Taking the High Road

by Morris Fenris

John slid off the desk to stand beside her, his prey, now a wounded victim, and offered his hand. If not in friendship, then certainly in support. “The truth is, I sorta wanted to lay eyes on you again, after the other day. And here I am. Uh—you goin’ out in public like that, things’re appearin’ a trifle drafty. Got one of them female covers you can wrap around yourself?”

  No, it was not the truth. Cecelia was quick enough, perceptive enough to see that apparently there was no truth in this man. Perhaps he simply couldn’t help lying about everything. Well, all she needed at the moment was an escort home. It wasn’t as if she would need to trust him on any matter, ever again.

  “A shawl, you mean?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Taking the knitted thing, lightweight and glossy as cobwebs, he slipped it over her shoulders and then opened the door. “I grew up in a houseful of boys, Miss Powell. Didn’t have much experience with ladies’ gewgaws till I left home and made my way north.”

  Cecelia had attempted to put herself into some kind of order for walking out into the public, keeping her hair loose to conceal the cheek already beginning to discolor, hiding her bruised wrist in the folds of her skirt pocket. Now, pausing while she locked the schoolhouse door, she peered skeptically up at him. “Somehow I doubt that, Mr. Yancey. What about your mother?”

  “I was the youngest of ten. My mama died birthin’ me.” A quiet statement of fact, as he kept pace beside her down the paved walk and forward. Or another lie, meant to disarm? “You don’t have far to go, do you?”

  “Only a few blocks. Afraid to be seen with me where someone might catch you?”

  She must be feeling better, John reflected with a small sigh. The tartness had come back to her tongue. “No, ma’am. Just wonderin’,” and he tried out the warmth of his smile again, “how long I’d be able to have the pleasure of your company.”

  “You’re a fine-spoken man, John Yancey,” murmured Cecelia, “even if you did grow up without a mother’s guidance. From the south, I gather?”

  “Charleston, ma’am. My paw owns a plantation there. That kinda life wasn’t for me, though. So I wandered around a while, finally settled up in Boston.”

  “Boston?” She stopped in surprise. “Why, that’s where I used to live. And so does—uh—”

  Noah Harper, he could bet she’d been about to say. Jesus. She had secrets, some of which he knew about. He had secrets, none of which she knew about. What a coil.

  “Lotsa people,” he helped her out. “Big town. Ever wanna go back there?”

  “No, not really.” She explained about her years at an exclusive Swiss school, and her relocation, along with Gabe and Bridget, to California.

  “Looks like we’re both kinda sugarfoots. Here, watch your step.” He took her elbow, guiding her over and past an area dug up by who knew what for who knew what reason.

  Beginning with the great 1851 fire that had destroyed some 2500 buildings, San Francisco was a city in a constant state of flux, with changes going on from bay to skyline. Going one day to the next, even streets were shifting position and names, leaving residents occasionally at a loss for direction in their own neighborhoods.

  “And what did you do in Boston, Mr. Yancey?” she asked, as they continued on their way.

  “Oh, this and that. Had me some—uh—interestin’ learnin’ experiences.”

  There, that charming smile again. She hardened her heart and her senses against responding. “Then what brought you to San Francisco?”

  Damn, but she was persistent. “Had me some business to attend to. This your place, Miss Powell?”

  “It is, indeed. Thank you for seeing me safely home, Mr. Yancey. And for—um—for your assistance, back at the school.”

  He waited. Tall and darkly attractive and somewhat taciturn, he, too, could be patient as Job.

  “That you, Cecie?” came Gabe’s worried voice from the front porch. “I’m glad you’re back, honey, I was beginnin’ to wonder where you’d got to. And I’ve had some news that—oh. It’s you.”

  “Me,” agreed John genially. “Good afternoon, Mr. Finnegan.”

  So, in the wake of his unexpected helpfulness, there was nothing else to be done but invite him into the bosom of her family for tea and some of Mrs. Liang’s shortbread.

  “Why, yes, ma’am, I’d be delighted to accept.” Appreciating the irony of this whole crazy situation, John climbed up the couple of stairs behind the lady of the house, appreciating also the fascinating sway of her hips in their frilly muslin skirt.

  Gabe was standing, as he would be in honor of any guest, invited or not. “Our housekeeper, she’s fixed us somethin’ very ladylike to drink. Me, I’d rather take my bourbon straight. You, too, Mr. Yancey?”

  “I would indeed, sir. Thank you.”

  “Cecie, you could—” Turning, the lawyer finally got a glimpse of his ward, full on, and nearly dropped the bottle he had picked up. “Great stars above, girl, what’n hell has happened to you?”

  “A little accident at the school,” John put in smoothly, lifting his glass to be filled. “I meandered in about the same time and offered to bring the lady home.”

  “Honey, you forget that tea mumbo-jumbo and have yourself a drink with us,” advised Gabe, out of the love and concern he always felt for this girl. “You look to be in a lot of pain, and a few drops of good Kentucky bourbon is just what you need for comfort.”

  A floozy. That was the term Noah had used, to describe both her mother and herself. Well, perhaps it was time let blood call to blood. “I think I will, Gabe. As for what happened, I’ll tell you all about it later. What news did you have for me?”

  “Uh.” Offering her a teacup of spirits, Gabe glanced over at their guest. “Well, it’ll keep, sugar. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  The next half-hour or so was filled with pleasant small talk, mostly between the two men. Cecelia contributed little to the conversation; she had leaned back in her favorite chair to let the effect of Gabe’s firewater wash over her, numbing the discomfort of the Noah-inflicted wounds, leaving her in sweet dreamy bliss.

  Eventually, the silence from her corner, as the afternoon waned, signaled that it was time for this quiet interval to break up.

  “I swear,” murmured Gabe in astonishment, “she’s gone right to sleep.”

  John couldn’t help grinning. “You ever give her hard liquor before?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  He caught John’s mirthful eye, and both began laughing like loons. Which of course stirred Cecelia into fretting wakefulness. “Don’t be so—loud,” she complained, shifting position. “Hurts—my head…”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet it damn well does,” said John. “You need some help gettin’ her up to her room, old man?”

  “Watch your language, there, son. I ain’t so old but what I couldn’t take you down in a fight. No, we’ll let her rest a while and then get her taken care of.” He paused to add a reluctant word of thanks. “That hogwash about some accident don’t set right with me, so I’ll find out the truth of the matter later on. But I appreciate you gettin’ her home, Yancey. That was a good thing you done.”

  “Glad to be of service, sir. Much obliged for the drink.” Already on his feet, John touched fingers to forehead in a small salute, and betook himself away.

  “Ohhhhh…” Cecelia’s heartfelt groan indicated real distress. “Is he gone, Gabe? After all that’s gone on today, I’ll never be able to look that man in the face again.”

  Chuckling, Gabe resumed his seat. “Aw, shucks, honey, not a fellah on earth but what ain’t overindulged a little once in a while. You coherent enough now to tell me about this so-called accident?”

  “If you think Mrs. Liang might have something in her ancient Chinese cupboard for pain,” said the girl plaintively.

  “I’m sure she does. Soon as Bridget comes down, I’ll send her for a medicant to help you feel better. Now. Talk.”

  Cecelia pulled herself upright, and prepared for the gauntlet. In a
s quiet and unemotional tone as possible, she recounted the afternoon’s events: the appearance of Noah Harper, out of the blue; the threats and demands he had made; his verbal and physical abuse.

  Throughout the recital, Gabe was looking more and more like a giant thundercloud, about to erupt into raindrops and hailstones and blasts of hurricane-force wind. At the end, he surged to his feet, face reddened with fury and mood almost apoplectic. “You mean that goddamned varmint dared—he dared to lay hands on you? He hit you?”

  “Yes, but I’m all right. Honestly, the bruises will disappear, and—Gabe, please calm down. I can’t have you be hurt by all this, too!”

  Giving vent to a string of curses that were completely original to his awe-struck audience, he was pacing from one end of the porch to the other, stamping each step as if for emphasis. “I’ll find that little brute; I’ll track him down wherever he’s hidin’ out. By God, I’ll teach him to slap around a woman. I’ll file charges against him. I’ll kick his bony ass into the bay and watch him drown.”

  “Gabe.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Cecelia couldn’t hold back a couple of giggles. “Gabe, that’s all well and good. But isn’t it his word against mine?”

  He swung around on her. “O’course it is. But all we have t’do is let the sheriff have a gander at you, right now, let him see what Harper did. Time to file charges, Cecie.”

  “And then Noah will get hold of the newspaper office, and put into print all the dirt about my background,” she pointed out reasonably.

  “So what? Most ev’ryone in this town has got a shady past. You ain’t alone.”

  Sighing, Cecelia tried to hold her splitting head together before the pieces cracked apart like a walnut. “Can he really have me locked up, Gabe?”

  “No, he cannot. You put that worry right outa your head, honeybun. Your daddy left you that gold mine in his will, all fit and proper. Ain’t nobody’s business beyond knowin’ that fact.”

  “Well, that’s one relief, anyway. I need to think about this, Gabe. I’m not about to hand over my inheritance to a half-brother who doesn’t deserve it. But neither do I want my reputation ruined by one man’s evil gossip-mongering.”

  Gabe had calmed down enough to resume his seat. But he poured another hefty shot of bourbon and inhaled it with gusto. “The boy seemed pleasant enough, that day he came to my office in Boston,” he reminisced for her benefit. “But I think there’s an ugly dark pool of hate and depravity buried down deep inside him. I got to wonderin’ if he’s actually sane.”

  Cecelia shivered a little, in remembrance. “I wondered that, too,” she confessed, “when he cornered me at school. I was—I was quite frightened.”

  “I’m sure you were.” He eyed her with sympathy. “Wish I’d been there for you, Cecie, girl.”

  “Me, too, Gabe.” First a wan smile, then a shrug. “But how were either of us to know?”

  Silence for a few minutes, as evening began to draw in. Kerosene lamps were beginning to glow here and there, as folks returned from wherever they’d been to unlighted houses, and the off-tune warbling of some drunken carouser drifted back up the hill.

  “And what was your news, Gabe?”

  He looked over at her in the semi-darkness. “Ha. I was gonna tell you, honey, what I’d heard roundabout: that Noah Harper was in town.”

  Headache or not, Cecelia let loose with a helpless peal of laughter, and after a moment Gabe joined in. Amusement for such delicious irony was far better any day than lamentation.

  VII

  Horrified by her adored Miss Cecie’s ordeal and shocking appearance, Bridget managed, with much persuasion, to keep her in bed for most of one full day. A poultice for her bruises and some magical potion from Mrs. Liang’s supply aided in her recovery, as did Bridget’s assurance that Max would be delighted to knock the teeth right down that little Harper whelp’s throat. Cecelia had no doubt that he could do it, too. If not for her own benefit, then certainly for the benefit of his lady love.

  “I’m so relieved not to have classes right now,” she confided to Bridget, once an enticing supper tray had been carried upstairs and placed carefully across her knees.

  “And I have your word you’ll be stayin’ in for a short while, till you’re lookin’ more like yourself?” Bridget pressed her. “No point goin’ out and about only to have a ream of questions thrown your way.”

  “Oh, Bridge,” Cecelia sighed. “You and your uncle Gabe are my mainstays; you’re my family. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  The appreciative blush that crept into Bridget’s cheeks provided quite a contrast to her freckles and red hair. Heartfelt, nonetheless. Then, because sentiment held little sway over her Irish pragmatism, she rounded briskly on her patient. “You go on and eat, now, Miss Cecie. That soup is nice and warm, and I buttered the bread just as you like it.”

  “Bridget…”

  “Somethin’ else you’d be likin’ to have?” The maid paused in her bustle around the room, picking up this, hanging up that, straightening and fussing.

  “I was just wondering…um…Did I leave a large white handkerchief somewhere? Slightly damp, quite wrinkled…”

  “Funny you should mention it,” said Bridget with an understanding grin. “I did find that very thing, crumpled up in a corner of your chair on the front porch. Expensive, I’d say. Even has a monogram worked into the linen.”

  Color flushed Cecelia’s fair skin. She picked up her soup spoon and took a taste.

  “It’s in the laundry, bein’ washed and ironed as we speak. Plannin’ to return his personal property, were you?”

  Lovely little nose in the air, Cecelia sent her maid a disdainful glance. “Of course I shall. At the earliest opportunity.”

  “That would mean, I’m thinkin’, findin’ out more about the man. Where he’s stayin’, for instance, and so on. You let me know, Miss Cecie, and I’ll set Max to work on the problem. At the moment, he’s got nothin’ else to do but that…and bother me.” A giggle, and Bridget slipped away.

  Meanwhile, over at the Hotel Alexandria, things were not quite so friendly. Or so rosy.

  Noah’s two-day deadline had come and gone, without a word of concession from the scarlet jade. Time to take matters into his own hands, from here on, and prove to her that he meant exactly what he said.

  Thus an enigmatic but intriguing letter, written on the hotel’s finest stationery, had been delivered to Mrs. Augusta Kingsley. A brief introduction and mention of his status in Boston, the inclusion of hints about “someone of interest” to both their families, an invitation to lunch at one of the city’s finest dining establishments, and Augusta was hooked.

  She and Josiah arrived by private carriage, both dressed as fashionably as if summoned by royalty instead of a mere crass business mogul. Of course, the plum color she chose was not the most flattering for her complexion, and all the hurly-burly of braid and ribbons added extra weight to her already substantial frame, and the full-sized bird upon her hat did resemble nothing more than a dead crow.

  Incidentals. Augusta was extremely pleased with her appearance; more so when Noah, meeting her at the door, offered fatuous compliments on her finery and taste. Bridling like a teenager, fluttering her fan, she allowed him to seat her at the table, smack-dab in the center of the room, for all to see. Josiah schlumped along behind, quite aware that he was out of his league but unable to do anything about it.

  “My, my, isn’t this a lovely place,” she approved, casting her covetous glance around. Hoping someone of importance was there to take notice.

  “Glad you like it.” Noah, as host, handed out menus. “Please, order whatever you want; it will be on my bill. Some sherry, perhaps?”

  “Oh, better and better,” proclaimed Augusta, sending a significant raised-brows look toward her son. “Such a nice treat, coming here, Mr. Harper. From Boston, you mentioned in your note?”

  “Boston, yes.”

  The sherry arrived, a warm golden wine serve
d in beautiful little goblets that enhanced the atmosphere and mellowed the mood. After a slow, considering sip, Augusta pronounced the vintage excellent. Entrees were chosen, heavy crockery plates were served, and the luncheon began.

  “It’s quite a coincidence, your home town being Boston,” she went on, as if there had been no interruption in their conversation. “We know people who have moved here from Boston, also.”

  “Do you, indeed?” An anticipatory smile, baring shark’s teeth.

  “Why, yes. Josiah, my dear son, is betrothed to a young lady from Boston. Perhaps you know her—Cecelia Powell.”

  “As a matter of fact…” Noah was cutting into a slab of pink salmon as if the subject matter were of no importance, “Miss Powell’s relocation to San Francisco is just the reason I’ve come here.”

  “Really?” Augusta looked knowingly at her son. “Did you hear that, Josiah? He’s here because of our own dear Cecelia.”

  Josiah rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother, I did hear that. I’m not deaf. I’m sitting right here at the table with you.”

  All around them swirled the busy-ness of a noon meal: waiters carrying dishes to and from the kitchen; other diners conversing and clinking utensils and joining in occasional laughter; outdoor clatter as a heavily loaded dray rolled past. Noah sent an amused glance toward his guests, both of whom were digging into their sauced and salted portions as if this were their last meal on earth. Another parent/child relationship gone on the skids.

  “Well, then, I simply must ask…” Augusta leaned forward, avaricious expression begging for gossip, “please do share with us what you know of Miss Powell. If I may be so bold,” she lowered her voice, “the lovely young lady has not been very forthcoming about her past life.”

  What would be the old shrew’s reaction, Noah wondered idly, if he mentioned the fact that her son’s intended had been born a bastard, on the top floor of a brothel?

  “I hardly think I need go into any details about her personal life.” Noah dangled the bait like an expert fisherman. “Suffice it to say that I have some business to contract with Miss Powell, and I’m anxious to conclude all the details and return home. I share a residence with my mother—as you do, Mr. Kingsley—” See that; we are brothers under the skin, both tied to harridans. “—and mine has not been well.” An outright lie, but who would know? And it makes me that much more sympathetic.