Now, here was the sticky wicket. Matthew got up from the chair and paced the room. “She cares for the Bandit. I know that much.”
“Matthew,” Bauers replied, “do not do this only because you think it will gain you Georgia. Do it because it is the truth, and because you know she deserves as much. Do not think to trick the lady’s heart.” He rested his hands on the arms of the chair. “She may be angered by your deception. Have you thought of that? You told me yourself she asked the Bandit to reveal himself, and you denied her. If she does not care for you the way you think she does, she may use the truth to hurt you.”
Matthew paced the floor for a moment, hands stuffed in his pockets, considering all the possible outcomes. He stopped and turned. “It comes down to one question, doesn’t it, Bauers?”
“And what is that?”
“Is she worth everything?”
Matthew could not remember being more unsettled for a social occasion. Sensing his nerves, Thompson paid extra attention to his attire. Some of that, of course, may have been the personal pride of finally getting the opportunity to show off the Bandit’s costume. He fussed and fidgeted until Matthew could barely endure the attention.
As he left for the ball, Matthew had the distinct impression that he had best return with a list of compliments on his attire. And whether or not he had the best Bandit costume, he would tell Thompson that had been the case. It could not be considered lying, for how could it not be the best Bandit costume, since it was the genuine thing?
He had the head-spinning, contradictory sensation of being a public secret. The room would be filled with men pretending to be the Bandit. He actually was, and yet no one would know. No one but him knew that the gray shirt had been patched in one sleeve thanks to a scrape from the chicken crates. Casual observers would miss the nick in his broad black hat made by Trivolatti’s meat hook. And no one, not even Thompson, knew about the odd but dear little Bible tucked under the shirt over his heart.
The absurdity of the whole evening struck Matthew as he walked out of the Palace Hotel in plain sight, dressed as the Bandit right down to the whip and a pocketful of white ribbons.
And was promptly greeted by two more Bandits.
There was no doubt this would be one of the more extraordinary evenings of his life.
Knowing Stuart as he did, Matthew thought he was prepared for the extravagance that would be the Waterhouse mansion. Despite his wildest imaginings on the subject, he found he had vastly underestimated Stuart’s gift for excess. It was rather hard to find the monstrous house under all the flowers and ribbons. White bunting, festooned with billows of silver-gray fabric, strung itself around the fence like cake frosting. Where the fabric paused, cascades of flowers erupted.
Every conceivable combination of the Bandit’s black trousers, dark gray shirt, black hat and gray mask wandered the grounds. The efforts at mock weaponry made Matthew chuckle; some men sported riding crops instead of bullwhips, and more than a few, rusty swords that looked as if they’d been recently wrenched off living room walls. Matthew could never describe this experience to anyone who hadn’t been there.
But he couldn’t merely stand and gawk; there was work to be done. He had a list of people to find and engage in conversation. A few carefully placed questions, to tongues loosened with frivolity, could provide all kinds of useful information. Matthew knew that under the right circumstances, men could be induced to boast of their crimes rather than cover them. Tonight, he guessed, plied with both drink and disguise, men might leak legions as to what was truly going on on San Francisco’s docks.
Even so, tonight was really only about one conversation: with Georgia.
What would come of it, he couldn’t begin to say. Would they have weeks together, then feel both of their hearts break as he lugged himself back to England? Would he uncover calamities at Covington Enterprises that would keep him here for years? Was there a way he could simply decide to stay? Tonight would certainly be easier if he had answers to these questions, but there were no answers to be had.
If any set
of circumstances could drive a man to prayer, it’d be these, Matthew thought, remembering the hour he’d spent pouring his heart and his anxieties to God earlier today. Father, guide me. This is all so new. I’m so far from home, from who I was. I’m trusting You have a plan in place.
Matthew kept up a steady stream of prayer as he wandered from room to room, from Bandit to Bandit, working his way through his list of sources. He had failed to find Georgia after a good half an hour of mingling. Nor, he realized, had he seen Stuart.
Five interviews and three frighteningly enthusiastic Bandits later, he saw her. He had expected his heart to skip when he saw her. He had not expected the whole world to grind to a stop. She did not see him at first—proof of God’s grace, he decided—for it took him long moments to recover his composure.
She wore white. A simple, exquisitely cut gown of the most iridescent, liquid white he had ever seen. It stood out among the riot of gown colors and black-gray Bandit costumes. Her hair was done up with a shower of tiny yellow flowers. She wore gloves of the palest yellow, matching the ribbon trim of her dress. Around one wrist, tied in a simple bow, was a long white ribbon. It danced and fluttered as she gestured, and Matthew felt its movement beneath his skin. If there was any question that he found her the most beautiful woman God had ever created, it was put to rest now. His admiration, his affection went far deeper than her charm or grace. It was the knowledge that inside this tiny, frail-looking creature beat a heart of courage. A soul of endurance, a warrior who wielded any weapon she could against the sins of her city. A woman so busy looking to the needs of others that she could not even see her own strength.
I would change that, he thought. I would help her see all that she is. Remind her of all the strengths she has. I would love her, even if it cannot be forever.
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