This obsession with my future left me woefully unprepared to meet a man like Benjamin. He'd been twenty-two, one of Samuel's university friends, who spent considerable time at our house. Like me, he planned a future as an attorney, and to my delight we shared the same vision of how everyone, women as well as men, poor and rich alike, might one day be entitled to equal representation under the law. My error was in imagining that he would want an idealistic female attorney to take her place at his side.
In hindsight, I understood how he had so effortlessly swept a naïve girl off her feet. Benjamin was charm itself, ever ready to praise my mind, my wit, and, to the delight of my youthful vanity, my beauty. The summer before he left for law school, we spent long hours sharing our hopes and aspirations, even planning where he would eventually establish his San Francisco law practice. Blinded by love—or what I thought was love—I envisioned a fairy-tale future where we would toil side by side in our own law firm, joining our talents to make our city, and perhaps all of California, a better place for its citizens to live.
Benjamin gave me my first kiss, a magical experience for a young girl who had grown up sheltered by a doting father and three older brothers. I had been swept away by emotions I hadn't truly known existed.
Thinking back upon it now, I found it humiliating to admit how close I had come to succumbing completely to Benjamin's well-practiced powers of seduction. If it hadn't been for the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside my room, God only knows what folly I might have committed. And with a man who I later discovered had recently become betrothed to a young woman prominent in San Francisco society. Even if Benjamin had returned my feelings—which of course he had not—I was forced to admit that he would never have sanctioned my becoming an attorney, much less welcomed me as an equal partner into his law practice.
With a sigh of irritation, I drained my tea and rose from the chair. Whatever pique had possessed me to travel down that particular memory lane, it had nothing to do with my dinner engagement that evening. My foolish behavior with Benjamin Forest could not in any way be compared to my friendship with Pierce Godfrey. Nine years ago I had been little more than a child; I was now a woman, no longer naïve and fired with unrealistic notions about saving the world. While I could not deny a powerful attraction to the adventurous shipping magnate, my reasons for refusing his proposal of marriage three months ago had not changed.
Sadly, I thought with an unexpected pang of regret, they never could.
Unable to come up with a more imaginative plan, I made certain that I was dressed and ready for Pierce well before he was due to arrive. My idea was to wait for him in the foyer, where I would be on hand to answer the door before our elderly butler Edis could respond to the bell.
Briefly, I thought I might actually pull off the deception, but alas I had underestimated my mother's powers of observation. Having learned from the traitorous Cook, who had given me her word to remain silent, that I would not be home for dinner, she had quizzed our ladies' maid, Hazel, who admitted she had helped me dress and style my hair. She turned next to Edis, who assured her that no one had called for me at the door, whereupon she had commenced a systematic search of the house. I was finally discovered sitting quietly in a dimly lit corner of the library, awaiting an opportunity to slip out of the house unobserved.
“So, here you are,” she said, turning up the gas lamp and standing in front of me, hands on her hips. “Why didn't you tell me you were going out this evening? It's embarrassing having to hear of my own daughter's plans from the servants.”
I tried to think up a halfway believable excuse, then gave up. “I feared you would make more of the occasion than it warranted, Mama,” I finally admitted. “I didn't want a fuss.”
Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “Then it's true. I heard that Mr. Godfrey was back in San Francisco. Is he the gentleman you're stepping out with?”
“I'd hardly term it ‘stepping out,’” I replied, objecting to the phrase which was generally taken to describe a relationship a good deal more serious than mere friendship. “Mr. Godfrey and I are simply dining together. He's been away for several months, and this appeared to be a good opportunity to catch up.”
Mama beamed at me. “Of course, darling. If that's the way you choose to portray the situation, far be it from me to contradict you. I do expect you to invite Mr. Godfrey in for an aperitif before you leave, however. It is no more than common courtesy.”
Courtesy or no, asking Pierce in with the entire family at home was the last thing I'd had in mind. On the other hand, I trust I am woman enough to admit when I've been outmaneuvered.
“Very well.” I gave in with what grace I could muster. Please understand that I am devoted to my mother and love her dearly. Her obsession with seeing me married, however, can, at times, be trying. The delighted glow on her face at that moment, however, went a long way toward making this small sacrifice worthwhile.
“Perhaps Edis could show Mr. Godfrey into the front parlor when he arrives, Mama. He should be here at any moment.”
My worst fears were realized when everyone—Mama, Papa, Samuel, Charles, and Celia—was already gathered in the parlor when Pierce arrived. Although he was faultlessly polite, I could see by his slightly strained expression that he had not expected to be presented to the Woolson clan en masse.
“Mr. Godfrey, it is good to see you again,” said Charles, handing our guest a glass of whiskey and shaking his hand with genuine pleasure. “I don't know if you remember, but my wife, Celia, and I first made your acquaintance at the charity dinner your brother and his wife held at their lovely home earlier this year.”
The words were scarcely out of Charles's mouth than he abruptly seemed to recall the tragedy which had occurred at that very dinner party.
“My dear Mr. Godfrey, I'm so sorry.” He looked helplessly toward Celia, as if searching for suitable words to undo the unintentional damage he had caused.
“Please do excuse my husband, Mr. Godfrey,” said Celia in her sweet voice. “He did not mean to bring up what must be a painful subject.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Woolson,” Pierce assured her, smiling graciously at Charles. “Please do not distress yourselves. I prefer to recall the evening for the generous amount of money we were able to raise for the Women and Children's Hospital.” His gaze went to me, and his dark blue eyes grew teasing. “Then, too, that was the evening I met your charming sister, an occasion I can only remember in the most favorable light.”
For a moment, everyone's eyes rested on me, then the brief, uncomfortable silence was broken when Samuel said, “That is a brave confession, Mr. Godfrey, given that my little sister is prone to find herself in some, shall we say, awkward circumstances when it comes to murder and mayhem?”
I shot my brother a thunderous look, but my irritating sibling merely smiled and raised his wineglass as if in salute. My mother, however, did not appear to find his comments amusing.
“Please, Mr. Godfrey,” she nervously gushed. “Pay no attention to Samuel. At the risk of appearing a boastful mother, I am proud to say that Sarah works tirelessly for the poor and disadvantaged of this city, as well as involving herself in good works for our church. We are enormously proud of her.”
“Mama,” I protested. Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading, I said, “It's getting late. We really must take our leave.”
“Before you go, Mr. Godfrey,” Papa put in, “perhaps you would give me your thoughts on that new five-masted schooner, the David Dows. The one that set sail on the Great Lakes last April? It looks impressive, but does it handle in the water? That's what it all comes down to, doesn't it? I hear that weather on those lakes can become as violent as a storm on the open sea.”
Pierce smiled. “It can indeed, Judge Woolson. I agree that the Dows is an amazing lady, but as I'm sure you know, her first voyage on Lake Erie proved less than notable.”
Papa chuckled. “That's an understatement. I hear she ran aground and was strand
ed high and dry for two days. Still, her builders continue to call her the grandest cargo schooner ever to sail the Great Lakes.”
“They can hardly say anything less after all the time and money they've invested in her,” said Pierce. “In my opinion, her very size renders her too ungainly for practical shipping purposes. She may look impressive, but I wouldn't want her in our fleet.”
“Wouldn't you, now? Well, despite the shipbuilders' folderol, I bow to your expertise.” Papa was obviously enjoying this turn in the conversation. “Tell me, Mr. Godfrey, do you and your brother have plans to expand your business beyond Hong Kong?”
I could see that my mother was bristling with impatience. “Horace, really, leave the poor man alone. You heard Sarah, they must leave for dinner.” Turning to Pierce, she asked hopefully, “You will honor us with your presence at a Christmas party we will be hosting a week from this Saturday, will you not, Mr. Godfrey? That is, if you plan to remain in town through the holidays.”
“I plan to stay in the city until some time after the first of the year, Mrs. Woolson,” he replied, his smile actually causing her to blush. “I would be delighted to accept your invitation.”
My heart sank. The knowledge of when Pierce would once again set sail gave Mama nearly three weeks to play matchmaker. Even worse, I had long since invited Robert to our Christmas dinner. I shuddered to imagine him forced to spend an entire evening with a man he considered to be little better than a buccaneer!
Before the conversation could further complicate my life, I placed my wineglass on the table and reached for my evening cloak and reticule. “Shall we, Mr. Godfrey?” I said, starting toward the drawing room door. “We mustn't keep your carriage waiting.”
We dined at one of San Francisco's most noted French restaurants, the Poodle Dog, located on Bush Street. Stories about how the dining establishment came to acquire its name had been rife since it set up business in a wooden shanty in 1849. Some claimed the restaurant's original owner owned a French poodle called “le Poulet d'Or,” a name the semiliterate forty-niners who frequented the establishment at that time could not pronounce. Soon it became simply the Poodle Dog. Other stories maintained that the poodle was a stray taken in by the Frenchmen who ran the restaurant, while others insisted that the famous poodle was named Ami, and that he had actually stood at the door and greeted customers.
Whatever the truth regarding its name, the Poodle Dog left its humble beginnings far behind when it moved to Bush Street in 1868. Its new brick building towered six stories high, and featured a lavish dining room on the first floor, ornately decorated in French Louis XIV style. More private dining rooms were situated on the second floor, and decidedly risqué accommodations for private assignations could be found on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. These latter rooms came furnished with elegant beds, imported carpets, and a strict policy of silence, as long as the proper hands were crossed with silver. The sixth floor was reserved for large banquets and parties suitable for the general public.
It goes without saying that Pierce and I were led to a table in the very respectable first-floor dining room, where a number of well-dressed guests were already enjoying the Poodle Dog's excellent French cuisine. Some of the groups were families with children, who were on their best behavior. If the distinguished gentlemen's wives were aware of the “private” accommodations to be had upstairs, they did not appear to be making an issue of it, at least not openly.
“I apologize for subjecting you to the family's predinner interrogation,” I said, after the waiter left with our orders. “I'd hoped to slip out of the house unnoticed.”
“No need to apologize. I think you have a delightful family.” His dark eyes revealed more insight than I found comfortable. “I'm complimented that your mother considers me an appropriate suitor. I only wish her daughter felt the same.”
I gave a soft groan. “You noticed.”
He laughed. “I felt rather like a specimen under a microscope.” At my pained look, he hurried on, “Sarah, I'm only teasing. I truly do take it as a compliment. Your family obviously cares very deeply about you. They only desire to see you happy.”
“Yes, I'm sure you're right.”
This was nothing less than the truth. I realized full well that Mama had only my best welfare at heart. At twenty-eight I was aware that Mama's friends considered me a hopeless spinster, an eccentric one at that. Their opinion had not unduly concerned me until this unsettling man sitting opposite me had come into my life. Now, my emotions were in a turmoil; my life's course no longer seemed as logically defined as it once had. How could I make Pierce understand my feelings, when I could scarcely understand them myself?
My expression must have betrayed my confusion, for he reached across the table and took my hand, gently stroking the skin with his thumb. To my dismay, I felt my pulse leap at his touch.
He must have felt the involuntary flutter, for he went on softly, “My dear Sarah, I did not ask you to dine with me tonight in order to cause you discomfort. You made your feelings perfectly clear the night before I departed for Hong Kong.”
“The night you—” I gulped, but was unable to utter the words I could not forget.
“The night I asked you to become my wife, yes.”
Without releasing my hand, he leaned closer until his face filled my vision. His dark blue eyes captured mine so completely that it would have been impossible for me to turn my head even if I had wanted to, which, to my chagrin, I did not.
“My feelings for you haven't changed, Sarah. I doubt they ever will. You are the most remarkable and intelligent woman I have ever met. And the most beautiful.”
I hesitated, not sure what to say. In truth, I was bowled over by these unexpected, and to my mind, undeserved, words of praise. “Pierce, I—”
“No, my dear, please, there is no need for you to say anything. We understand each other perfectly, you and I.”
“I'm not sure that you do understand,” I said, endeavoring to explain. “It's all rather complicated.”
“I'm sure it is. You may find it hard to believe, but I truly do realize the many obstacles blocking the path of a woman trying to compete in a man's world.” He gave my hand a little squeeze. “It's important that you understand how much I admire the principles that drive you to dedicate your life to helping others. After all, it's these very ideals which first attracted me to you, that and your refreshing honesty.” He paused, and his face grew serious. “I also appreciate your fear that marriage will prevent you from achieving these goals.”
If these words were meant to alleviate my misgivings, they had the opposite effect. How much easier it would be, I thought, if he behaved like the great majority of men whose paths I crossed every day. They, along with a deplorable number of individuals of my own gender, sincerely believed that a woman had neither the ability, nor the temperament, to engage in work outside the home. It would be simplicity itself to reject such a man, without in the least troubling my emotions.
Pierce's tolerance and empathy, on the other hand, were undermining the very determination which defined my adult life. His patience and consideration left me conflicted and—to my surprise—angry. How dare he march into my life and upset the equilibrium I had worked so long and hard to achieve!
I drew breath to tell him exactly what I thought of this invasion, when he once again seemed to second-guess my thoughts.
He smiled, and the candlelight danced and flickered in the dark recesses of his eyes. “Let's enjoy a quiet dinner, shall we, Sarah? Just two friends catching up with each other after being apart for too long. There is no need to concern ourselves with the future. It's been my experience that tomorrow has a way of taking care of itself.”
Before I could reply—although I had no idea what that reply might have been!—the waiter returned with our soup. Pierce released my hand and refilled my glass with the excellent wine he had ordered.
Raising his glass, he toasted with a smile, “To friendship. And to a lovely Chris
tmas.”
Try as I might, I could find no fault with these sentiments. Vaguely wondering why my justifiable anger had suddenly evaporated, I found myself returning his smile. I raised my glass and clicked it against his.
“To friendship,” I said. “And to Christmas.”
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday morning found me seated behind my desk in my Sutter Street office, plodding through the mind-numbing legal work Robert had deposited with me the previous day. Although I was grateful for the supplemental income, even this welcome addition to my meager coffers was hardly sufficient to keep the wolves from my door. I expelled a deep breath. How I longed for the day when my modest law firm would provide me with financial independence!
You note that I employ the word “when” and not “if.” I am not one to promote false modesty; it is, therefore, no more than the simple truth to admit that I am a competent attorney. Were it not for the happenstance of being born a member of the so-called fairer sex, I am certain I would not be facing this particular adversity. However, since one cannot change one's gender, I had little choice but to play the cards the Almighty had seen fit to deal me.
As I trudged through Robert's work—a tedious and extremely boring responsive brief concerning one of Shepard's lesser clients—I frequently consulted my timepiece. I was ready, nay, eager to put the wearisome documents aside the moment Miss Bouchard arrived for our meeting. To my disappointment, however, there was no knock upon my door at the appointed hour. Nine o'clock came and went, then nine thirty. Where could she be? I asked myself.
This question had hardly taken form in my mind than the door suddenly flew open and Robert Campbell strode purposefully into my office.
“I came to see if you've completed the work I left with you yesterday morning,” he said without preamble.
As I am sure I have mentioned ad infinitum, Robert Campbell is sadly lacking in the social graces. Nor, I might add, does he appear to care one jot if he ever acquires them.
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 7
